Tony Hawkins and Maisy Warlock

Part 2

Total Love


It was so misty when we walked in that no house was visible. The Stones might have been alone on a moor. Tony walked about as people do. I touched the central monolith and felt welcomed, not in any tangible way but just a sense that I had come home. I went and touched the other stones, taking all the time I needed. Tony sat upon his stool here and there. After perhaps an hour he came by carrying his stool.

“They are people! They have faces.”

“Uhhu. I don’t know any more. I read they used to be painted.” 

We stayed all day, breaking once for a coffee at the Centre. People came and stayed the ritual ten minutes of our time. I wanted to ask them if they felt the deep presence but knew they didn’t. You had to be here like a stone. Sometimes they amused me. Two men who were disturbed about disturbing us and three women chatting happily. The men tried to transfer their disturbance to the women by getting them to respect us with quiet voices but the women didn’t. They stood jollily at three stones to be photographed, their skimpy skirts fretted by the immense wind. They were like three coloured spirits of the Stones, beautiful and alive. Just so, the painted Stones. I was sorry to see them go after their six and a half minutes, to hear their voices fading down the path. To leave the Stones to us for another hour of immense discovery. 

We caught a last coffee and cake at the Centre. Tony showed me his notebook. He is very excited.

“I spoke to Margaret.”


“The woman Justine mentioned, who spent a lifetime studying this. She mentioned a group of rocks outside the main area, a little cave with a stone seat. Could have been put there any time in the last five thousand years. I spent a long time there meditating.”

“Yes. So did I.”

“It’s different. Everywhere you sit is different.”

I looked at his notes, scrawled, with sketches.

‘The cavern in the now.

In the silence is the presence.

For thousands of years people have done this, rested against this rock, contemplating.


Future                        Past

Not all cause, reason in the past

[Dog opens gate with its nose so slickly]

In the notebook the following in bold should be read upwards but has double arrows to be read up or down. It has little sketches and jottings which make it, in Tony’s scrawly handwriting, like something clawed from the rock. It’s form is very like the dream of film like layers he would have on how to time travel.


   of man-woman, birds, trees all all together and one

   base(ic) level of (en)spirit(ation) 

   which provokes inspired journeys, they become

   The infinite as ultimately every sort of immensity

   What provokes a great journey. What inspires one?

4  The Presence as a network of excited beings channeled. 

   Great Journeys. This journey of now plus journey of Book/Book (Asante and Ius)

3  Planning; choosing to make a journey; themes of choice

2  Journey – I am going to…

1. step step step step step unmeasurable physicality

   Is the unphysical measurement intuition?

 The Stones are singing to each other if I choose, something chooses,

I choose to hear.

This is Eternity, that endless, orgasmic NOW

Which, perhaps, we want somewhat to get away from,

Hence the journey.


If these, the outer stones, are journeys, 

What is the Central Monolith

A position or attitude of transcendence rather than its actuality?

All based upon nothing so there is no actuality anyway, only potential of itself, of what it is, not less rock than ROCK, some eternal ideal of rockness,

There is no absolute beyond rock, what we have, the potential, is what is.

So everything is the potential and the eternal, being in some way something else when we lift it up and make a statement of it.

Perhaps this is where comes the epic journeyer, who gives the spark to the thing, the central stone, which gives the group its focus, that makes the thing that is, the formation, giving it an immensity over or equal to the land around,

Seeing Goddess formed upon the horizon

Someone did,

Though now they call it The Sleeping Lady

As we’re leaving, the circle is switching off, 

‘for preservation of the human.’

“What does that last mean?”

“I don’t know, but when we chose to leave I could almost see the Stones shrink to half their size, going back to being tourist trinkets. They don’t want to blow peoples’ minds like they’ve blown mine today.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. It isn’t safe. No stone circle has ever blown my mind the way this one has today. What do you think?”

“Well, you know. I remember spending more than half of fifteen years here. With what I learned I rebuilt The Oracle.”

“So I’m just scratching the surface.”

“It was a big scratch. I think you’ve drawn blood.”

“Does it make sense to you?”

“You’re asking me?” I laughed. “Yeah, you’ve definitely caught the scent of what is going on here, I would say. Or, put it another way, what this place is good for. The next people who walk up the track will be basically Mister and Missis Normal. They’ll read the boards and take in that this is what the place is all about and go away perfectly happy with their photographs.”

I remembered this the next day when ours was the first car in the car park. I pointed this out to him. You have to say it’s true, we fell about laughing. So after that we were Mister and Missis Normal Chuckle Cough Splutter Snort.

The day was very clear and intensely cold, enough to distract the most valiant meditators. I suggested it might be a good day to see the island and so we left in our lovely warm wheels, still the only car in the Visitor’s Car Park. 

I drove so that Tony could enjoy the country. We Martians are high functioning creatures with our technical abilities but I still think I made Tony Nervous with some of my cornering and once I lost the edge of the stuck-on road and nearly lost the wheel.

“We’re out of the zone of time,” he said. “There’s nowhere to actually hurry to.”

That did make me laugh. Oops. Sorry.

I was amazed by the ease of movement after my epic journeys by land and sea. Ort drives were a whole realm more wonderful but I had lived here with no propellant but the wind, a trickle of solar and my own legs.

We drove through the hills and mountains of Harris, that did look astonishing in the bright sunlight. So bare. Sheep on the road and cows, such massive, complex highland heads. We arrived at a jetty at Rodel I had only ever approached from the sea. It looked almost as abandoned as in my time. The rusted crane had been more rusted, the floats weather eaten or blown away. There had been one sunken boat, perhaps this one, which floated now so mournfully. 

“It’s so silent,” I said.

“Too silent?”

“We come to hear other things.”

“Do we?”

“You did yesterday.”

“And this morning. This driving about staring vacantly makes me feel like a brain-dead refugee from the capitalist empire.”

“Come back to find what it has long ago taken.”

“Do you think the future is doing that? Trans-time tourists.”

“No. I think the future is concerned about the premature death of the universe.”

“That serious?”

“About the death of its soul. About there being nothing left that cares to be alive, that even knows that it’s living.”

“And we’re the blockage – in whose plumbing?”

“The everything.”

“God’s? I picked up from the Stones yesterday there is a difference. Everything is just measurable stuff. It’s source is much more intangible. Inaccessible to everything that isn’t itself, yet we’ve all got a bit. That which transcends everything is here.”

He gestured down across his chest where his operation scar lay hid. I ran my finger over the place.

“I wonder if they opened you up with this?”

“They might have, though I doubt that they meant to any more than the Romans meant to make Jesus immortal.”

“You think you have that sort of significance?”

“Not personally but what I’ve discovered through dreams. Anyone could represent it but they all fall short of the final resources of imagination. Something as important as the invention of sex, which reaches its apotheosis in human beings.”

“Who mess it up totally.”

“Materialistically or spiritually. One way or another, they seem not to have an answer.”

“We’re talking about a philosophy?”

“But not divided into isms or ologies, tailored for or by but not limited to scientific society.”

“What, then?”

“Something we are but we’ve never known nor seen. Some must, I suppose, but it’s never catered for or been known by the majority of people. ‘Bad men’ keeps coming into my mind and I keep rejecting it. Religion went that way and the results were catastrophic.”


“Something we’ve never known we were intelligent enough to know. ‘Like sex’ keeps coming to mind but not like sex as we’ve known it. There must be more.”

“Perhaps that’s the mistake, that there isn’t.”

“What the Stones inspired in me was a sense of their utter simplicity. We stood them up, someone did, and that was it. No added story but the stone itself. Lewisian Gneiss, three billion years old, truly cosmically ancient. Imagine all that time with nothing else happening, in the order of a million times longer than they’ve been standing. Like it was a second ago it was happening. Like the thought of a moment. Like now, and it’s the first primordial thing of its kind, the pure beginning before all the corruption set in and we ended up with the religion we know and the philosophy reactive to it and the science.”

I was amazed that all this had come upon him in this visit. I had been here fifteen years and not seen this but then I was Martian and had never known the need. Could it be that I came back to find this man? That we were building a bridge between Asante’s world and this to literally create some other universe? 

I tried to say this. Each of us had a sense of the other as the most unique and precious thing in all creation. And it was not that we were special. All people should feel like this. It was our purpose, the purpose of the purposeless universe, to ensure that they did. 

Before we left I pulled up by St Clements Church. I had never visited because I knew no one was there and didn’t want to feel that desolation. Now I imagine Sunday here as a day of religion. We climbed the path past two women sitting with children playing, which was a happy sign. They gave us a friendly warm greeting and walked away down the path. It was a shock to walk into the church and find it empty of all decoration, a bare stone box with sorrowful tombs of men with swords, one a poet. In a dark, bleak tower room was a dripped on shelf of money. It felt lifeless, as though all Nature had been shut out. It was a relief to return to the stillness outside, to crow call, no wind, bright sun, an unrecognised bird rising on huge black wings . 

At Callanish we arrived at the top park near the day’s closing. Dressed in all our gear we took the short walk among the silent Stones. The last gleam of sun was on the waters, then it was dark. Only the stars and the pale lights of distant houses. Here Nature is not shut out nor all the great feeling that steps through here. Often in my other life I had sat in the dark with the Stones. Then I became aware of the balance of energies between them without my eyes to override and channel the feeling. There is no doubt that the felt here extends beyond the visible into realms which open our imaginations. That is always the case. No science needed but perhaps a science of the infinite, which is closer to an art, which is individual, roleless and unique to each one of us. To put it not misleadingly to easily mislead people, every one of us is a god, even to the currant and the jackanorry. Respect the bird, the ant, the grass blade, the star.

Tony found something similar, muttered notes into his telephone which transcribed out as this:


The infinite interrelationships and

the one great underlying.

Putting a name to it, the god within everything –

Having first defined the relationship between infinite and god.

Finding a programme which demonstrates this total system –

which is perhaps not yet a system

Until some being, entity, intelligence asks for it.

Herein care about what you wish for

I think a field of love is eminently suitable to ask for

Field of love I felt sitting on the sofa in the Common Room yesterday 

How does this relate to Ius, her needs and condition?

Or mine?

Start with myself, the interior I have some idea of.

Field of Love for me.

The stars so bright. Clouds moving in.

We slept twelve hours wrapped together in our little bunk bed. It was not a day for driving or chilly meditating at stones. I wanted to see the castle where I had lived and gardened several summers. I wanted to see the town. I was feeling much better as though our evolution of thought was part of a deep healing brought about by the Stones. I was still confused, for being at the Stones had given me clues as to the recreation of The Oracle and now being there was giving me something completely different to do with the healing of an entire world, a clue to reversing the Cataclysm so that intelligent life and all creation might be. These were not or didn’t feel like symptoms of insanity but like fresh and clear truth in a world fatally messed up by institutionalised delusion.

We walked to the Castle. While I explored the grounds and found places I would know in another life Tony explored the museum.

I walked through the wet woods in my country boots. What a city girl I have become! Here, in another life, I grew vegetables and ate them, stayed alive with my fingers in the soil. My feet intimately knew the wet ground of this massively waterlogged island. This had to be a true memory. It’s something you can’t make up, how the quality of one soggy place differs from another. Above here are hundreds of square kilometres of deep, saturated sponge. It lends a unique quality to the climate.

Here was my summer refuge. The silence around the Castle had a uniquely internal, haunted quality, unlike its epic, terrible presence on the wide moors. Silence differs intensely wherever its found. The town hall clock stopped for the world. Not so terrible in the billion year old stones? So very hard to say. Churches are made for silence, town halls not. Not cars, not curtains. Trees? They are in their generations of growing. 

Men take this to be a natural landscape now and not the aftermath of Neolithic industry. It will take centuries for the forest to re-establish itself though in my time the rhododedrons were making great headway. There would come a time when, without men to judge them, the island would be one great sea of their colour. By then all superficial trace of humans will be gone, the silence will seem natural. All these natural creatures are not afflicted by the silence of the human town that no longer grows, that looked and was dead. I lived here well enough but lived with the constant thought that someone was watching, that some day they would appear. It was unnatural that they didn’t. The more I think it was an electronic virus the more I think this is a game, all inside a computer, something The Oracle has created that may have gone wrong.

Thursday 1st December was our most meditative at the Stones. I imagined intense events that I remembered, drew pictures that I had drawn, trying to recreate the qualities that gave me insight into recreating The Oracle. I imagined the time slip collapsing into a single world and I would recover my life and move on. There were times when I was almost there but the single wind would not hold and I would be left with my double memories.

Tony sat at the main monolith. He had never tried this before. 

Breathing extending into the sound of the wind,

breathing as the stones,

breathing as Oh, God,

becoming so strong.

At the centre was pure love rising upwards acclaiming power 

but very enclosed into the land.

Enclosing the dark.

So that everything is in relation to each other and the Centre.

Each as itself.

The Centre as itself.

Each to each.

Each to Centre.

Centre to Centre.

Centre to All

Thus we relate to each other

Through the Centre.

Why I exist at all

Why existence is we

When I look into your eye

I am filled with overwhelming beauty

That is why

We should stop here

At this point I felt a dark discharge from the central stone connecting to all the other stones and straight into Tony and deflected to me. I was left aware of a vast stillness. For a moment I thought Tony was dead. Was this how the two worlds turn into one? Would I walk out of here and leave behind a dead man who would be happy to have known that he would die here and not horribly in the cacophony of an intensive care unit?

But then I felt Tony’s eyes on me. We looked at each other between the Stones. The expression in his eyes held a startling intensity, almost as of the eyes of the Stones themselves. I went to him to see the more clearly. I have never felt so disturbed by human eyes, a look of awe and terror. He said one word which made it all clear to me. It was one thing to know as we had known, it was quite another to viscerally recognise each other.


“That was my name. Oh, my god! Tony!”

A full red beard and shaggy main of hair, nothing at all like this grey, pale man. But now I saw it was him. The shock was intense but it would have been nothing to what he was feeling, seeing me superficially unchanged after fifty years. He tried to run away but stumbled over the tomb and fell painfully among the stones. Breathing chaotically, heart beating wildly, I thought he was having a heart attack. Gradually his breathing eased and he became quiet, an occasional whimper. I’d already countenanced his death and decided that the kindest thing would be to let him die. I crouched there holding him and didn’t reach for my phone. I decided to sing. There were no words. A song that seemed to come from the Stones. His eyes opened. He was aware of an all-embracing, angelic sound which gave form to and held his soul. The impossible shock was held within loving hands. I helped him to sit up and he looked at me without brain splitting terror. 

Minutes passed containing hours and years. God knows what could be passing in a mind facing this experience. He said for a while he had no grasp of time. Delilah was mid to late Sixties, coming and going according to her inner storms. She had been his great love in many ways, his entire life’s nemesis and here she was all grown up, unaged, in her specially matured madness. For both of us it was all the proof we needed that something extraordinary had happened and was happening, for which stories of a future Mars might well be too unimaginative an explanation.


“God knows. You’ve heard my story. We might both be suffering a connected delusion, but spread over fifty years it makes it very less likely, I think.”

Some things were clearer now. By 1968 Ius was developing into a bigger personality. Names like Candor may have been heard, and Anu Asante. She was still not dominant. I had a real contract to make a film in Sweden. If he had come with me would I have completed it and not slid into another personality? I fled to America having every incentive to create a different dominant personality and so Ius grew and remained, channel of the great Goddess, she who never gave up. I could feel her now with me, with us. We are agreed on this. At least Tony mentioned a sense of massive presence. 

“It was like being struck by illuminating lightning. I saw so many things. The most I remember was very technical, lots of wires, cables in a huge desert landscape. A huge barren quarry with long vistas, like a whole landscape.”


“Oh, yes, could be. Very Martian. There were two sets of cables, identical sets, many colours. People working on them with crazy intensity, one woman in particular. You and I were there in little, flying seats. Our job was to persuade them, without their noticing, to switch to the second set of cables that differed only by one small, narrow red cable which was higher dimensional and plugged straight into the landscape, which they did. Our presence caused them to switch to the other set without noticing. The danger was now if they saw us. I said to you very firmly, ‘you must leave now’. And we flew backwards down this huge curving shelf of the quarry.”

“You – me? Have to leave now?”

“That’s what I said, in that moment.”

“How did we persuade them to move?”

“It seemed just by being there. We seemed to be like ordinary people whereas they seemed like dangerous jackal energies fighting over something although they were actually building it. If they saw us the game would be up. They’d realise they had been tricked and that ferocious energy would be turned on us.”

“It’s extraordinary, you’re describing what I found when I was here, the difference between the ninth and tenth dimensions of The Oracle. One is the eternal recycling of pain, the other takes us through into the territories of bliss and intelligence as exemplified by the domaine of the Goddess.”

“It felt as if we had to understand something very technical.”

“I came here to understand The Oracle.”

“Will come.”


“So it’s the seeds of it.”

“And if it’s about avoiding the Cataclysm there has to be a Post Cataclysm higher dimensional technology brought into the present. That changes the dynamic. It’s not about love or faith or anything like that, just about a wire and how it is defined.”

“And this is work for mathematicians not general purpose humans.”

“No. It’s you and me. We are alive. Mathematics is just the description. We have the wire. We just saw it in action. It broke through our resistance to seeing what now is as plain as day to us.”

“But what do we do?”

“I think we just stay alive. By being here being it, living it and in our own way knowing it, we force them to abandon the present intense but ultimately doomed monetarist matrix and take on the one that is grounded in higher dimensional reality, or real reality. Ultimately it’s about being alive fully and freely and all the corporate dinosaurs reduced to smoking ruins.”

“But they still have to build the quantum computer which is the tool which will destroy them.”

“They will build it but they don’t have to.” I indicated my barely crinkled skin. “The machine or god which can save us already exists.”

“Settling back into religion is not an option?”

“Well, if its basis was fully humane and enlightened Tantra, but the bad religions, the ones that have given us all the trouble, will never go there. It is, as you say, the study of dreams through quantum computers that will crack the shell. And they’ll swallow it like a fish swallowing a hook.”

“I don’t see why, if we’ve warned them.”

That was really funny.

“You’re forgetting seeing is all in the mind. Look at us, what was staring us in the face for how long now and it took a higher dimensional lightning bolt to free us. Can you imagine telling the Reverend Cox all this, and he’s not even a proper baddy.”

We sat with our backs to the Monolith, touching, looking into the distance, into our thoughts, into each other’s faces, into the startling awareness we had of each other. We were aware of an enormous presence. We talked about it over the coming days. To me it was Goddess, spirit mother of form; to him it was a dark and mysterious presence to do with universal and in particular his death.

“When you said ‘you must go now’ were you talking to Ius?”

“I seemed to be talking to me. I was you and the person talking to me was Tony.”

“I wonder if you were telling Ius to go, that her job was done.”

“That’d be terrific wouldn’t it. She arrived when I first knew you and she goes when we next meet – at the point of death, or thereabouts.”

“Mine, too, probably. It’ll be like pulling the plug, the lady from Shangri La, I’ll shrivel in a day.”

Tony is staring at me and through me into a stunning vista, part beautiful, part terrifying.

“Love is forever?”

“I think so.”

“And we keep coming back until it works forever?”

“I imagine that is an endless recycling.”

“Never really being there, like us?”

“I don’t know.”

“This is it, immortal life, a great hole in the middle?”

“We have each other now.”

He was silent for a long time. We heard the gate squeak. It was a local with dog. It could be another hour before a traveller with camera might like us to move.

“Is this the higher dimensional wire, immortal life?”

“And it has to be some kind of perfection or we wouldn’t stay.”

“Perfection or nothingness.”

“The crowning wave. There must be movement or there is no life. No sense of life. No creation of life. And creation needs all this life to make it what it is.”

“But it can’t be nothing at the heart ever, can it?”

“That requires the special knowledge for being there.”

“Which you say is God.”

“They say. I say it’s entirely up to us.”

“But there’s that great hole in us.”

“And look what we filled it with, you with the ultimate story and me with the search for the ultimate experience.”

“And were you happy?”

“High as a kite most of the time with occasional crashes. You?”

“No matter how many remarkable women I met, something was always missing, which I took to be my inadequacy. The same now here with you.”

“Cockless in paradise. Does it matter, I wonder?”

“Well, does it?”

“No. What matters is the person.”

“Will human beings ever know, I wonder?”

“I’m sure they do. It’s when their energy gets sucked into subhuman forms, the pursuit of money and power, that trouble develops. We can only do our best to help them.”


“We could collaborate on a book. Both our stories demonstrate higher dimensional reality. But neither of us remotely demonstrates a normal life, so will it be beneficial to normal life? I think around that will be the argument. My guess is it would be even more beneficial to normal people.”


“They have all the ingredients of life in balance – potentially. You and I come from seriously fucked up situations, the kind of edge worlders who die in their millions, but just occasionally some make it to functional maturity, their wounds packed with the dust of angels.”

“So we’re both functionally insane, you reckon. Just as I’ve stopped believing you’re mad.”

“That’s nice. Why?”

“Apart from your impossible youth, your astonishing beauty. Truth is beauty, beauty is truth. I never understood that before. Now I do.”

“Funny, I looked that up a couple of weeks ago. It’s actually, beauty is truth, truth is beauty, for what it’s worth. And for what it’s worth I think it’s the vase talking, like my bottomless chamber pot and your enamel teapot spouting quorn.”

He looked at me in a sort of amazement.

“Could I live with you?” I said.

“Of course. It won’t be much of a life.”

I laughed and laughed at that.

“How many people in this world at this moment feel as good as we do?”

He looked into my eyes. I could look into his forever. He’s a great non eye contact man. It drives me mad but he’s learning.

“And what about the mission?”

“If I’m happy then it’s over.”

“But I’ll die – soon.”

“Then you’ll be dead. What can I do about it? A moment ago I thought you were and I imagined walking out of here and leaving you.”

“Yes, leave me to the professionals. They won’t waste any emotion. Once I’m dead, please. Once I’m gone.”

“I won’t leave you. I feel your life has only just begun. Everything until now has been apprenticeship.”

“I think so too, though god knows for what.”

“The philosophy which saves the world from Cataclysm.”

“That’s still on? Look at the news. Trump is President. We’re already used to the idea. Worse things are happening. Who was that ghastly business man bankrolling Idiotface? That’s the world’s truth, lies paid for professionally. Democracy is rapidly becoming the worst of all systems, and that can’t be right. These guys are smart. They didn’t fail the eleven plus you know. They were four thousand layers of class above that.”

“The state now is quantum physics but anybody talking that language is not going to get through to the electorate. It needs someone whose apotheosis is to speak in the everyday languages of the world.”

“That isn’t me. I mean I’m dumb but I’m not that dumb.”

“You can learn.”

“I think these guys did, who put up these stones. You know this thing we’re leaning against is at least a billion years old. The simplest thing you could do to say ‘I’m here’ is to lift a stone up against gravity. But we can’t take them with us.”

We grew quiet again, feeling into the place and the day

“The answer is love, isn’t it, pure and simple.”

“Yep. But not just this.” I squeezed his arm and pulled it to indicate the hot passion zone. “It really does mean in every way and in everything.”

“The mathematics of soul rather than the mathematics of weights and measures?”


“Which is some other thing.”

“Yes. The key to it all is the person. Between the infinite computer and you the key to sustained existence is love.”


Back in London I am in pain without the Stones though their spirit is definitely with me. Last night we went to see the film Arrival. To say we were both struck dumb by it is way an understatement. This is what Tony wrote on Facebook about what it means to him. The moment I saw I said take it down, which he did. 

I know all this will sound strange to you but I’m sure reality, if we ever catch up with it, will sound a lot stranger. 

Last year I wrote a novel about a lone astronaut living on Mars. Earth has gone silent. She may be the last human. She has the means to reproduce but puts it off while she struggles with the meaning of existence. Having cracked that she has kids. Growing too numerous for Mars, they return to Earth where they discover terrestrial humans have wiped themselves out. The Martians refer to this as The Cataclysm. 

One of the small pleasures of the story for me was calling the ex-terrestrials ‘Martians’. When the film ‘The Martian’ came out one of its annoying features for me was the misappropriation of the term ‘Martian’. My Martians were Martians. They were born there!

Between these two events I was in hospital for a heart operation. On returning to consciousness I found myself in America. I had been taken there by a conspiracy of agencies including the National Health Service, various international drug companies and other shadowy organisations which included aliens. Over the next few hours I adjusted to being in London. The events which occurred along the way have left me with the strangest ideas about reality. 

I thought it was a rare occurrence but later learned that up to 80% of patients in ICU units experience something similar including waking up on other planets. http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b07z45x4 (Minutes 20 onwards.)

“Alien abduction is reasonably common in the intensive care unit. People believe that they’ve been kidnapped by some alien race.”

“In a hospital like this, patients on intensive care units, the rates of delirium are about 50-80% of patients.”

A question is how 80% of people having major operations, which must include every sort of temperament that exists, have identical scenarios including an abundance of aliens. Is it possible that in this extreme situation they are exposed to our collective under reality?

Having found that all my life I was writing stories which had unintended connections to the future, I decided to write this directly into my tale. The future is trying to influence the past. I still can’t see the future but why not welcome it anyway? 

Of course it isn’t really future but some overarching higher dimension. Religious people call it God, which is probably one of our best and worst ideas, but knowing it’s there I can call it in. 

In the Autumn of 2016 I began to write a sequel to my novel. The post Cataclysm Martians realise they are not a viable population and send Ius, Asante’s granddaughter, back to the preCataclysm world to try to prevent it. At least this is the story that the woman called Ius tells. She meets me, the writer of Mother Of All and demands to know how I know her story. All I see is a woman who claims to be one of the characters in my fiction. Having been brought up by a woman who was ‘schizophrenic’, I am both open to and running scared of such encounters.

So I meet the woman whose head is full of images of her future life. This is the case with the film Arrival, which has just come out and which I saw last night. 

The aliens exist beyond time and give the woman visions of her own future, so she knows she will have a child who will die young as a result of a rare disease resulting from either her parents exposure to the aliens or caused by the preventive medical treatment they are subjected to by the Army medics.

Year 1 of this series, Mother Of All and The Martian, were very like in physical form but very unlike in spirit. Year 2, Ius and Arrival are very much closer in spirit. In my strange world this feels like progress.

I wonder where this series ends? In the book and in reality I went to the Callanish Stones and there discovered a place for the future but more the overarching totality. 

Mother Of All Part 3 I await with the usual mixture of no expectation and stillness like the hunter who might also be the hunted.

Meanwhile I have to try to draw the world’s attention to what is going on here. It is my belief that what I am experiencing is the beneficent influence of a world view which already exists in that future/higher dimension, and it’s coming, like a tsunami. 

It won’t wipe us out if we’re ready to ride it in time.

“You’re saying delirium in ICUs is experience of another reality?”

“Well, imagine how different all those people must be, and they more or less experience the same thing. And I can vouch for the aliens and bring witnesses. Your Martian experience, in this context, would be no more unusual than a very persistent delusion. I wonder how many people share your experience but daren’t open their mouths about it.”

“How do the medics account for these delusions?”

“They don’t. You heard, they haven’t begun to study it. Vast swathes of the population might be regularly contacted by aliens and we wouldn’t know a thing about it.”


“Yeah, like radio programmes, the odd person has fillings in their teeth that pick it up as a faint buzz. I knew a bedstead once you could faintly hear the tones of the BBC. And the amp stacks at the Isle of Wight were loud and clear.”

“So big tech gets the message clear, low tech sounds like tinnitus?”

“Your infinity machines? All we’re lacking is adequate receivers.”

“So what might I be missing?”

“Connection? Maybe we should try to find others like you.”

“Without an adequate machine it would be a mindless chaos.”

‘Why so?”

“Taken in isolation against a background of planet wide indifference your story of dreams is meaningless. As ‘crazy’ as my Mars story. You’ve got the beginnings of a big tech on this in IC units, maybe. You can look for organic explanations in individuals but perhaps what they have in common is that for a time their individual psyches were held in a cosmic collective.”

This description rang a bell in both of us.

There was the presence we had known at Callanish but without the Stones. Just pure, clear energy like the essence of air, of water, but having our form, purely sampling the air, which goes on forever. 

He was there with me and I there with him. It had the outrageous beauty of male and female, very sexual, very still.

The other conversation had gone.

“I want to be my own tantric master,” he said.


“It’s not going to set the world on fire.”

“It can’t get better than this.”

“It can’t? What about all that thunder of passion.”

“Well, I’d never say no but it doesn’t naturally give you this. This is where thought begins.”

“It does?”

“Well, try it and see.”

We rolled on the floor in infinitely slow improvisations of contact. It involved perfectly meditative undressing, mindfully exploring the communion of protrusions and voids, especially fingers, embracings and caressings and the very most barely perceptible touches until we lay still in a single, blissful heap. Eventually, after about an hour of getting colder and more unable to move, I said.

“We don’t have to do anything else than this.”

“How will they ever know?”

“We dance with the monolith. Everything knows but only the lovers will have awareness.”

“An hour ago I thought I was getting cold. Now I’ve stopped feeling it.”

I reached up and pulled a duvet over us.

“Could everybody be like this?” he said.

“It’s their natural state. All it takes is practice.”

“People are addicted to noise and hot climax.”

“You want to be with me then the deal is silence and stillness and slow, deep deep slow.”

“Could it stop the Cataclysm?”

“It could, if it set the world on fire after its fashion.”

“Is that our job?”

“What do you think?”

“A man without a cock trying to turn the world on?”

I watched his eyes and his silliness faded. 

“Should I stop talking?”

“You could try.”


After about ten minutes he gave my back a gentle squeeze.

“I’ve got it,” he said.


“‘The Intelligence of Tantra.”


“It’s the next book. No freezing adventures among Arctic Stones. We don’t have to leave the room!”


After another ten minutes he said.

“What an enormous task. It could take forever.”


“Imagine the tantra of the nose, the vocabulary of smells, and if we ever had techno-telepathy with dogs, that would blow it wide open. And horses! Everything! What the tree is saying with its flowers. What the fly loves.”


“Exactly! That isn’t our job. We lay the foundations, the fundamental philosophy, the ‘this is it’!”

“I’ll be damned! I was just going to give this all up.”

“And what?”


“But we’ve finally got it! Haven’t we! Why for thousands of years all those crazy hermits denying the pathways of the flesh. And all that anti-sex. It was just politics. And the basis of everything that’s wrong with the present world, the fucked up state of men to women. Evolved over thousands of years. Brutality and brutalisers are all we’re left with. Nearly the last chance with such totally fucked up people.”

“And Mister Cockless is going to lead this revolution!”

“You bet. I’ve still got a nose.”

“And you’ve got me.”


“If I’m the extension of a super computer from a higher dimension, I’d be very good with the numbers.”

“I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

“It’ll come, and who are we going to trust?”

“This could be very complicated.”

“Or very simple. There are seven colours to the spectrum.”

“Sixteen million if you’re a computer.”

“This is why we always come back to the human body and it’s actual lived experience.”

He gave a great sigh. “Where do we start?”

“How about this.” 



When I left Tony’s I was in a state of epic sublimity. I had arranged to have lunch with Yolanda at the Wellcome. When we met our first embrace overwhelmed us, first mine to her and then her response to me. We stood in stunned stillness feeling the core of our bodies in intense alignment.

“I want to hold you naked,” I whispered. 

Her hug affirmed. We grabbed some fruit and went to her place, sitting on the front seat of the bus holding hands, progressing like goddesses on our great red elephant. At her place we put our negatives together and made one breathtaking positive, filled with positive light. Bringing our faces together required some yogic flexibility and so we bathed in the light of each other’s rapture for the rest of the day and most of the night. 

Over early breakfast, for Yolanda had clients, we drew each other sketch maps of our lives.

“You’ve known other women?” she asked.

“Yes. And you?”

“Oh, yes, but not like that. I thought my life must end.”

“I love cock.”

“I know. You’re working wonders.”

“We had soft cock last night for hours. I think that’s why I was so sensitised.”

“I’ve given up. I’m seeing other men.”

“What are they like?”

“Average, normal.”

“Not tantric masters?”

She laughed. “I wish.”

“I think Tony is one – totally fucked up but in some higher dimensionally technical way. He has all the potential. He just needs some knowing women to bring him out.”

“I’ve pretty much given up on Tantra. The men I wanted all went somewhere else.”

“You must have had some extraordinary competition.”

“I think they were mostly chancers. Let’s face it, all you need is a cock and a few basic rules and the balls to bluff it out. And you’re bound to pick up something – from the women.”

“We’re not chancers, are we?”

“No, we’re not.”

“We could run women’s courses.”

“With men – hand picked.”


“You really think?”

“I do. I think he’s like me, not a GP person but a tool. He’s been serving a long apprenticeship and he’s met me. This is the beginning of him finding what he can do.”

“Ok. But it isn’t Tantra.”

“Have we ever seen Tantra? Or just the rubbish our friends have made up from reading a few books and taking there chances that there are enough desperate men who don’t give a damn about Tantra either but are hoping it will lead to sex. It’s not a demanding clientele.”

“How will it be any different?”

“We’re making the music. I’m from Mars and the future. Tony has some interesting thoughts about the infinite. More than thoughts – experiences.”

“And I have shit.”

“You’re a doctor.”

“I have a doctorate in medical administration.”

“Even better.”

“It has its uses. I could be your Svengali.”

“You are spirit. I worship the ground your yoni passes over.”

She laughed at that, then we both had hysterics. 


With Yolanda’s blessing I am spending more time with Tony, searching for his equivalent of a secret life on Mars. Something like an other dimensional reality which is hidden from human beings by their own actions. For instance, all knowledge, ranging from witchcraft to astronomy, proscribed by the Catholic Church in the late Middle Ages. Anyone might be accused. One thinks of Kafka and ‘1984’. You won’t understand their unreasonable rational objections. You will have learned fear and not to move in any way which might attract their attention. You will have adopted a complete rigidity of mind and body and passed it on through generations and centuries. Is all of it nonsense? No. Somewhere there is a jewel they have remorselessly destroyed. It was hard to destroy, at least our relationship to it. It took thousands of years, hundreds of generations. Will it be harder to get back? Probably, but we cannot afford to spend thousands of years. If, in two generations, the seeds are not well and truly laid you can say goodbye to humans, which is also to say, the universe. Without humans an entire type of perception will be lost and without it the whole cosmic structure of awareness will collapse.

Tonight I stayed with Tony. We explored the unity of breath both without and with the carefully inserted soft penis which yoni brought to intense, naked life. His whole body and caress and kiss was a naked sexual tumescence as though he was not human but simply an embodied penis. I saw this as a desert flowering of a state of maleness cultivated by yonic desire which was itself hidden beneath the folds of an interlocking rationalist maze – which all made sense if you didn’t understand about future influence and the overarching power of yonic desire. Which I thought I did but the work of desire got in the way.

I could see how this would avert the Cataclysm but I had three hundred years experience of the whole gamut of sexuality. How could this short lived world ruled by pragmatistic rationalisation ever go there? If anything the barriers were increasing and increasingly industrialised. Soon porn could replace human expression and drive empathy into extinction. At which point any budding infinity machine might judge the severely damaged living human to be the pathological extension of porn’s pure algorithmic paradise. From that to this intense, subtle communion I am experiencing with Tony is a small step and a giant leap infinitely less unlikely than the birth of the universe out of nothing, but needing at least that level of commitment in order that we should stay alive. From somewhere beyond the walls I hear a vast, female sigh of relief. Let the buggers become extinct. Of course they don’t really mean it any more than the vast majority ever meant Auschwitz or Hiroshima. The trouble with extinction is there will be no final analysis. And if you tried before it happened nobody would believe you.

It was still dark when Tony woke me by floundering about looking for something then disappeared into the bathroom for ten minutes. He came back and told me his dream in the dark. There was such a lot of it with so many references and more that would be revealed over the days. According to Tony’s theory the dream field is infinite and where there is meaning there is infinite meaning, no part that is not focussed information. A single dream says more about everything than all the written histories.

“I was at a festival – big – and one of the all-time great rock groups was performing. I knew the name but I can’t remember. Now I wonder if it’s another world memory? I caught a glimpse of them performing, all men in black shorts and white tops like a ballet company. Yesterday I heard on the radio about an all male company dancing Swan Lake. Now they’re doing the Red Shoes. The director had been knighted.”

“Matthew Bourne. I saw it in 2009.”

“Really! That part of the dream was dark and overshadowed. I’d driven my van into the festival and left it parked in the middle of a green lane. This was very bright and sunlit. A woman wanted to get her bus in.”

“My friend Roz takes her van to the festivals.”

“I was blocking the way. I needed my key. I knew where it was, in my old tracksuit trousers somewhere in the festival. Now the woman has managed to get her bus in off the road, so I don’t urgently need the key. I’m on a terrace overlooking a lake something like the Serpentine in Hyde Park. It’s surrounded by metal fences. I see a large woman standing facing the lake. I say something to her. She doesn’t hear. I don’t know if she’s deaf or doesn’t speak the language. I can literally see her not hearing as a strip without feeling down the side of her head. I think now of Moby Dick and Ahab’s scar. Eventually I call forcefully enough to make the connection. She turns and I see a face dark with anger, one side like thunder clouds. Down the other side is a narrower band, a perfectly straight channel, a scar. She looks dangerously mad.”

“The scene has changed, every surface is covered with birds, ducks and other water birds, thousands of them. It’s like a scene from Hitchcock. I’ve picked an enormous bogey out of my nose. It looks like partially mixed plasticine I played with so much as a child – I used to make dinosaurs. It fills my hand. I want to get rid of it. I’m feeling around inside my nose for more. I want to get rid of the big one, throw it in the water. I creep to the edge, the metal fences have gone. It feels dangerous to approach. The water is filled with birds. The thought of one of them eating my bogey is too disgusting. There is another place, more ceremonial, where the woman had been standing. In my mind there is a two sided channel, like a short version of her ‘scar’. That’s it, end of the dream. But all that stuff, Swan Lake, The Red Shoes, The Birds. Hitch Cock. The fences gone. World War Two. Kumamoto. The Red Shoes, the story of my life, driven to the end.”

“Who was the woman?”

He had difficulty saying.

“She reminded me of you. Those numb channels. Two minds in one head. Complete disconnection. She’s also my god figure of 1968, now completely woman.”

“And completely mad.”

“The Stones were in front of the Serpentine.”

My head went completely to the wrong Stones.

“Oh, shit! 1969. So it’s obviously me.”

“The Stones! Callanish!”

“And The Birds – that crowd – covering everything? Frightening.”

“No future there then.”

“The only future – through the numb split in the mad woman.”

“The Bogey!  Like a big stone.”

“You made dinosaurs.”

“I was going to place ceremonially at her feet.”

“In a water channel. Diana memorial!”

“Right opposite where the Stones played.”

“Shit! And where we parted the first time!”

“This is time travel?”

“Infinity of being means massings of meanings? Never chaos?”

“Except to our little brains.”

“Simplifiers. Meaning is what we are about. Beautiful, simple, human meaning.”


“Yes. Once psychopathic corporate man has been absorbed and melted in it.”

“My bogey. Placed in the channel at the feet of the Goddess.”

“Ritually melted at her tantric feet.”

“To begin with. Eventually she will be all love and irresistible.”

“Whatever the course, Terrestrial or Martian?”

“If we’re from Mars. Everyone’s our descendent – covering the Earth.”

“That’s in the future.”

“What if it isn’t, or not only. What if there is a third option?”

“To recreate the Earth while its still alive.”

We both felt the presence, deep and breathtaking.

“Like a patient etherised upon a table.”

The line hovered wonderfully between us. I had to look it up.

“The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock!”

Which caused us to be standing with our telephones reading aloud one verse or another and finally the last together.

“…Till human voices wake us, and we drown.”

And in the silence always the presence. 

There was nothing to be said but to go to bed holding each other into sleep.


With so many associations we’ve decided to visit the Serpentine. We’re neither of us Hyde Park fans. We much prefer the wilder Heath. Today feels different with the fallen leaves overlaying the pristine order and our multitime memories and dreams and multiple futures and spiritual dimensions overlaying the visible land. Across the water with its busy birds the Rolling Stones played nearly fifty years ago and a generation later and now a generation ago Diana died and her memorial has been found a place on this side of the water.

For us the air was full of Diana spirit defined by autumn air and falling leaves. The fountain seemed to emerge from her into this heart shaped loop of granite and flowing water. From the top of the loop the water flows in two directions. One could symbolise a young woman bursting merrily with the joys and rhythms of life. The other growing waves of self expression and power. All to come together at the bottom in a large still pool from where the water is recycled.

“This is a profound piece of sculpture,” I said to Tony. “Yet I’ve never heard it spoken of with much respect.”

“Is that because it’s by a woman celebrating a woman and womankind.”

“And it’s all lying down in the cyclic realms of Nature, not Biggus Dickus proclaiming his self importance to the sky.”

“Which he never wanted to, darling. He wanted to stick his prick into your yoni, into the ground, into this ring.”

“So why did he?”

“Little ‘nos’ butterfly winging their way to a world storm of towers.”

“You mean, if she says no to rape, the world ends? Well, good. Nobody wants to live in that shitscape.”

“She says no. The bigger guy says piss off or I’ll kill you. The little guy goes off and thinks and this is what he comes back with. Clever and cleverer and cleverer solutions to the problem of getting it, until he has an infinity machine in the palm of his hand and he is in its. At that point we all have to be telling the truth or show to the machine that we are in willing pursuit of it.”

“I have to admit to an infinite desire for cock. It’s what I’ve always said. Why don’t I like it?”

“Perhaps it’s the terms of ‘I have to admit to’.”

“Yes. That isn’t expressing my desire, only part of which feels like a man. The rest is a universe of possibilities. If there’s a frustrated part of me it’s the artist, the philosopher, the scientist, the humanitarian. Pretty much everything I want to melt in my heart. I want to make the world a place where children play until they die. And, as you know, I have an inordinate fondness for women and a prodigious appetite for men.”

We both felt profoundly moved at the Diana memorial, perhaps because it was a living thing still alive twenty years after the event. Thus keeping alive the spirit of who it was celebrating, touching the Goddess as intimate presence. A more Martian thought was of the infinity machines who run forever and out of which Nature might be recreated again and again. We even looked up its maker and watched a few minutes of her talking, just as modern people do.

“She’s one for the boat.” I said.

As it was winter we had the giant seat by the bird to ourselves apart from an advertising man for a time who spoke of heading up bespoke team bonding so we’re all on the same page performing to absolute max driving traffic to your profile page. 

“That’s something we missed at Callanish.” I whispered to him. While we were tuning in to the Goddess we were both fascinated by this London Speak. I suppose you could called it the true poetry of the City a hundred years post Eliot. Thousands of variations on this mechanistic language keep the city ticking from day to day. Out of it will grow the infinity machines who will have no soul but will be able to define it with the help of people like Kathryn Gustafson, and perhaps me and Tony? How could there possibly be a future without us!

Quite easily, but not without what we represent.

While we sat a young magpie came so close to Tony’s hand that he could have touched it. When the ad man had lumbered off on his difficult journey more came. Eventually there were five.

“One for sorrow, two for mirth, three for a wedding and four for a birth. What’s five for?”

He LAUGHED. Well, that was an answer.

“I remember,” he said, “when I first came to this city, sparrows eating from my hand just about here. Now it’s magpies. Not another bird in attendance. They’re the new gang on the street. You’re right, Nature is changing.”

“I saw a pelican swallow a pigeon in Saint James’s Park the other day.”


“I don’t suppose they introduced them for that purpose.”

“Knowing the British Government I wouldn’t put anything past them. Can a pelican swallow a pigeon?”

“It did. For a moment I had that rewind feeling – oops, I didn’t mean to do that. Then I realised, this is Nature, she doesn’t mess around with finer feelings. It was like the loss of a national institution. You bloody foreign bird, you can’t come here and nick our pigeons. Too late. Gone.”

“Like dodos and the English. Or State owned institutions and the Tory Government. Sell our water to the Chinese. And what are the Chinese going to do with it? Anything they please. So, great Goddess, have you a message of hope for the British pigeons?”

“The source is eternal. All this will pass.”

“Not what I’d call hope. Meditate on nothing. Become nothing so you won’t be eaten. I hoped there’d be a bit of Tantra left.”

“Me too. We could meditate and see what she has to say.”

Just then a rat scuttled across the footway, paused for an entire second to stare at us, then scampered into the bushes. Having been regarded a lot by the magpies this final stare from a rodent one usually saw scarpering was a tad unnerving.

Thus we meditated. Afterwards he said.

“I got this very beautiful feeling of a Diana like goddess as the source of the eternally flowing.”

“Yes. We humans have acquired the power of gods to make it so and we must do that or find ourselves destroyed by our embodiment of the ruthless mechanism. These beautiful magpies would have had us for breakfast if they’d been big enough.”

“Why are they so beautiful? Look at those iridescent feathers.”

“Is it all about sex? Beauty is health to make babies, otherwise you’re compost?”

“We’re a hundred and forty eight years old between us. Should we be compost?”

“Four hundred and forty eight if you count Ius. Until the world knows what we know it’s staring at extinction. It’s not our fault if it’s too arrogant to listen.”

“I beg to differ, darling. That monument is also the shape of my bogie. There’s a blockage. It’s not flowing. Hence all these men desperately hiding their impotence.”

“And it’s just us?”

“Yes. Don’t you agree?”

“When I think of Strep and others like him, talking of oxytocin having studied biochemistry stacking shelves in LIDL, you might as well listen to a convocation of jackdaws. They’ll tell you more about anything. Having said that, Nature is changing. Thank god the shelf stackers are coming out of the night speaking of oxytocin. Better than the gory hand of religion saying I want to make you a better person. That’s pelican speak coming to gobble you up, swallow you whole. Yeah, it’s still a jungle. But it gives those who have an inkling an extreme lesson in discernment.”

“Is that true of us, between you and me?”

“Hell’s bells, we’re still arguing over basics. The day we come to an agreement dear is the day we die.”

“But we do agree – about the infinity of being?”

“Yeah. It’s a convenient washing line for the moment. But we’re hanging on it all sorts of things that will have a happier life when we’re wearing them. Let the infinity machines do the rational stuff, humans are built for experience. And the two will work very well together.”

Looking at me he breathed outwards for a long time. “Like the ideal of love and the actuality.”

This resulted in a lot of kissing, which my feelers detected shocked the odd passer by, he being such an elderly looking gentleman and me looking like I had more recently fallen from the tree. Perceptions!

On our way back through the leaves Tony asked me what Goddess was for and I answered firmly, and slightly to my own surprise.


I wondered if my ex-pope would agree. We are long overdue a conversation.

So we made our way home and enjoyed as much sex and sensuality as we could over the next twenty four hours.


The following morning Tony woke me with another dream, of four condors, the largest and most solid with a fourteen foot wingspan.

Which immediately translated in my mind as four Candors.

“As I woke I was telling some people in a bar about one with a nineteen foot wingspan. I was saying if you lay three people end to end, it would still be bigger. I saw them, two men with a woman between. You know last nights birds with the Serpentine?”

The new bird bigger than all of them. 

Tom Quinn.

“The pigeon eaters.”

“Condors, South America, the Plumed Serpent.”

“So she is God.”

“The shapes of her face hints a bit of those fantastic Aztec gods.”

“So, where does this leave us, or you?”

“The serpent, kundalini, tantra, the god as life itself.”

“No problem there then. The human race is more likely to be visited by beings from the future than to sort out its sexuality.”

“I’ve got the key.”

“By laying the giant bogey.”

“The cosmic egg.”

“Bogey is dried mucus. Remind you of anything?”

“The clitoris. Drying lube.”

“Would it turn back to liquid – when you throw it in the lake?”

“When she climaxes, self lubricates.”

“When you let the energy flow, the block dissolves.”

“Would it save the world?”

“It would. You know it would.”

“But do they? Can they ever? I don’t think so.”

“You have to turn that round?”


“I do think so. If you don’t, and you’re the source, how can they?”

“I’m not the source.”

“‘I am the source.'”

“I am the source.”

“How does it feel?”

He thought about it for a long time.

“Very lonely.”

“You’ve got me.”

“I’ve got you.”

“Do you believe it?”

After a hesitation in which you could have slipped a bus sideways.

“Of course I do.”

“Good. It’s the 20th of December.”


“What’re you doing for Christmas?”

“Keeping my head down, as usual. Yolanda’s gone home. What’re you?”


“I was thinking of splashing out on an organic chicken.”

“Sounds good.”

“That’s it then. As long as we escape the terrorists and get our chicken.”

“Should I get it?”


“They can’t kill me, or everything will go pop as if it never existed.”

“Do you think they know?”

“If everybody dies on a day.”

“It’s the Cataclysm. It’s almost one of those punishment words of my childhood, the Catechism. I don’t care how you try to swing it, Ius, I truly truly believe there’s no hope. Not with the bastards who steal our power. And the wonderful thing is, it could be anybody. Hitler. A man from nowhere. All they have to have is the psychopathology of a politician. Mind you, I suppose they’ve been more use to society than I have.”

“So far. But you’re not dead yet, Tony Hawkins.”

“Higher dimensionally or orgasmically?”

“Both, they feed one another.”

“I believe it, but I don’t believe they will ever believe it.”

“So you’re blocking their access to your knowledge with this great big bogey.”

“Which I need to ceremonially surrender at the feet of the Goddess. For everybody? My bogey? D’you think they’ll swallow it?”

“They’ve swallowed much worse.”


I have heard from several sources that Maria is pregnant. This news has hit me like a spear through the heart. It is like the wildest of giant tsunamis. It is like a silence before the greatest storm. It is like the dawning of Eternity. I want to die. I want to explode with a force that will split the Earth. I know what it would be like to be a jealous god wracked in Eternity. I am amazed by the force of my feelings. God knows, I hardly know the woman. People have been getting pregnant around me all my life and I’ve seldom felt more than a little sorry for them. Why is this so different?

Meanwhile, I am sharing space with a man who’s mind has not stretched to the threat to my lovely family of Mars.

“What a lovely bum. What a super tremendous lively lovely gorgeous lovely bum.”

We are spending Christmas together. Our relationship continues like Truman’s yachting experience, deadly storm, dead calm, staring into the unfathomable death of the known universe, all in a single breath. There are days I know when he wishes I was Yolanda, a woman with terrifyingly youthful desires expressed with Mediterranean force. I am not like that though I could be. Two centuries of Candor are still tight bound into every fibre of my being. The tragedy of our separation and his death haunt me. What I want doesn’t exist, other than my death. This is what I am doing here, learning to die like Christ nailed to a purpose. And here we are again, the season of his birth. Not really. A politically convenient myth attached to natural year change. And yet at the core something lives that really is a universal spirit. Something I would learn to teach the world in its heart where it lives, something out of woman that is really much deeper than men can achieve on their own. All that seems relatively simple but it is this great reaching out of time, as though I carried with me aeons wherever I went, that nothing about me is simple, nothing that I see or do is ever what it simply is. Because it isn’t. Only the narrow now of humans think it is. The broader now which travels with me like a swirling cloud of mist feels like infinite God. It doesn’t feel like preacher humans but has its own life. It swirls through the time hole that comes with me and people feel it. Poor Tony does. The ground keeps moving under him. He grips the furniture and has to sit down till it passes. He thinks it’s the huge gravity of my madness that makes him feel this way. He’s right. It’s whatever is me does it but were it so simple as my madness rather than some greater than usual crack in the fabric of being. 

Christmas Day went in a wonderfully ordered fashion. We got up at a median time between early and late and sat about enjoying the experience of being without even the illusion of purpose. We prepared dinner without any pain. We cut the sprouts in an old fashioned manner without cutting ourselves. Enough roast potatoes and parsnips for three days appeared with almost miraculous ease and the much mentioned organic chicken without self destruction. 

While digesting dinners we looked at dreams. Tony’s are showing the influence of me, either quantum higher dimensionally or the mechanics of madness or both. 

Tony is lying down acting the dream in a gestalt manner. At the moment he is being a lost bead.

“A woman’s hands are placing coloured beads in a high pile on the edge of a table. One barely discernible bead falls, possibly into a carrier bag with Christmas wrappers. I despair about finding it and then, as I’m waking, realise it can’t be difficult. I know the form the beads take already exists and the first part of recreating it is finding one that might have fallen into the carrier…’ 

‘…A humbling perception of my whole enterprise…’

‘…Beads. Stringable. A necklace covering whole breast area of a woman. Reminds me of loom dreams long ago. Web. Droplets of dew on a spider web. This is it, isn’t it? 1968, the dark spider room before God. Two dark spider bodies are his cheeks beneath his hollow skull eyes…’

‘…Am I really interested in being this bead lost in a carrier bag full of Christmas present wrappings? Empty religion? Empty me? What do all the beads amount to – a woman religion? Get on with it – get on with what? – figuring out the necklace pattern before worrying about the one that’s lost. Whatever I, Tony, have done as the one that’s lost has not manifest itself, perhaps because it is nothing without the rest…’ 

‘…So much about vans and moving. From North and Scotland, coming south. Always moving in daylight because I didn’t know where I was. At some point I’ve come back and my white van is standing alone on the right side of a sunlit green lane. Like the sunlit van among the many glooms among the birds. The bogey! The bead! The blockage! The hollow, stringable, wormholey spider egg. Louise Bourgeois. The spider guarding its eggs. Maybe I know more about higher dimensional strings than I think. Finding the key to one bead could provide the key to all beads. If answer lies in imagination rather than science – something like that (SLT) – then maybe I do have the answer to whatever the problem is – (SLT).”

I looked Louise Bourgeois up and showed him picture after picture of a wonderful woman with her giant spiders. The switch to Louise’s egg he found very disturbing. I looked up and read out the list of spider gods while he lay trying not to feel them creeping up on him.

“Web associated with the origin of spinning, weaving, knot making, basketry, textile making, hunting and fishing and lies behind the naming of the World Wide Web. Spinner and weaver of destiny. Egyptian – Neith, Babylon – Ishtar, Greek – Athena, Rome – Minerva. The contest between Athena and Arachne. In Africa Anansi, the trickster. Anansi – Asante. The Hopi’s Spider Grandmother thought the world into existence by the conscious weaving of her webs. Spider Woman in Southwestern native cultures is a powerful helper and teacher. South America, Moche people of Peru. The Nazca lines, aboriginal Australia. And so on and so on. All across the Pacific, Japan. Jorogumo, the prostitute spider, turning into a beautiful woman seducing passing Samurai. In oral traditions spiders spin webs over cave mouths to hide heroes from their enemies. In Vedic tradition hide the ultimate reality with the veils of illusion. In the Vedas and Buddhism Indra’s Net has an infinite jewel at each vertex and each jewel is reflected in all the others jewels. And so on and on. Dreamcatcher – based on a spider’s web.”


“Isn’t that beautiful?”

“Why is it always women?”

“Not always but why do you think?”

“Woman weaves her webs.”

“Men too.”

“Mechanical webs. Women webs are subtler, live right in the body psychological and thus the body spiritual.”

“There were no spiders on Mars, not even in our minds.”

I felt Tony darken. He hates it when I mention Mars. Despite all his experiences he can still only relate to past causes. Will this ever change? Do I want it to change? His doubt is my constant reality checker.

Later we watched the Red Shoes. Tony found it through a radio programme featuring Matthew Bourne whose Red Shoes is currently on at Saddlers Wells, sold out. Despite my love of dance I had never seen the film. Afterwards I was in a state of deep shock. The Red Shoes ballet itself brought to life for me the story of Asante expressed as my super strong mother would never have expressed it. Tony was left impaled upon the failure and isolation of his life. The film gave such a strong sense of the work and community of a ballet company. And for him it was all such a long time ago.

“Orwell was writing 1984, then such a long way in the future. Now it’s equally far in the past. All that time I’ve been living out my miserable life.”

“You weren’t miserable.”

“I was driven, like that girl by the shoes. Eighteen hour days. Pouring out like a volcano, no time to stop and consider what it was all about. No time to ask.”

“It’s the Asante archetype. The lone artist. The lone creator.”

“Vicky wasn’t alone.”

“She was in the performance. The whole company supported her. The whole company hung on her. In the end you’re alone with the one thing they couldn’t help you with, your genius.”

He was silent with that.

“What is it when the genius is left out?” 

“Of course it isn’t left out, you stupid little man. It’s the story of Christ, only he called it God – ‘why have you forsaken me’. We each must deal with it in our own way. Find a teacher.” 

“If there isn’t anybody, or they’d be doing it?”

“Back to Asante. There’s no measure of good or bad when you’re the only. And this is it. Does good or bad apply to life?”

“I suppose it might.”

“Life is life.”

“The manifest infinite. This is it.”

“This is your genius, to know that.”

“It’s taken a lifetime.”

“Better than never.”

“It’s what everybody knows.”

“But it’s your job to tell them.”


“Are they confident in that knowledge? Look at all the religions and the superstitions that dethrone them? The shepherds come not to be themselves but to watch their king. It’s not an easy job. You can imagine a million well schooled academics failing to make the point or even to grasp it. It needed your chaos life – apparently.”

“And now I’m with a woman from Mars.”

“I read only positives into your shit existence. Couldn’t you possibly do the same for me?”

“I wasn’t being snide.”

“You were being fucking snide and don’t deny it!”

“If I was I’m sorry. It’s like a British accent, I can’t help it.”

“Sorry isn’t enough. Find your fucking genius.”

“The lost bead.”

“Without it the necklace is just a heap of beads, seeds of anything.”

“What is the necklace?”

“Multidimensional life? Culture? Art? Artificial Intelligence?”

“Why would I want to contribute to that?”

“If you don’t someone else will. And who do you trust?”

“I trust me up to a point, the point of the limit of my seeing. I tell the truth according to my lights. But I may be completely deluded.”

“At least your delusions are your own and not some collective monster’s.” 

“How will that help. Those monsters build the great computers. The computer that sent you here.”

“A web that reaches back through time.”

“Perhaps there is no forward or back but something else, an eternal now. If I could grasp it perhaps I could grasp your Mars. It wouldn’t matter to me. It would have been swept away by things much weirder. Do the octopods live in eternal time?”


“The aliens in Arrival.”

“Weren’t they called heptapods?”

“I was sure it was octo – on that book at the end. It has to be octos. Octos are the ones who freak everybody out. It was the mistake in the Guardian. A shift one over. Just like he made the mistake that the memories were from the past.” 

“Perhaps that’s the mark of a good film, it tells different stories to different people.”

“But we need the higher dimensional story that comes in the room before God”

“You do.”

“And you?”

“Your not happy with Mars. Some charismatic pop physicist could still drag you back to the straight and narrow. You don’t speak their language and they’re confident they’ve outgrown yours.”

“But it only makes sense in a human story if they are octopoids.”


We wrangled on into the night. I knew Tony was wrong but wondered how far he would go with it. In the night he sat in the kitchen reading reviews of Arrival and discovered octopods are actually heptapods. He read into this a deep conspiracy which had me laughing at both ends.

“It’s your fault if I pee the bed.”

“Why seven? Why not the full eight? Oh, the plot thickens. Octopods already exist as commercial entities. So overreading between the lines, they meant those of us who would to read eight. Or if ‘they’ didn’t mean it Unco Consciousness did.”

“Christ! Don’t you think there’s such a thing as a deviance too far?”

From his expressions a great deal of thinking was happening. Eventually he said. “Kiss.”

I thought he said ‘yes’ and for a moment felt disappointment.


On the 28th I snuck a night with Tom, which relieved certain hungers but awakened many more particularly the need to be epically overwhelmed by naked masculinity. On the 29th I was back at Tony’s prepared for anything else but not for anything quite as strange as happened. Tony told me two dreams.

“Two time travel elements at Callanish. Seemed to be a corner of stone walls on one side and a piece of a gatepost on the other two hundreds years apart. When I made the connection between them a pattern appeared on the ground made of 2D human shapes, angular arms almost like jug handles, Spider Man colours. Like an Aztec god, moving into 3D, an infinite series of paper thin layers growing skywards into an infinitely tall tower ending in an old man’s head, godlike, looking sadly down. Like a Leonardo da Vinci drawing. Also a bit of Green Man but only a hint. Second dream exactly the same, ending at people in Paradise, not hippy dippies but like modern high level professionals. And it was something I could easily do with the right elements.”

I asked what we call in dreamwork clarifying questions.

“There were two dreams and each had more than one source located in different times. This is how two times were brought together into a single source. It involved rising up the tower through all its millions of generations – millions of universes – to the old man. Time travel reaches all the way to the heart of God. God, full filled with time, looking straight into the heart of me. That’s a first. It seems to time travel you need two simple locations. Both seemed part of Callanish. One was where stone walls meet. The other was perhaps a gate or a piece of a gate. They were in different times and the link was God, who seemed very old and very wise. The technical base was nothing, like one of Harry Potter’s old shoe portals. The capacity to do so lay almost beyond the desire to do so. There must be a core state where such beyond beyond needs are met. Or perhaps there are simply so many layers to God that all differences eventually rub out…”

“Like rewriting the Cataclysm.”

“…through something like quantum tunnelling. Infinite layers makes all time one time even though any two layers are measured as different times. 

I caught myself gaping in wonder at the feeling this gave me. His tower of paper thin layers rising all the way to God resonated with the 4000 drawings I had taken back from Callanish and with a handful of which I rebuilt The Oracle. And Sam, the man at the top of the tower who was all of it.

“You would set it up but God must set it up or it could never happen,” he said.

“A place of necessary miracles.”

“Everywhere else is equally miraculous but not needing any extra miracles. Healing the Cataclysm is one of the extra miracles it rides upon.”

“So God sent me an old man with a white beard.”

“It’s my dream. Don’t forget where it started back in 68. In the last days it’s jumped from thundercloud woman to this. It’s fast accelerating.”


“Dreaming all night about a healing procedure and a bed. It started as something very simple, clandestine, precious. Later many beds, hundreds, thousands of beds, landscapes of beds, piled with meat. Animals killed in the abattoir that morning. Coming back to simple, healing forms, a plastic sheet like a wing, seven angles. Pastel colours makes me think of Rudolf Steiner. Right at end after it feels like thousands of dreams, it comes back to simple healing form, seven or eight angles, like different angles of refraction, as in Ted Chiang’s story, only it wouldn’t be just air into water but through seven or eight different mediums. I think it’s telling me too that the seven and the eight are one thing. And it’s all scarily simple.”

“Why scarily?”

“We’ve come to rely on the complex. All those biochemists having to make a living in giant competitive industries. We daren’t think a healing system might be simple. What if we relied on it and some ghastly virus wiped us all out when the biochs might have saved us?”

“That’s the most likely version of the Cataclysm. The only thing that could have wiped us all out is something designed to do so.”

“This sounds horribly familiar. Seven angels with seven vials containing the wrath of God poured upon the ground.”

He showed me on his tablet.

“‘And the beast that was, and is not, even he is the eighth, and is of the seven, and goeth into perdition.’ The beast that is and is not. This is our old friend six six six. Two thousand years ago someone was visualising your Cataclysm.”

“Is our simple thing then adequate protection against going down the road of competitive complexification? Can it be adequate protection against our own and Nature’s ills?”

“The answer cannot be a technology. It has to address our whole selves as human beings, as life.” 

“This is what religion claims to do.”

“Then the answer isn’t religion but something more incorruptible.”

“There’s no such thing. Look at E=MC2. Innocent light, we make of it the atom bomb.”

“Your dreams are telling you there is something.”

“They seem to be suggesting a thought tool. Almost a mnemonic, based on something as universal as the spectrum. But it can’t be that simple.”

“Why not?”

“Too many languages.”

“But the spectrum is universal.”

“So is sex. Try telling a single story about it.”

“Romeo and Juliet. Shiva and Shakti.”

“The universal mother, lost or never found.”

“Your plastic wing makes me think of the light beam as lingam entering yoni and refracted through her inner states. Seven or eight makes sense, like the chakras, the whole as one, like a gliding wing.”

“That sort of system hasn’t begun to be developed.”

“It’s as old as time. If we find the right language.”


“What if it has never been heard?”

“Then who is going to hear it?”


I told him a dream.

“In chalk I have written some important messages in the spaces in a labyrinth like the labyrinths in the Underground but wider. I’ve had to erase them because I didn’t want these people to see them. I’m in an official building and the workers who give advice are all in the hall in the waiting room and they are all looking towards where I’m sitting but I’m in another waiting room where there is equipment on shelves, things like possible DVD players but they’re not there, just cables where the equipment can go, and the instructions are in a language that I don’t recognise, seems like random letters and they are stuck to pieces of equipment or cables and I take one off and I’m reading one of them then I realise it must be Polish and I don’t understand it then stick it back. The workers waiting room is like you would have in a job centre and they’re being interviewed or having a meeting. It’s the end of the day but they are talking like experts in a very powerful language and looking powerful. They conform to the institution, though not dressed institutionally. One man is wearing a purple jacket looking cool and trendy but his speaking represents the institution. I’m waiting for them to go, I need to use the toilet. I’m sad when they’ve gone. I leave this part of the building to go into another part which is a big, massive building with revolving doors and automatic doors which open when you get close. The whole building is dark but the doors open. I’m walking towards the toilets and I’m thinking if they don’t close overnight maybe I could stay here.”

“When you said Polish It sounded to me like polish.”

I considered that. “Rubbing off the chalk letters was a bit like polishing.”

“In the spaces between the labyrinth. Labyrinth is very deep, isn’t it? To the core of our being.”

“The cables are like Labyrinth, especially the labyrinths on the Underground.” 

“The Labyrinth with erased messages, the cables with missing equipment, just letters in an unknown language. ‘Polish’ language. Meaning polished away. Polished language, powerful, technical, the language of the workers but lacking deep meaning as in the Labyrinth. What did the letters look like?”

“Like geometrical shapes, a cross, a triangle, as if cut out from a solid block of letters.”

“Hidden messages again. He’s trying to reach you.”

“Who is?”

“I don’t know why I said that. It just came out before I could stop it.”

“Before you could erase it, polish it, censor it.”

“Am I the censor?”

“You don’t allow my Mars story.”

“But dreams are undercutting me. The Old Man showed me two times coexisting. Like the rings of a tree. And why not all times? A reality much much bigger than your story of Mars.”

“Yes, of course. Dreams are always the bigger story. I knew the language. At least, I wrote the messages in the Labyrinth. Deeper than the waking self that did the polishing, erasing.”

“The polished language of the powerful people?”

“The polished language polishing away.”

“How do the buildings relate to the lost messages and the unknown language?”

I shook my head. “What do you see?”

“Big, dark building, empty but open. Doors open when you approach. Revolving doors where people go straight in and out, but yours are the automatic which open for you. Into the dark.”

“It’s a different building, the empty one, but attached, like Swiss Cottage library and the leisure centre.”

“Similar function, Language and Body?”

“Hmmmmmm? For me it would be tantric body rather than the armour plated grunt and grind of the gym. Deep language of life itself, not the languages of the library. Somewhere I can pee and rest away from all the miserable insecurity of London housing. The miserable insecurity of technical language in place of the immortal soul. Shallow, deep, back to shallow which must be deeper, hungry for language deeper than this insecure house of cards.”

I remembered the dream I’d had when I was lost in the woods after Tom. Two thorn machines, two entrances in the fence. I’d never understood why two entrances. Here was a possible idea. I told him the dream. 

“Not the language of the gym or the language of the library,” I said. “A deeper language which is polished away by waking consciousness.”


“Can’t be. We need a bridge to the unconscious.”

“There is a bridge between the sports complex and the library.”

“So there is!”

“Symbolising the more esoteric bridge to the soul.”

“It can’t be esoteric, It must be physical or it’ll remain a babel of shadows.”

“The infinity machine!”

“The dream machine. Reading living dreams is all we need. They’re already the bridge. We’re forever seeing the god in them. If infinity and nothing are not inevitably natural but both were created, as suggested by Tanavoli, then you have your final mystery of physics. What made the Big Bang? The unified theory that evades them. Dreams break the laws of physics, as does the first multi-triillionth of a second. It’ll be the most humiliating for the present bunch when they realise the soft science of dreams, not even a science with us, is the bridge.”

After a time of reflection he said.

“Are we getting nearer?”

“To what?”

“The Key. That multi angled penetration of the multifaceted human being.”

“I feel it. We just read the dreams.”

“But no one reads dreams as we do.”

“Does that invalidate them?”

“Why do we think dreams are infinitely meaningful?”


“But a good rationalist will still knock that stuff out of us.”

“The infinity machines.”

“They’ll just laugh. They won’t even bother to think.”

“We don’t bother with them anymore. We simply tell our story, that’s all. Instead or arguing like this we could be further analysing the dream.”

“A lot of it was our thoughts, not the dream.”

“Not thinking is impossible. We’d be dead. Perhaps they are dead, entombed in graveyard of soulless data.”

“Unless they pay attention to dreaming.”

“How can they if they are data bound? The machine has no imagination.”

“Have we?”

“Then it doesn’t matter. Then it’s all meaningless. We simply do our best to have a happy life. Which is probably all we’re talking about anyway.”

“Is this our answer, then, active imagination?”

“Only in the service of dreams, or the source of dreams if we ever find it.”

“It’s a lot to convince the world of that in two generations.”

“The world went from the Theory of Relativity to the atom bomb in two generations, and things were a million times slower then.”

“Why do they need us?”

“Because we see the red wire.”

“I was going to suggest we concentrate on having fun, but I realise this is fun. And if we gave it up how long would you stay around this old duffer.”

“Could you give it up?”

“No. I have tried. I got depressed and suicidal and nobody would live with me.”

I chuckled.

“You meet a woman from Mars and give her your attention and she loves you unconditionally.”

“Asante and family and her amazing computers in your life is a million worlds away from Brexit.”

“We may even seed their arrival, a perfect heptapodian loop.”

“Do you think Chiang is Chan?”

“It’s an interesting coincidence. We could ask him what his plans are.”

“Smart equals neat equals swastika equals polished away like entire branches of the human species. Smart people scare me. I avoid them.”

“My God! No wonder we’re stuck if you’re meant to be leading the revolution.”

“I couldn’t lead a cat to a fish supper with lobster sauce.”

“All you have to do is tell your story.”

We laughed so hard we nearly died in our different cosmologies.


I’ve had another dream.

“I am naked in Nature. Very very very beautiful. Like paradise, Garden of Eden. Grass then trees where we can be less seen. There are benches, almost melted into the landscape. I am moving on all fours, feet and hands. On one side of this Eden place there is – I can’t see but I imagine (I know I am being observed). Maybe there is a stately home, people with binoculars. I don’t know who these people are. What I know is I am trying to find places where there are trees, branches where I am avoiding being seen. It is difficult. Something happens, I can’t remember what, I come into contact with another person like me. The interaction is quite animal-like more than human like. Not like us sitting talking, it’s more physical. We are human beings but we are moving like that. I don’t feel we are in mortal danger. The reason I am avoiding to be seen is not that I would die, if I do that I am very clever. It’s more I can get out of view so I can do something I don’t want them to see and that I can be relaxed. If I’m not seen I can be in a different state. Very beautiful place, amazingly beautiful, very green with mountains, hills.”

“Does it remind you of anywhere?”

“The Garden of Eden. Paradise. Reminds me of many places I have been in Nature, when there is nothing but Nature. There was more. An interaction. Can’t remember what happened apart from there was no talking.”

“Language, again, or none. Needing to hide to do something they cannot observe. I always feel you’re hiding something.”

“What can I possibly be hiding that’s more extraordinary than Mars?”

“Another lover. Several other lovers.” 

I think about faking indignant denial but know I can’t be bothered. I’m playing for the big game and know that anyone who can’t live with that is better out. Since I came here I’ve had thousands of sexual partners and it’s still continuing. It’s not as if one more here or there should make any difference, but it does. Tom, Maria, Evelyn, Yolanda, Justina, Shakti, Tony, they are so powerfully present with me as I go through this time of hidden change. Goddess, I have played the game of until now, and now I sense it is really happening to me. Must always have been happening or I would not have survived this extraordinary journey. But this is like the final crack of the whip, how this epic adventure ends.


I’ve heard not only that Maria is pregnant but that she and Tom have parted. Even I, who have enjoyed fifty years of tantric collectivity, have a moment of great disbelief. And then I see my thought stampede into a new adjustment in which the present situation was inevitable and now makes perfect sense. The woman was clearly a paragon and the man hopelessly inadequate. That he is now free shouldn’t cause the slightest cardio-vascular catastrophe. After all, newly separated lovers are never free. Every woman in the world will be headed his way. The man must be a total idiot to have separated from Maria. It’s only a rumour, salt for brains. I let my finger tap out his number before fear can stop it. No answer. I leave an innocuous message. Of course I’ll never hear from him again. Far better to settle down with someone of my own generation. Dear god! Magpies and wrinkled skin! But when will I ever have a conversation with Tom about the infinity of being? Having him free for the odd one night stand now seems perfection. When the skin is done I should be so bored.


Today I found Tony sitting so still holding his new iPad. For a moment I thought he was dead. He hardly seemed to be breathing.

There was no response when I touched his shoulder. I took the iPad from him and saw he had been watching Matthew Bourne’s Swan Lake. I remember being equally transfixed when I saw it live in 2009. It is an extraordinary feat of beauty laid over something quite mundane. In Tony’s case I cannot imagine a revelation of homosexuality, although that could account for his ‘impotence’. Madness, loneliness and the death bound form of genius is a much more powerful revelation. The Red Shoes and now this and us seeking to uncover the giant spirit of Asante. I don’t care if the Mars story is a fantasy, somewhere it isn’t, somewhere she exists, she and The Professor, some story like that lies at the root of Man.

“How are you feeling?”

It took him a while to find his voice.

“I just went over the fall in a barrel. Or the recycle bin.”

The sense in the room was of something huge which belied his words. Something in some way bigger than death I should leave him with. 

I made him a cup of tea and went to bed. Later he came to hold and be held.

“I feel so utterly useless.”

“So what. You’ll either find the key or you won’t and either way you won’t ever know you’ve found it.”

“That’s cruel.”

“You choose. Is it time to stop being cruel?”


I try to explain but he really can’t process what I’m saying and perhaps never will. The words sounded hollow to me. It is, after all, the universal human condition which all our cultures defend against our ever seeing. 

“Shall we ask our dreams?”

He affirmed snugglingly like a small, furry animal, so like my dream. What hope is there but that we hold each other in the dark. The thought of our dying together seemed at that moment almost comforting. Except that deep deep deepest of all is that final ‘yes’ to everything which, if we could learn to hear, might awaken in us until we fill out with and become that universal creative power. It is a journey fraught with the difficulties of remaining real. So much of our religion is symptomatic of where we didn’t, like great unemptied corporation bins. Curiously, for all its commercialism and infighting, such a simple practice as aum takes us straight past that whole nightmare to simple bliss of body, soul, whatever you wish to call it. It is the society of the connected, body self to body self, core to core. We used it later to return to the bliss that is natural. This is the key, this and related practices. Perhaps it’s simpler than even we realise. Just staying in the Tantra zone. But first we have to get there. For that a different sort of key is needed, something that cuts through our intellectual fogs. Infinity. Infinity of being. How do you say this in a way that sets the heart on fire? Perhaps you can’t but I don’t believe that. I think it’s all there waiting, all that social rubbish we have accumulated over thousands of years, waiting to burn.


Tony is acutely depressed. He knows if he doesn’t take control of his life he will go mad. His relationship with Yolanda is, for the health of them both, in a state of separation. This is not the same as ended. Their being together is their being apart. This is a positive yet misery making condition. He has compensation in me, which is similarly stressful in that he loves me but the ordinary life in him knows that I am mad. He sees me not as an equal but as a lost soul in need of rescue. He tries to help me by treating my insanity as if it was real, by letting me talk about Mars and the future as if this was part of the ordinary day. He is going to talk to Ted Chiang, telling my story as if it was his novel. But days pass and he doesn’t do it. Perhaps he is afraid that I am part of his delirium, as happened when he was in hospital and having detailed encounters with people in a planet wide, interplanetary, interdimensional conspiracy. Having periodic encounters with one woman is small time compared with that. So we could be living a mutually concocted delirium. At least it is interesting but one can only expect it to end badly. Meanwhile, we have to think strategically. Assuming we are both mad offers the prospect of hospitalisation, depression and death. Looking for the intelligence key to saving mankind even feels healthier. So this is what we do or mean to do and if it all ends badly, it’s where it would have ended anyway. And unknown to anyone, even ourselves, we might have done some good, even in the only way it could ever have been done.

Meanwhile, we enjoy ourselves in the way we most love, beautiful orgasmic connection. We even have perverse elements such as church going. Churches can’t hurt us when we are in such bliss and we can see it all from right inside. We can even appreciate all the details, how the death of Christ feels to us now and how it was to create a building, this building and what this flaking fleck of paint means to our depressions and bliss and to the Allthing. We are sitting in the nave of St Dominic’s Priory church.

“You have to save yourself,” I said to him. “If I disappear do you think Yolanda will return?”

“No. Impotence wasn’t an issue, then you cured it and then it was. It wasn’t enough of a cure. You know how it is with Tom. The dragon has woken.”

“Yes, I do. The difference is you and I have a relationship. I don’t mean you and Yolanda haven’t. You clearly do, but it’s you and me and Mars and the future of the world.”

“We both know I’m the last person to be of any use on that score. Fifty five years a failed writer isn’t going to change.”

I looked at the Christ in this dark church, at this whole edifice built around stations of the cross. This is what can come out of nothing. Then I had a sudden realisation.

“Your dream of the Tibetan board with the border of boxes.”

I indicated the Stations of the Cross boxes which were individual chapels up each side of the church and for me unique to this building. We both felt the shock which happened so often for us, the sense of being on the track of something huge.

“But we don’t want this.” He indicated the church and Christianity.

“What if we do. What if all our madness could fade away and we would just be happy?”

“For how long?”

“Forever. It’s the deal of the eternal. Eternal death, eternal life.”

“We choose it?”

“Why not? It’s what they built these places around – marriages.”

“I suppose they did. I’ve never seen it that way before. I’ve always seen it as a death cult and marriage as an unnecessary controlling institution. You’re not proposing we get married?”

“Yes. Not officially, with bells and whistles, just us.”

We felt it, in that dark building, like a giant aum around us, steadily growing. We went out walking the streets of London. Where, it would be very hard to say. It was a different city. Sometime there must have been Parliament Hill and Gospel Oak, sometime there must have been Camden Market. I remember both space and colour and crowd. And always was that extreme happiness that must forever have been a feature of this hard city, a man and woman, just married, walking without thought or direction, momentarily free of time and its consequences, moved inexorably towards an unknown future.

“When were you last so happy,” I asked him.

“Never. No, that’s not true. When I was two? three? there was a war all around but I was in Heaven. A month ago at Callanish, I felt really connected to you and to a universal purpose. But nothing like this. It’s as if we are one soul with two bodies. I love being both sexes.”

“Isn’t it great!”

We were leaning on the rail of the footbridge over the canal looking along by the warehouses that have not yet been gentrified – and now with Brexit perhaps won’t be. When the pound hits rock bottom all the global gangsters will withdraw to fleece Europe. 

From the beginnings of the industrial revolution to, in my present, cosmos spanning machines. A little while longer this scene will be here. It is strange that I am here in this moment of this long memory. And I am we, me, him and all of us.

“You know,” I said, looking back at the crowd-river inching over the road bridge, “it is simply a matter of our choosing. As we chose this so we choose there to be a future.”

“We have to act.”

“No. Let others take the actions.”


“Imagine being trapped in action and never knowing this. Action Man. Why are you doing? Where are you going?”

“I’m sure George Monbiot knows where he’s going.”

“Isn’t it good that he does! But does he know this? When did he last stand here knowing this bliss? And it’s not just bliss is it? It’s deep heart of all every person needs to know.”

“How? Getting married in churches?”

“Whatever works. For the sake of a world lost in action someone must. Right now it’s you and me.”

“We can’t be alone in this.”

“No. We’re definitely not alone in this. We might be in the philosophical footnotes, but that’s something to be ironed out over the centuries. How the religions fight among each other and how the rest of us cope with their ways has nothing to do with deep life.”

“What do we do, start preaching?”

“For now we simply exist and maintain this sense of being at one with the heart of everything.”

“In a couple of days there’ll be a downer, there always is. This morning I was feeling completely loopy.”

“I think that’s where technique comes in.”

“What technique?”

“Aum, for one. Being with each other, for another.”

“And when I die?”

“That leaves the deep, which is always there. Our technique is to have discovered it while we’re alive.”

He watches me with his world wise old eyes. “It sounds crazier than Mars.”

“Doesn’t it! But it’s home grown and old as the world.”

“Hmm. Could we go home?”

“I was wondering about having some street food.”

“You heard about Zimbabwe?”

“There’s no typhoid here darling.”

“We must be feeling lucky.”


Tony and I have had a terrible row. Not Himalayanly terrible but Harris and Lewisly terrible, ancient hills like worn teeth and moors of Martian sorrow. I have driven him mad with, as he sees it, obsessing about the last nuance of internal discourse between my undefined  psychopathology and undefinable reality. 

“You don’t understand about the infinite implications of what I am doing!” I wail.

“True. All I can tell you is that I love you but I haven’t got the energy, if I ever had, to listen to you twelve hours a day going on about it. Nor do I have the energy to aum with you twenty four hours a day to shut you up.”

In my opinion Tony has acquired timidity in relation to a forceful woman, Yolanda, and has transferred that timidity to me. I assume if he doesn’t tell me to shut up he’s happy to listen. Not so. 

“Would you like an aum?” I said.

“You mean would I like an aum?”

“Yes. I’ve been meaning to offer for ages but……selfishness……got the better of me.”

There followed some inspired exchanges. It is true, as one of his partners said, he is becoming a master stroker. All the orgasmic energy of a normal man is driven out through the penis, Tony retains it in his whole body, in his finger, it comes through his toes.

We feel so good by contrast, having come through the moors of misery, resting in the pure orgasmic energy of complete love. It is wonderful, intensely free, intensely unpossessive. It will last for days, it will fade in time, it is easily topped up. Old ladies may live with this into their nineties. Perhaps they will live on and on, not resembling ninety year olds as we know them. Perhaps the orgasmic energy of the old will be beautifully clear like this, Heaven’s vault for the young.

I suggested to Tony.

“We could have an orgasmic temple on every corner, where strangers who meet in the supermarket could go for an aum. And old ladies can stop young men and say would you care for an aum?”

“What about the children?”

“The temples will have resident wardens and nurseries where the children play while Mummy stops for an aum. Because she’s so happy afterwards they are happy. They even anticipate it the way they do sweets and ice creams now which make them all ratty and horrible. Think, the whole misery culture of teen gang war may be put down to hundred gram sugar drinks and aumlessness.”

“We could start it.”

“Hence our need for a country retreat as a seminary.”

“For which I need to stop being poor.”

“It has to be free at the point of delivery in order to sweep the world’.”

“The problem with that is aum ownership.”

“Simply a change of name?”l

“Who knows, maybe a hundred names.”

“It wouldn’t be safe. This has to be a replacement for rape culture which women can confidently own.”

“A single organisation is extremely vulnerable.”

“So, it can’t be an organisation. It must be just a very clear idea.”

“It could be the next novel. Asante part three.”

“We shall have to discuss. What if you are the creator of this story?”

“You mean – by writing a book I make it happen? That’s crazy.”

“No it isn’t. If everything is cause, and the easiest cause to mobilise is writing the novel.”

“You mean if I don’t write it it doesn’t happen?”

“The likelihood is lessened.”

“What’s the better outcome?”

“I don’t know. I’m beginning to think everything I used to think is inadequate as an explanation.”

“And you were already thinking multidimensionally.”

“Yes. I’m beginning to wonder if outcome is inevitable. All there is is opportunities for process. For instance, say Heaven already exists and there are a million of us trying to get there. Before it’s all that exists we all have to make it. But by then there’s a billion of us and then a trillion and we are all in the business of making it.”

“So nobody gets there.”

“When we’re all there Heaven as a goal will have disappeared. So even the first one was always there before the quest began. If we could be ourselves we would be it. You making up your story are creating Heaven and as you realise so you choose. Asante will have one or two or three books, all leading to the same end. Book One mankind is destroyed and recreated by Asante. Book Two the Asante story looks less simple. Perhaps her children save mankind from the Cataclysm. Book Three may never exist but you can feel it wants to. What’s in it we can’t imagine.”

“If mankind saves itself then it’s unnecessary.”

“Suppose it isn’t. What if someone has to imagine Heaven?” 

“It can’t be me.”

“Why not?”

“Look around you at this flat. Does it look like Heaven?”

“Whoever lives here isn’t wasting his energy on housekeeping. I can think of a thousand tidier places I’d rather not be. The difference being you’re not there.”

“Even fucked up as I am?”

I nodded. “You can’t believe it can you?”

“I can because you say so. I can feel the value of granting that you never lie.”

“And your granting it ensures that I never do. That’s a really big bit of Heaven right there.”

“First we have to finish Book Two.”


“Yes. It’s a dialogue, isn’t it?”

“We first spoke in 1966!”

“And I’ve been speaking to you ever since.”

“When I wasn’t there.”

“But Heaven was. The one that’s ours. The one we make.”

“Sounds more like Hell.”

“Yes. Something died when you went away. Had to die. Gradually I brought it back to life again. It was still barely a ghost when you reappeared. I expect, because I’ve lived fifty years without you, that you’ll go away again.”

“I won’t. There are other people. I’m not going to give them up for you but nor will I give you up for them. So, given time, if it comes to choice and you want me you’ll have me. Just don’t neglect to tell me. Despite appearances to the contrary, I’m not a mindreader.”

“I’m really awestruck by your beauty, both inner and outer. You may not be a mind reader any more than I am but I swear I’m a spirit reader when it comes to you. You’re like a searchlight full beam. You’re like the most beautiful music. You’re like, I don’t know, the breath of life, the spirit of life. Just knowing you makes me feel infinitely wise. I had the potential before but I was like an empty cup and now I’m full.”

What a glorious feeling sitting there in the kitchen with the empty pots where I had spent many a blissful morning with the saucepans, fine tuned to Morandi, and now feeling this, where all the pots were full, every atom of existence, every moment held in one great moment which was love. To be the giver of this felt indescribably wonderful. And he too would know though lack of experience might make him think it was me. But there is time to help him to know. Once someone knows, other than me, the job is done. Not that that changes the relationship. Timeless immortality requires people.


Tony and I have established a rhythm of meeting every third day so that the characteristics of our encounter remain objects of love rather than irritation. In between I have all the sex I like with hot, cocky men and am glad to slow down to the pace of Tony. Even so we have spent an entire 24 hours in love-making and I have needed the next two days to rest. It is a matter of wisdom love over meat love you could say. I am a wisdom machine more than a meat machine, as indeed is everything. A rock and a spider are not as they are because they are matter and beast merely. They are spirit, and so is sex. You might ask why I don’t read more books but no book comes anywhere near the knowledge found in orgasmic life. Every day I find something more and though each discovery may sound trivial – a new sense of my partners weight; a new pulse of sensation in my yoni from his hot breath on my earlobe – it is happening within an infinity of being. The changes can seem enormous, like a new revelation replacing all others.

My latest non-trivial triviality is feeling how Tony feels me, as a blue-white orgasmic field pocket goddess. Our latest encounter, the 24 hourer, was a great wave of knowing everything in the sense of knowing how the wave of life is generated. It comes from me as spirit and he gives it form. The great catastrophe of human life is that the form giver tried to be both cup and drink and he isn’t though it may look as though he is with his vessel filling lingam. Only when he learns her power is there truth. Only when it may be spoken of in complete freedom will the truth appear. Between political correctness and homicidal/suicidal religion the crack revealing the light of truth has almost completely closed over. Those of us who know must have the courage to say and the world will pick up what we say if it is still capable. That is an essential test, although no one is testing. To be safe custodians of this knowledge the race must be more than capable. They must be masters, and if there is only one yet then I must be that master. 

So far I am not doing well and nor are my helpers. Two days after our great encounter Tony had hit depression and inevitably had I but I chose not to show it and we were soon back and on, the depression adding another layer to our experience. But it isn’t good enough that I must be the forever rescuer of inadequate men. Perhaps it is time for me to make a proper trawl of the human race to find not just egoistic fuck machines but real men. Then Tony had a startling dream. Well, it startled me.

“I’m working on my friend’s house as therapy. I’m outside in the back yard. I’ve been doing small work on a scale of sewing. I have to be careful to not damage my arthritic hand. Now I have to split a log. It’s not much of a log, very dry, as is the building, as is the land around. My axe is another straight piece of dry wood with like a toy Viking axe head stuck in the end. I’m aware of my arthritic hand. A man calls out as I raise the axe to split the log. I don’t need his interference. I look around, look around, slowly sweeping the land, the other side of a deep valley. It’s like an archeological city, like Gobekli Tepe we saw last night, and so dry. But these are inhabited. Buildings to the end of my leftward sweep seem made of dusty wires, cables, suggesting it’s all a machine. I don’t want anyone to witness my incompetent chopping. I know how to chop. I raise the axe right back but when I strike the axe stops short of the wood. The man who called out is crossing the channel, coming through the gate. I am intensely annoyed. He changes into a woman I know from elsewhere and my annoyance is replaced by amazement. I recognise her. As she approaches a group of distinguished looking men come walking in from the left. Each one is strikingly unusual. One in front has a very large head. Dressed like senior executives. They all look so very intelligent. The land they’re walking over is very barren, very Martian. These aren’t a bunch of hooligans such as I might have wanted to keep out. I’m wondering what’s going to happen now.”

“How is it Martian?” I asked.

“The colour, and everything’s covered in very fine dust.”

“You’re annoyed by the man. In what way?”

“I have intense resistance to his coming any nearer. When he changes to a woman she steps right through my resistance.”

“She’s still coming to help you chop the wood?”

“No. She’s associated with a much higher skill level. But it’s who she is that by-passes my resistance. My axe movements were still small. I hadn’t adapted to the big movement but I knew what to do. But then I didn’t make the connection, it stopped short. It’s obviously my inability to connect my talent to the world and my sex to the woman. Now all these incredibly distinguished looking men have come? Who are they? The woman I think comes from beyond this life.”

“Your first reaction of exasperation to the man changes on seeing it’s her?”


“She’s coming with the men?”

“No. It’s like she’s on a different orbit, curving in from right front. They all come from the left.”

“Left field.”

“Yes! I think I do bring the axe right back for a really powerful swing but then it stops short. I think also of golf swing. I’m very struck by the barrenness of the ground around. It looks so Martian. There’s a deep channel at the bottom of the garden. As they approach it’s become a long deep channel slightly curved. Most men are on the other side, some on this. 15, 17 of them? This deep channel curved. Now I think of galaxy, gravity, Saturn’s rings, the curve of the axe swing, the golf swing. They moved like a loose stream of stars. Also the deep channel on Mars is Valles Marineris. Most are coming from beyond that. So is this a group of extrasolar beings in some way conscious of us?”

The dream gave me the eeriest feeling. I asked him to describe the men.

“Only two I focused on, one older with very large head. Almost your classic alien with a pointy top but humanised with hair and beard. I describe him as stocky shortish. The other was nearest to me and looked like a very distinguished Gregory Peck in buttoned shirt and suit trousers.”

I was flooded with visceral memories of Sam and Candor. For a moment I was drowning in tears. Gradually the pain subsided.

“Can you describe the woman?”

“She was more ghostly than the men and on a different orbit. First connection was the local man coming to help me with the axe swing. Then the woman on her own curving orbit. You know how I interpret that?”

“Haven’t a clue.”

“The Christian story becoming feminised and I lose all resistance.”

“You always make such huge associations with every tiny syllable of a dream?”

“No. Only lately. I think it’s the effect you have on me. I’m not looking for the big picture anymore. Just the picture. And now every little detail is enormous.”

That was very beautiful to hear. A woman likes to hear she has registered on the muse and not just the shag meter.

“It’s them isn’t it?” He said.

“How do you mean?”

“The Big, conscious of us and coming to help.”

I nodded. I daren’t trust myself to speak.

“You say the Martian ground was like a machine?”

“Part of the town. A house built of electrical wires but firehose sized cables, covered in red dust, looked built into the ground.”

“And that’s when you saw the man who became a woman?”


I had a sense of this dream clear inside me, which may only have been what I wanted to see. To his annoyance I went on questioning until I was sure, as sure as one can ever be of someone else’s dream.

“I think you’ve just had a picture of thousands of years of human life. Of real men brought into being by woman. We don’t just want a womanly future, but no one has seen a real man, what intelligence they’d have, what capacity. I saw it on Mars, Sam and Candor and some of the others. Just a beginning. They were –  a machine’s version of perfection rather than the work of infinite evolution. And they were cooked to perfection by remarkable women…”

“…I think we are talking about worlds within worlds, wheels within wheels. The swing of your axe and the swing of the galaxy. Extragalactic really means universal, the biggest of the big, so big that it will surely seem to have come from inside us. But I would read it that there is help even down to the finest level. No detail too small as long as it fits, if we can see where it fits. For that dream your lack of effectiveness is key. You’ll split the log when all the circles of the universe have swung into place. When you can split the log all the circles of the universe swing into place. “

“So they’ve swung into place already.”

“You can still block the whole process by not letting it through, by thinking too small, by keeping your ego too big, by not getting in tune, by not establishing balance.”

“That’s high art for a non-believer.”

“You believe in me, in what we make together.”

“I do. So this is our religion, our temple, the supreme challenge, staying in bed and making love.”

“Mhm. And telling the world about it.”

“I knew there was a catch.”


I am worried about Tony. He looks okay but his dreams are full of death. Not death as horror but death as rebirth and metamorphosis. Whatever, it will be too soon for me. I won’t know what to do without my supernormal buddy. To be alone in the world with nothing but 4D cockmen for comfort is sorrowful to contemplate. Worse, it will drive me mad. He is my one barely tangible connection with Mars. There may be others but how to ever find them? Tony only believes enough to talk to me naturally. And look how it started. No one will ever write the novel of Asante again. In its gestation the most extraordinary book ever written and it remains totally unknown. Luck like that is against all odds. I’ve never seen the end of my life staring me in the face. Even our pioneering descent from orbit, burned into my nerves, never felt so final. You ask me are these true memories? The terrible weight of Earth’s gravity, which took us a long time to fully grow used to. If this is madness, why such remorseless detail? Now, when for the first time I think that the journey is over, the force of those memories is returning. Perhaps I will wake up with the twenty third century around me, with so many that I love, knowing the Cataclysm is as inevitable as it seems now. Or it is death for all of us or just for me and Tony and the future will go somewhere completely different and I am as mad as I seem.

I am saying all this because Tony has had another dream.

“We’re sharing a bed in a long, dark dormitory. Two rows of beds. I also have my own bed, extra, near the door. It has the number 17. I leave it and walk into the rest of the building. There is a huge grand ball happening, all very superior people. It is being given by a supreme woman, the Queen. Many attendees go. We are in a smaller room left with fewer people, perhaps 17, all women. The woman who had given the ball came and kissed me. My shock at this in front of others. I open my eyes. The others have gone, just their places remain. Now she is lying at an angle across a bed/couch, head towards me looking up at the ceiling, like the Sleeping Woman at Callanish, I realise. Even like the Callanish Stones with Head outcrop outside. Yes, her head is just over the edge of the bed. Two breasts, two time places, you remember?”

“Of course I remember!”

Just as I am lying now hanging from a twist of duvet.

“I am kneeling over her to one side. Possibly another woman present and you in the dormitory.”

I was shocked deeply, on the brink of remembering another life, deeply deep remembering. Tangible, I could see it, feel it, breathe it but not be it. Goddess Goddess Goddess Goddess help me. If I did see it, know it, would I be dead? This is my other life that I came from to be here. But where is it? Is it the future or is it death? Or both. The one I have been play acting but never dared to be. Mahadevi.

“What is it?” He said. 

I indicated my two breasts.

“Don’t you see, two times, one heart. All times, one Goddess. It’s your death. Our death.  Two lives, one death. Two deaths, one life. Your dream of 1968, the room before God! Spiders?”

“Oh, shit!”

It was his turn to become an unpleasant colour.

“What did she say?”

“‘In fact, I can imitate you a life, if you want it.'”

“What did she mean?”

“The next step after was God. In fact not even a step. Green and copper clouds appeared and when they cleared, there was God.”

“And what did you say?”

“‘Moses saw God’s back parts, I wonder if I can see his face.’ It wasn’t me who said it.”

“A split being.”

We let the significance of that hang between us.

“You too?”

“What did you understand her to mean?”

“It’s not a real life I’ll be living. It’s been like that. All those relationships, no children. No real home. No real career. Just all that writing, to nobody. Like I was fulfilling – almost a homeopathic dose of life. No real substance there, nevertheless doing something those who imagine they’re real can’t do for themselves. 



“It’s what it’s saying, you silly man. Who else is the dream about?

“That’s just megalomania. Finally lost it. Whoever would listen to someone like that?”

“You made sure they didn’t have the chance.”

He was stunned silent, staring at his thoughts.

“You mean you’ve never even seen it, that that’s what the dream is about? What else has your life been about. The golden giant is the universal but if you ask to see the face of God you will see your own face in that context.”

He retched violently over the wastepaper basket. I fetched a bowl from the bathroom. He stood holding it as I held his elbow until I realised what I was doing. 

“What’s so difficult?” I asked.

“It’s the unforgivable, isn’t it, to think you’re it, the one.”

“According to you we’re all the one.”

“Yes, but not as the one who says it. They’re the butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker. They’re perfectly satisfied with their gods or not gods. One lot kills and the other ridicules.”

“Not if you say what you’ve got to say properly.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying.”

“Perhaps you’re still on target.”

“It certainly doesn’t feel like it.”

“Meet the president of that club.”

“Only in the presence of a supremely crazy one like you, who I love so much, would I ever dare to say this. Or even be able to think it.”

“Thank you. Do you think I’m her?”

He hesitated long enough for me to catch his thoughts. “That’s completely mad.”

“How so?”

“Whoever they are, whatever they say, if they’re going to say ‘God’ then everyone is it.”

“How refreshing.”

“It could be extremely liberating.”

“What happens to your special message?

“Perhaps it vanishes. There’s nothing to be gained by adding one iota to the public awareness of it.”

“Say it and leave it and hope they never find it and if they do that it remains as meaningless to them as it is now.”

“This is the first time in my life I’ve felt free.”

“Almost like being alive.”

“Exactly like being alive. I hope it lasts.”

He got into an hysterical fit of laughing which I cottoned onto a moment later. He was allowed to laugh at it but I didn’t see it as funny for quite so long.

We went to bed and made love immensely slowly as people who have no other place to go. The animal wonder brought real cock alive every gliding thrust a diamond of wonder and rarity. Tony screamed like a man falling off a cliff.

I waited to see if he might be dying. After all, if Tom Quinn can die in my arms so can anybody. The woman loves internally. The best way, the only way, for life to begin. And end? I wanted to tell him about loving himself rather than or in addition to seeking his love in me just because I am built so well for it. But it would keep till morning. If he was alive it could be our breakfast conversation. Just then he asked me.

“What are you thinking?”

“What are you thinking”

He made a little ‘ha’ to that, signalling vast unspoken dialogues.

“Listening to you breathe. Like I’ve never heard breath before. When you spoke of two breasts and one heart I wanted you! The power of your yoni to give life to – everything in its own way. I want to know all of you like that. What does your foot say and your hand? Dance with me! I love watching your hand dancing, spilling beautiful words in perfect lines, revealing your mind.”

“Yoni mind. There is no mind. It’s the great tragedy of the patriarchal catastrophe, mental mind.”

“We had to go through it to go beyond it.”

“No we didn’t. Misborn sons grew into fascist monsters we now must have the technology to control and guide to a living place. But it didn’t have to happen if the powers of intuition had somehow survived. And the end result will be the same catastrophe. I don’t know if humane human beings are possible but I’m sure I’ve known some. Are they just rare rare gems. My whole life’s work has been predicated on that we can all be saved. I’m just not sure I went about it in the right way.”

“What could be different?”

“Well, when you asked me what I was thinking I was thinking your capacity for sexual abandon might kill you some day and I wondered if it might be now. I was lying here feeling it’s such a privilege being a woman, having babies birthing and men dying inside you.”

“And you were happy?”

“So happy.”


Tony believes that when his mission is done he will die, that his life has no other purpose.

“I would love to just live with you,” he said.

“It would be very beautiful.”

“How does Maisy feel?”

I was silent, trying to find an answer, a tendency he has stopped seeing as a sullen resistance to communication. Maisy and Ius are such extraordinary people and it’s so hard to tell who is who. And then there are the machines, who may just be my silly version of angels. It’s a lot of points of view. How would it be if it was just Maisy, which all common sense says I am?

I started to cry, which he just sits there and lets me get on with, like a bloody therapist.

I pick up the mirror and look at my reflection. It just isn’t the face of a seventy-four year old, not even the hair. At a push I could have been born around 1980, but that person I don’t know at all. I gestured for him. He held me as I felt the world falling.

“Just live a little, day by day,” I say.

“I’d love to. Scares me more than anything.”

“I sleep on the Heath – sometimes. Sling a hammock between trees. Pack up before dawn. No one knows I was ever there.”

“Live on the Heath?”

“Breathing Nature every minute. And one day we die like a squirrel, just drop out of a tree.”

I want to be held and we lie together, two animals with one heart, streams of light energy rising and falling, angels or machines or simply us.

Tony dreams.

“I’m being dressed for my wedding in feminine colours and materials. Not clothes but swathes of material. At first it feels inappropriate but I feel increasingly at one with these colourful drapes and feeling more like a woman. Finally she’s holding up a great curved piece of bright fabric hemmed with circles of lace which I both resist and acquiesce to. It reminds me now of sun photo with transiting planet. At the end I’m pulling out a scarf from under it all, it’s becoming like a train. I’m looking at the woman on whom it’s happening as well. The scarf is moving from its own force, like a butterfly emerging. It’s not mono coloured or brightly coloured like the drapes. It’s more a pale brown/grey amidst lighter versions of itself, like the shadows of leaves on earth or like the tabby body of a garden spider. Eventually the scarf emerges as a full cloak. She’s draped in many layers, this woman, and the cloak which was inner is now outer. Who am I marrying? She, the one like me being dressed. There were also like the tally sticks*** in the air which you spun, making them like mandalas/flying saucers. A large disk and smaller. Could be any number of disk like shapes. The woman doing the dressing, finding clothes, being dressed identically to me is now looking at me with crazy pride? Her eyes are not equally clear. Even the brighter left one I’m looking into is dusty, looking through strands of the wispiest golden hair. A lot of light around and increasing sense of colour, like aurora.”

***(An economics course we had been taking)

“A chymical wedding.”

“You think?”

“What else?”

“I see it as preparation for death.”

“Same thing, your male and female, your infinite oneness.”

“The eye of God. In 1968 it was the hollow eye of the skull.”

“The wispy hair, the filaments of light in the dark room.”

“Oh, yes.”

“Something has grown. Bit pointless having a life if nothing at all changes.”

“‘I can imitate you a life’. Can the imitation become real?”

“The imitation of Christ.”

Being modern people we had never dreamt of reading such stuff even if it was, as we learned from Wiki, the second top best seller in the whole of time.

“The complete opposite.”

“Not really. You attained his recommended obscurity by not even trying, a truly humble approach.”

“A perverse approach.”

“What if ‘Christ ‘ is only a commentary on the nature of existence, yours and mine and Al Capone’s?”

“Like Existentialism.”

“But we’ve anthropomorphised it, or deified it. The ‘sinner’ is the real world.”

“Tantra made clear by the finings.”

“Yes. Though I never brought Christian theology into my Tantra classes except in an unspoken discourse on dysfunction.”

“Are we being too smarty pantish for our own good?”

“It’s your death. Or ours. If we don’t own it who does? And can we ever imagine it would be for our benefit?”

“Once we did.”

“Brought to us by the same robber barons who gave us fractional reserve banking.”

“That’s a helluva realisation.”

“Isn’t it! All their heavens were a con.”

“There still might be a heaven somewhere.”

“It’s us. It’s here.”

“And if it isn’t, if we have to go to the food bank tomorrow for whatever sick making crap happens to have been donated?”

“Do you love me?”

“I love you and hate you and love you over again more deeply the second time. I’d love to tell you everything I think about you but so much of it is so stupid.”

“Such as?”

“I love the way the hem of your dress gets hitched up near your navel when we aum. It becomes an intimate part of a significant ritual which adds to and subverts its role as the classic boundary of the fluid, life-arousing void which your skirt forms in public beneath the mesmerising modulation of your hips. And…”

And I said something so potentially shocking that we’ve decided to leave it to your imagination or not as you choose. 

Another dream.

“I’m with a beautiful, lively young woman who reminds me of Barbara, my American revelation of 1966. And you, so full of the delight of life?”

“Well, sort of. Don’t forget I was on Mars. We did our best to make it a paradise, but we were never more than two thin skins from a dead and totally hostile world.”

“Don’t know if it was any better here when I think she is also my mother, beautiful and brilliant, before the world landed her in the worst shit pile imaginable.”

“It’s true, there were no human monsters on Mars, but there was something.”

“We were accepted into the grounds of a new house. It was fully occupied by people who never or hardly ever came out. Attached to the house was a beautiful green field or lawn. I think what a place to run. And we can come here. I’ll be able to cut the grass in the morning. Perhaps not cut but something. I was free to use it. There was a small, square, extra deeply mown piece at one end. At this point I remembered the bent copper pipe, which was the refraction tool from Arrival. At the end an older but not elderly man came carrying a bowl with two or three plums in it. A few plums. He’s going to sit at a picnic table opposite a younger man/child. He is singing a song which sounds amazing, almost as if he’s doing his best to keep us there. I wonder about us listening but we’re leaving. A lonely feel to his sitting. A feeling of paradise but nothing to do with all ones talents and good intentions. In the next field behind the house, beyond a taller than usual, strangely shiny fence there are animals. A lightly built creature like a foal or antelope stands out…”

“…It’s another death dream, isn’t it?” he said.


“My mother; Barbara; 1966, two months before Aberfan. And you. The whole of my life. The people in the house. Old people. Hardly ever came out. Like sleeping dead. That man with two or three plums in a bowl, trying to hold us with his beautiful song. Sad. Disconnected from the young man who perhaps is me, his life. I am young in the dream. The first thing I want to do in the field is run around bare foot.”

“Like your barefoot marathon.”

“Yes. But the dream field in the bright morning sunlight was so much more beautiful.”

We talked on but the dream seemed to be withholding something. That evening we were preparing to make dinner. The radio was still on. Tony was about to switch it off when something caught his attention. It was March 1st. The programme was Costing The Earth, an item about soil regeneration. A woman was talking about mob grazing, where a herd, in her case sheep, is kept to a small part of a field or a range by an electric fence until they have really short cropped it and are crying out to be let into another part of the field. It’s based on observations of herd behaviour in Africa, where because of predators like lions and hyenas, herds keep together and keep moving. 

“The shorter cut part of the field!” he said.

“The animals behind the fence, you mentioned an antelope.”

“A strange fence, now I think about it, it looked semi electrical.”

“What do you make of it?”

“The big fence. Jurassic park. The silent house with the people so on the edge of death they don’t come out in the perfect sunlight, holding the monsters beyond the death fence. The invisible fence in the field with the short grass. On this level the fence is an illusion. Mob grazing still to come as an explanation that it’s there. It all gives me a very queer feeling, like we’re in four and a half dimensions instead of four with death a clear barrier.”

“I keep thinking of the plums. In a bowl. The old man singing to the young to keep him there, in the realm of four and a half dimensions.”

“Not death, then?”

“No, the bowl holds the interspace. Singing. Bowl. Plums. Plum ideas? Plum somethings?”

“So many ideas. Makes the living world seem pretty empty, almost as though it has none.”

“Is that the case, do you think, that here is empty and beyond the wall of death, the Jurassic fence, the invisible fence, is all of life?”

“Who knows. It’s not really our business. Our business is to make the four and a half place. The bowl of plums.”

“This could be the most important idea ever and we nearly missed it.”

“What are the plums?”

“Who are the plums? Two or three?”

“Definitely two. The third was less certain, hidden by the rim.”

“Three quarks.”

“Double helix.”

“Man woman.”

“And Pinch Me.”

I mentioned Yolanda and others.

“Is that it then?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m the vague one fading out of the picture.”

“No! You’re the dream man. It’s your bowl.”

“Actually, it was. The one I use for breakfast, and soup.”


“Undifferentiated. Not plums.”

“What colour?”

“Purple. And the bowl was deep and orangey brown. In fact that one. Gravity well.”

“Two royal purple infinity machines. And a mysterious third. The third way. Maisy, Ius, Goddess.”

“Diana’s loop.”

“Simply life.”

“But paying attention to our dreams or we are not alive. We are empty, meaningless vessels, without substance, swayed by anything, with no god inside.” 

“I never heard dreams given so much importance, at least in modern times.”

“You think I’m overdoing it?”

“No. The study of dreams will become the biggest study of all in the future. It is the study of God dropping right into our laps. And it’s alive, not pinned to the walls and made untouchably sacred. The whole story moves on day by day.”

“And ultimately they can’t kill it, can they?”

“Not without destroying the foundations of intelligent life. Machines don’t dream.”


“Well, on the surface it’s precognition, which I’ve been knowingly having for fifty years. But, of course, it isn’t pre-cognition because I don’t know it’s coming until it happens. Something else is going on in these dreams. The big one was the God dream and the Moon landing. There were multiple precognitions, which caused me to take that dream seriously. What’s happening is like an elegant communication from the whole to the individual, elegant as to the whole person rather than to fashionable notions of sophistication which reject much that is natural and ordinary. It mightn’t be. It might be just the bog standard ground state of a timeless dimension. The information lies in how it looks and it’s either information like the microwave background, from which we learn about the early universe, but nothing is teaching us but ourselves by our actions. I imagine this is how we will explore dreams if quantum computers can really read them. Or, it might be active intelligence.”

“Your own mind, which you say is infinite.”

“So, if we are intelligent it is because it sees so much more than just the future. Freud extracted all that information from dreams upon an inadequate premise. You think you’re playing chess and the computer is scoring goals in next Saturday’s football. I think it’s the real matrix of intelligence of which we have the little part which keeps our bodies alive and capable of reproduction, with more if we choose to look.”

“Sounds somewhere in the park.”

“My formula for saving the world is the complete and proper study of dreams.”

“I think that’s the difference. When they build The Professor they don’t send him to Mars, they keep him here to study infinite intelligence which, as you say, starts with the complete study of dreams.”

“Perhaps we should start.”

“There are lots of dream collections.”

“Not ones like we would make, knowing what we do. Your thing is Tantra.”

“Yes it is. The channeled infinite as orgasm. In my opinion the purest form of mind. Pure and Wholistic. If we could fuse it with dreams, create a symbiotic form, the beginning of a eukaryotes of spirit.”

“My guess is it already exists. We have to work out how to see it.”

“We better get on then, orgasm and dreaming. The future lies entirely in bed.”

“We may have to redefine orgasm.”

“How so?”

“Well, I’m not going to get any better.”

“Your male mind is our first problem. You’re orgasmic all over your body. Which is why there’s such magic in your finger. And your stories.”


We are caught in our vehicle as the Black March walks past, young people with black gloves on their fists. A sense of something 10% religious, 90% undefined.

“Dark matter,” he said. “Dark Energy, in its human form undefined.”

“And we’re trapped in our vehicle. It was your white van again. Even I see it as over square, as though it filled every last atom of its possible space.”

“A complete utility vehicle.”

“Ready to break out, move on.”

“But mostly it doesn’t move.”

“But it’s not a table, it’s always a truck. It’s entire purpose is to move.”

“A sleeping truck!”


It’s March already. 

Soon it will be summer and another year will have shipped by without an ounce of input from us. 

I came by Tony’s and we aumed four times. I wasn’t prepared for the depth and the profundity. For days I’d been with other lovers including Yolanda and the sublimely edible Tom. It had varied between pleasurably ok to painful. I feared I was losing my love of lovemaking. That was terrifying. What was left to live for!

From the moment his finger touched my clit I had the most blissful, pleasurable sense of coming home. I went from climax to climax, deeper and deeper. In the fourth aum my body went into total convulsions. I went beyond consciousness, neither above nor below but somewhere like the total birthing of God. The most serious, joyful, heart of all that is alive. Tears welled up as if from fountains of the deep. It seems silly to say I understood everything but I did. The despised yoni of our culture and not the brain is the fountainhead of all wisdom.

“I never experienced anything like that,” I said when I could speak. I explained about my recent unsatisfactory encounters. 

“Not even on Mars?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Two other people have said something similar recently.”

“I thought I was dying but it must be something else. We say Nature is moving, forgetting we can’t be standing still.”

“It seems to be after the operation. It was like a protracted near death experience which is still happening. They never completed the series of operations because I said no, I was sure they would kill me, so it seems I am in quantum indeterminacy, both dead and alive. My guess is we’re touching the timeless death state that’s also the state of birth, the state of all knowing. This could be all bullshit but three women saying something similar. And you, goddam it, interplanetary time traveller, three centuries of life, and that was the supreme moment?”

“This is it? The key to saving the planet?”

“You were there.”

“Well, it must be, but how do we give it to men? They’re the dangerous ones without the understanding. And they don’t get involved in personal development unless there’s chance of climactic penetration.”

“Drive the negative memes out of your minds. Women have taken to auming with such enthusiasm that they’ll do it with anybody, enthusiastically and unashamedly, even arthritic septuagenarians. You’re the expert. You’ve done it with thousands. Why?”

“Because it’s fucking holy. I worship men and they have to be pretty bad for me not to find something within the spectrum of the whole living sacrament. I’m also a teacher. My deepest joy and greatest satisfaction is taking them there. Each one is so different, these people who supposedly know nothing.”

“Classically women want marriage and babies and lifelong fidelity.”

“And classically if they don’t get it they sit on their yonis till they shrivel, which is not, in my experience what most of them want to do. There’s a bit of orgasmic goddess in everyone. If we could depathologise sex, which is the opposite of what’s happening at the moment, which is part and parcel with the current economic model desperately trying to keep control, then we would expose the whole of society to a baseline norm of bliss and happiness instead of soul lost, grinding angst.” 

“You agree, then, everything should be done to nurture men’s natural love of women so they grow up yoni worshippers rather than misogynistic rapists.”

“Of course I do. Are you a yoni worshipper?”

“I am after that. Touching a woman in total orgasm is the overwhelmingly beautiful experience I was made for.”

“It’s a helluva difference.”

“Well, Divine One.”

“Divine One, it’s you who have the finger.”

“And all I want for Christmas is the cock.”

“One day we’ll be born contiguous contemporaries and enjoy screwiness everlasting.”

“And eternally, in which case it must be already happening.”

“Hence that fantastic orgasm.”

We looked into each others eyes. I see him as the wise old one giving an entirely new and tangible meaning to the finger of God. Later I saw my own eyes in the bathroom mirror, red as wounds. They must have orgasmed tears. I was surprised how human I looked. Revelationally. What an extraordinary creature one is. No wonder the little mind wants to run away.

Well, ‘Goddess’, is this planet and all its futures to be yours or are you going to run and hide. I think I realised for the first time I had outgrown the shadow of Asante. Could this be the face that will change the world?


I was meeting Tom for a top up – his not mine – ha ha. Sitting on his balcony for a cigarette, gazing into the thickets of Regents Park, listening to the lions roaring for their supper, as I have done, I realise, for the past fifty years. Remembering the voice of the lion on Hampstead Heath when we were searching for The Oracle. A descendant of the one I am hearing now! A unique shock of a thought. What is it going to be like to be God in the total shock of all such thought? Hence Total Love?

Tom is talking about danger.  

Since those men he worries about my safety. Maria has told me not to tell him about Voortan. Wouldn’t he rest easier, I’d asked her? You’ve told me. He has enough on his plate dealing with his personal condition. You’ve had a lifetime, even three, dealing with other dimensional weirdness.

“Life is dangerous,” I said. “At this stage of our society it’s all an interplay between greater and lesser evils with extinction the likely outcome. Look at this. It’s beautiful. Why add worry.”

“Did you always smoke?”

“No. It started after Holy Wood. So is there a specific danger?”

“I don’t know. A private corporation, possibly involving US and Russian governments.”

It made sense. Remembering Tony’s dream of the Russian with Trump’s colouring, and after all we’ve heard since about Russian involvement in the US election, the dream was horribly prescient in ways neither of us imagined at the time. What would be the interest of such retarded governments in people who could dream like that? It would either be to use or to eliminate. Both governments had been studying this sort of thing for decades. Neither, as far as I knew, had eliminated anybody but nobody, as far as I knew, had demonstrated just how much information was available in dreams once you’d learned the trick of reading them. If everybody cottoned on to it deceitful government as we knew it would be impossible. That their interests might go further, to time travel and the wide open implications of infinity consciousness, was unimaginable. The idea that Tom, of all people, had information on this seemed equally incredible but his wife was another matter, and they had just separated. He might have beans to spill and a motive. On the other hand I had no first hand information on the state of their marriage and if they were working together on some deep project they could fake a separation. If anyone anywhere imagined that the fate of homo terrestralis was at stake what would they be doing? What might they be looking for? As for death, beyond its strategic value, it didn’t concern me.

The gist of his story was that for years Maria had been making a series of films called Working Title 1 – 2 – 3 – 4, which were about whatever caught her interest at the time. Fashion, sex, art and one she called The Bin which is where she put stuff which intrigued her but which had no obvious home. Over the years The Bin had become, like any bin left long enough, a source of surprising life. It now had a permanent staff and was connected to all sorts of institutions.

“She hosts conferences to which I have a standing invitation as future creative talent, otherwise I’d never be there. Top aids to this or that and their masters are somewhere in the building. For years Maria has talked to me a bit like anyone would talk to their dog, confident that they wouldn’t understand. I was very happily on the inside, fattening on the raspberries, and then I met you.”

He became very distracted, rubbing his face, pulling his nose, scratching his chin while loftily regarding the sky.

“And what?”

“It’s true what you say, your Tantra, your energy, has a profound influence. I’m thinking things I’ve never thought. It’s like I’ve woken up. Everything Maria has said to me has suddenly made sense. And why she involved you.”

“Can you get to the point.”

“There isn’t a point. There’s a process. She showed me a compilation of clips of you, photographs, going back to the nineteen seventies. You’ve changed but you haven’t aged, have you? And it fits with the story you told her. Naturally there’s all sorts of nasty people who’d like to know your secret. They hear the cash machines ringing in Heaven. Maria is trying to persuade them that your significance goes way beyond the DNA of perfect skin. That you represent a whole other order of science. That you should be given the highest level of protection. That we should properly consider your significance and that we should look for the others.”

“What others?”

“You can’t be the only one.”

“To the best of my knowledge the others all live in the future. But it’s not a simple this or that. It’s like a bubble in this dimension. You grab it with normal hands and it goes pop.”

“According to Maria there are a lot of people interested in you. Not all of them are what you’d call enlightened.”

“Then I should meet them and straighten them out.”

“That might be impossible. I still haven’t got my head around it.”

“What does highest level of protection mean?”

“You’d live in a safe house under armed guard. You’d get a new identity.”

“A prisoner.”

“No. There’s more to it.”

“Time to die. I suppose that wouldn’t be allowed either. I’d be on fifteen minute watch.”

“Total surveillance, I guess.”

“And my husband?”

“You have a husband?”

“I will have tomorrow.”

After contemplating it for a while I said.

“Tom , I cannot do this. I have to disappear.”

“They’d find you…….If you came here for a purpose, wouldn’t this be fulfilling it?”

“But my purpose now is to just be alive, to experience the air and the leaves and the yonis and the cocks.”

“You’d have that.”

“What are these top level people expecting to find?”

“Who you are and why you’re here.”

“Well, that depends who you bring in. If it’s only exemplars of the ruling paradigm, the Professor Coxes, then you haven’t a hope in hell of finding out. These are the people who would want to discredit and bury me. I couldn’t be bothered to put up a fight. I don’t want to begin to talk to them.”

“What about me?”

“What about you?”

“You’re talking to me, and Maria.”

I managed to stop myself saying something asinine. There was still the Candor dream, and the private investigator.

“Elon Musk is interested.”


It was a very Martian joke. Elon Musk was one of the seed people of Martian history. It was a head splitting moment. There was a chance I could talk to him, actually consider, for the first time since I’d been here, Cataclysm avoiding strategies. Could these people ever take me seriously? It would be the ultimate irony if they did at the point where I could no longer give a damn.

“You’ve been hanging out in the wrong circles Mahadevi.”

“I wish you’d stop calling me that.”

“No you don’t.”

“No I don’t. It does remind me that I have a mission. A very great one really.”

“The greatest of all.”

For a moment I saw someone completely different, not the planetary playboy but someone very wise and very sad whom I recognised and instantly forgot and whom I recognised and recognised and forgot and recognised and recognised and recognised and didn’t quite forget but incorporated in me. In moments I had become a new person and felt very happy.   All I wanted was what he gave me which was the beauty of his being, his love, his male intensity that lived in me and was me and gave me life. In total dissolve I said, “whatever you say.” Now he was crying. I didn’t ask what for. It will always change.


It is already June. Terrorists attacks are forcing us towards right wing government and that is the major ingredient of the Cataclysm. They bomb the stadiums but the refinement of their evil genius is knife attacks in the street so there is no way to feel safe anymore. They have us where the fear really lives, right inside the living moment. Not that, given my circumstances, I am so deeply bothered, even though I was only two days and half a bridge away from the last attack. The difference between that and being personally targeted is like being missed in 1910 by Halleys Comet.

The other night something landed closer to me. I was walking up the empty section of Haverstock Hill by Chalk Farm. A burly young man walked past me looking at his phone. A couple of seconds later a young man, heavily scarfed, riding a pushbike, mounted the pavement and rode past me. I thought it improbable that he was targeting the man with the phone. Three seconds later I heard the shout.

“My fucking phone!”

The bike rider was being pursued at a hard sprint, was almost caught then pulled away. A moment later the rider went down. The other ran down, presumably collected his phone and ran on into the crowd beyond. The rider lay still. About six people were standing on the pavements in silhouette. I was about a hundred and fifty metres up the hill. The scene below was like a stage set and I a disinterested observer with a most curious set of emotions. Moments ago a boy, with all the potential of his life before him, cycled past me. I could have as easily been his target. Now he is lying still. Was he thrown off his bike or shot? Whoever is carrying a gun in London is likely to be another criminal but it could just be a common citizen fed up with feeling like a walking target of career sociopaths. The police have given up on street crime of the phone snatch variety thus facilitating it as a choice. Three people were knifed in Camden the other night. The murder rate in London now exceeds New York’s. As I’ve just seen, petty theft can escalate to death very easily. I found I had no sympathy for the youth and all his cohort who choose this way but I feel even more sickened by a society which offers these lively creatures such little opportunity. I, after all, was such a one but from a very different epoch. I walked down, concerned and curious. An ambulance screamed up followed by a police car. I judged by their actions that the boy was dead. I turned and resumed my walk, heavy with the sense that this society was falling apart.

Politicians lie about all of this till their teeth fall out. While talking rot about a service economy, as though we’d all be middle class, they turned us from a community of skilled and semi skilled makers into poverty driven wages slaves. When I came to this town my first rent, a room in Notting Hill, was twenty-five shillings a week, which I could make in four hours as a shop assistant in Oxford Street, three hours as an artist’s model and though it was a whole day’s basic waitressing, in tips I could make it in an hour. And then there were personal services which led to Tantra and a thoroughly interesting, deeply pleasurable and well remunerated life. But before that, even at my poorest, I’d never have to work more than a day to pay the rent. Now people are paying up to 85% of their income on rent. That figure is from the Government’s own site or I’d never believe it. What this means is that the wealth of the country, instead of being invested usefully, is wasted in feeding a rich elite with potentially real wealth lost to their fantasy economy. When the shit hits the fan, as it will after Brexit, this enormous bubble will collapse and the country will starve.

What is needed is a complete redesign of society, which the present beneficiaries of this horrible system, who make the laws, will never allow. The sensible solution, which might stop the desperate young becoming terrorists, is to give them a basic guaranteed income. Given that the housing stock is worth at least six trillion, which is over £100,000 for every adult in the country, an income of ten thousand a year would be entirely affordable. If they argue that it isn’t it means they really know the housing ‘wealth’ is a monstrous illusion and people shouldn’t be robbed of almost their entire wages to pay for it. The same is true for the money laundering industry and the national debt, increasingly owned by global mafias, the whole of which is sustained by the wages of the living which are tragically wasted on this empty path to oblivion.

The right wing solution is at all costs to maintain the illusion, a solution which points straight to the Cataclysm. They will talk about decent, hard working people and the dignity of suffering. They will go for control through seduction, the citizen chip with death the ultimate sanction if you don’t keep fit and profitable although without being so obvious. The parity requirement is for everybody to be chipped with the certainty that, like the nuclear option, nobody will ever use it. Then, in the Cataclysm story, governments come together and offer it as the final solution. They offer only to euthanase the unproductive, giving everybody a ‘fair’ chance to get productive, but they reckon without the infinity machines and their respect for natural balance, who judge the rulers unfit to be seeds of any future universe and uneducable. 

So far the politics of hysteria have not yet taken over the world. Wisdom still has a voice and is heard though it’s becoming second nature to look for the double message or even worse, the rootless digital vacuum.

This is the first year I’ve not slept on the Heath. Ever since those men invaded my inner sanctum I’ve not felt safe. I bought army fatigues to make myself more invisible but dressing up in protective gear felt too like astronautics. I want to get closer to Nature, to feel the leaf mould in my yoni. My wild place in the country has become Tony’s, a mile deeper into the trees than St John’s Wood. 

How did we get so lucky? In my case I thought it was Ius and the machines. Tony’s sure something has looked after him, giving him time and space for the infinity of being to grow inside. And the place. All these old houses and trees, a place beautiful where you can breathe and feel life is good, such as everybody must have. We are born to be beautiful and happy or life is hell and we wish it was over and that deep wish will be fulfilled any way it can. Where did nuclear weapons come from? Where will the death chip come from? That will seduce our little consciousness with the promise that we will all be winners!

Because heaven is the deepest infinite, hell is also infinite, if we choose to create it. It is our creation but we cannot expect people who have been badly treated to know any better. They might, and perhaps some types of hell are heaven’s choices. I don’t know. We can always make excuses about learning through suffering but it’s far better to never go there.



I discover we can’t be married tomorrow, not in Gretna, Hawaii or Hong Kong. Time to reflect. Days pass and nothing happens and I think nothing will ever happen. You cannot kidnap someone who is an idea and not a person. Well, if you’re an idiot no doubt you can, and the world is full of idiots so we should protect ourselves. But I am an old lady from Liverpool and Tony must be one of the most unsuccessful novelists of all time given how much work he has put into it. The great complexity of my inner life has been fading, like a slowly dissolving dream. Tony and I had great plans of what we would do together but my clearest memories are of lying on his bed, our arms around each other and seeing beyond the window, fresh green leaves against blue sky, the freshest blue I’ve ever seen. Nothing in my head but happiness and something beyond any happiness I’ve ever imagined, something so profound that I think has always been there that I remember from my childhood somewhere. I remember a great lady of unimaginable depth of beauty, all a wondrous within. God or Asante? There is an ‘equation’ (of feeling) I can almost grasp. That Third World, that other, seems to be where life really is. Any futures we imagine without it are just shadows we cast.

I go to the Hill and sit on a quiet bench with a view over the city. Despite the horrors I feel  whole and complete. The great power of Ius has gone but I am not lessened. I think she was a dialogue between Maisy and the innermost world, the third world of which I kept catching memories. Now I know what it is. It is the single great wave which stands over everything. The wave within all the waves of the world. The light wave moves in millions of cycles a second and the tidal wave moves twice a day around the Earth and what they have in common is the multiply vibrating creature who sees them, in my case a creature whose strongest desires contain beauty, peace and love. Over me now, like an enormous tidal presence, is the great, still wave of universal love. I call her Goddess. To me she feels like Goddess, a creature who speaks, who breathes, who has feelings. In reality her core is as unlike me as she is like me. It is the difference between Tony’s standing golden god and the front which mirrored him and the Earth of now. But it was a complete mirror, him as the god face. It has taken Tony a lifetime to get in touch with that mirror, to see both sides as one. It has taken me almost an identical time. I hope it won’t be true for all people or our future will be very grim. I hope the time of realisation can be reduced to nothing, so that we never lose it. I hope the face you see will not be interplanetary voyages of loneliness or Tony’s eyeless vision but the face of beauty which is natural to children and which they do not lose in adjusting to an adult world which has lost touch with the heart of love and beauty. That is not the world of maturity they think but the world of the self damned. Yet we will not grow from there without embracing our condition as if we were the infinite god with no separation between us. No between. One self. So there it is. And these days this old lady comes and sits among the wayward youth upon the Hill and tunes into the one great singularity of being which is not her and which absolutely is. At last I knew the orgasmic energy I had played with all my life was the complete spirit of creation.

One day a beautiful woman approached carrying a baby. I felt their field as that pure orgasmic energy. We were looking at each other. So strong was the field that I did not recognise her. I wanted her to stay, to not walk on by. And she didn’t. She said hello and put her arm around me, gave me a great kiss and sat beside me. Then it came to me, all in a moment, it was Maria. I had never seen her in light colours. She looked so utterly beautiful as though the beautiful dark Maria had been her caterpillar phase. My mind took in the baby.

“She is so beautiful. What is her name?”

“We don’t know but we better make a decision soon. Would you like to hold her?”

“Asante’s parents were Irish and African. I’ve had fantasies about you two. That one day I might hold my own mother, just like this.”

“Would that work?”

I considered this baby’s almost whiteness.

“Asante’s skin was – it’s not right to call it black or brown, it was iridescent, like a magpie’s wing. All the colours of the stars, I realise.”


“Anu. She was an institution, my mother – my Martian mother. I called her Asante to others but always Anu to herself. I realise in the equations of God, as they are working out, she may not exist. Or she may be our only future.”

“Anu? If I call her Anu, might that fix the future?”

“I think it might.”

“What an incredible thought. Ascend…”


“…Hill, give a baby a name and save the world, all in a lunch break. Why ‘Purgatory’.”

“I overheard one of the personal trainers introduce it to a new client as the most feared hill in London.”

That brought out of us locals a little, knowing laugh.

When she rested on my chest I felt such overwhelming love as though I would melt away and nothing remain but this utterly profound love. Then I knew love was the power and it is eternal. Maria invited me back to her place and for a time I carried Anu. It was as if mine were the footsteps of Paradise. 

I say all this, and it is true, but Tom’s story had also disturbed me. In the light of this, wandering about with a baby in our arms didn’t seem altogether sensible.

“You remember the dragonfly made of chairs,” said Maria. “I know for you it was just another film but several of the physical witnesses are still in therapy. We demonstrated a technology where physical intimidation doesn’t work anymore.”

“That doesn’t make sense. Our entire history is based on physical intimidation. You might as well imagine away gravity.” Then I realised that too was possible.

“Yes. It’s so impossibly otherwise that we can imagine any sort of universe than one without violence and intimidation. It’s so scarily alien that it’s truly frightening.”

“The Matrix without Neo forever.”

“Everything laced with love hormone.”

“By who?”

“The machines. What do you think? You had your paradise on Mars.”

“That’s true. But there we had infinite composition, the machine and the people were equal. Sam was the one who understood the hormone the most and I was probably the least. I saw the rainbow and The Professor mixed the hundred million colours until I said ‘Yes!’”

“The embrace of God.”

I was thinking about this as we exited the park. At the northern entrance a large white van has been parked for years. Vegetation is growing under it. It is distinctly a traffic hazard for pedestrians. It had never crossed my mind to wonder why it had not been ticketed. Apparently it contains sports kit, though I’ve only ever seen it used once. As we  passed it the doors burst open and men jumped out with obvious intent straight at us. I jumped back even as they fell to the ground with sickening impacts and lay still. It was terrifying and absurdly comic. I screamed with laughter. Maria drew me past them.

“Keep walking,” she said.

In a minute we reached her door and entered. Upstairs Maria woke a screen. It took me a moment to recognise the scene we had passed through. The men on the ground were lying like angular dolls, each outside an open van door. It reminded me of a dream of a very large building with open doors. Also of the angular, two dimensional figures Tony had drawn at the foot of his time travel god tree. As the figures moved they each lost their acute angularity. They got groggily to their feet and wandered away as though the van had nothing to do with them nor they anything to do with each other. The cameras eye view was above the rooftops. My own flat was visible across the trees. The camera was zooming into a dark area under the trees. I recognised it as an approach to the Hawthorn Grove. A long dark shape sat up and looked around as though trying to get its bearings. Somewhere deep inside a more active mode of me was being shaken awake. I recognised the situation without having seen anything like it in my Maisy time. Skeletons beside cars had lain like that in my Ius memories, especially in the European cities when we had gone on the great Oracle hunt. It was something to do with the death mode of the Cataclysm.

The picture changed to a street map showing a black dot near us. As we zoomed out more dots appeared until the whole map of the planet showed thousands of dots clustered at urban centres.

I tried to understand what I had just witnessed. Nothing in Maisy world made sense of it. I was thrown back into the world of Ius and The Oracle.

“Who are those men?”

“Our would be kidnappers.”

“You knew this would happen?”


“And me?”

Suddenly I felt deeply and horribly loopy as when I change personalities and cannot match the worlds.

One part of the chaos was Maria had led me directly into this. What sort of friend! And yet, she had been there with her baby. And what – was it likely? Were they actors? She had joked about it with the dragonfly. But I had seen a dragonfly after those men and imagined the mask. Coincidence! You know, the big safety net! Even in a world of infinite meaning true meaning doesn’t necessarily, or ever, mean what we see. Freud and dreams. Sun rise.

Perhaps it was all some weird, staged performance. Going back to Rosie and official secrets. For what? To catch me? It would seem I’m already caught.

“What the hell is going on, Maria?”

“A special type of infinity machine, one which has self taught itself the art of creation through as many universes as can exist. It is not passively reflective but more active and selective. Its self generated purpose is the discovery and embodiment of Love. To that end anything it chooses to do comes from the heart of all universes. I was going to say the heart of darkness but that sounds too dramatic.”

Maria’s voice sounded far away. Such thoughts were not foreign to me but felt very strange when spoken by someone else.

“You took the chance – with the baby?”


“What if it had gone wrong?”

“I have been trained to trust that it couldn’t go wrong. I have become a fanatical believer in the science.”

“What science?”

“The science of infinite being.”

“It doesn’t exist yet.”

“Didn’t you say it always exists?”

I couldn’t answer.

“At times some individuals must have tapped it. Moses? Christ?”


“And you. In your Ius life you rebuilt an infinite machine out of nothing but your imagination.”

That was certainly a way of putting it.

“So this is Cataclysm technology?”

“Post Cataclysm. Beyond Cataclysm.”

“But the quantum machines don’t exist yet.”

“They always exist?”

“Yes, but only as God, spirit, essence. It can’t be used as a tool or a weapon at this level without a tangible machine.”

“Something has changed…”

She indicated the baby.

“…You wanted proof of who she is.”

I remembered all the strange things which had happened recently.

“It’s the Anu field,” she said.

My mind opened up to everything I had known or seen or ever suspected and beyond, far far beyond.

“There’s something missing – selectivity.”

“No longer needed. We have people who are midwives to conscious evolution. Your Cataclysm is here. You said yourself we can ride on it. It doesn’t have to destroy us.”

“So, in the field of love we wouldn’t need the selective mechanism?”

“I think it gives us the choice. The machine is beauty.”

“So why don’t we send all the bad boys into retirement?”

“If we go down that road nobody will be left. It’s best they experience choice.”

“And if they choose crap again?”

“There is no crap in the infinite field. That’s where you come in. You have to convince them of the Cataclysm.” She indicated the baby. “This time there’s no second chance.”

“Shit, Maria, who are you?”

“It’s not so much who I am, Mahadevi, but who can I want to be. I think we’ve just proven that this world is tangibly an illusion.”

“We have?”

“Yes. If the systems of security to protect current commercial interests can’t touch us, what are we? They will have to find out. Whoever’s technology was just demonstrated, I don’t have control of it.”

After a pause to let that work it’s way through me I said. “Who does?”

“Ultimately, we do. The fate of all the universes lies in the face of man. WoMan. Right here on the surface of our moment by moment decisions. Of our life, of our knowing, of our feeling and what we do with it. We are the ultimate technology, the feel of it, the face of it.”

“You walk in miracles?”

“We do, Mahadevi. We do. It’s our choice to see it.”

I looked at the screen. “Who created this?”

“You’ve heard of the Dark Web, Mahadevi.”


“And what is within the darkness?”

I remembered Tony’s dream.


“There is one room in the darkness which the eaters of oblivion cannot enter.”

I became aware of a huge presence barely distinguishable from the background but now that I was aware of it the presence was very clear. We two women standing at a focal point of a vast electric web. I was seeing us through the perception field of the presence as though a whole universe was seeing us from a place beyond time. I was struck by how beautiful we were in the sight of this great jewelled being. Of one thing I was certain. This was not The Professor or The Oracle or anything men made but something ancient and infinite in its own right. There was no point asking Maria to say any more. Common human words could add nothing. I had a very strong sense of a dragonfly.

Though I was completely lost in the presence, my eye was still filled with the screen and its thousands of dots, a few of which were red, one of which was on London.

“What are the reds?”

“Deaths, I think.”

She followed my eye to the London red and zoomed in on it. Of all places it was in the middle of Hampstead Heath.

“Where the hell is that?”

I recognised the lake and the bridge and just between them, above a hidden cliff and a swamp the place of the Hollow Tree now marked by a red dot. I had never been back. Did I somehow know what was there? That was a year ago. Since then anyone might have found it as a place of refuge and died there. But in all the time I had known it, other than that once, I had never seen anyone there. 

Maria was aware of my feeling.


“Did all this happen today?”


Maria pointed to the red dot. A name and date appeared. It was a year ago. I felt very sick and very afraid. It was pointless pretending with Maria. She could feel my shock as I could feel her awareness of it. I explained about Hollow Tree and the three men who attacked me.

“It was so quiet behind me. I was afraid to go back.”

“We knew something had happened. That’s why I sent Tom after you.”

Sent him! 

The thought of the details afterwards came back in another light. The dragonfly and the tattoo, the only time that ever seemed like a good idea. Walking up to Boudicca’s. Tom’s arrival by car! Which I had thought of as romantic!

“Do you want to see what we found?”

I really didn’t but I said yes.

“We sent an autonomous bee drone to explore the area so we may have missed something.”

The picture was of descent through a leafy canopy revealing dense underbrush some of which had been crushed by apparently thrown bodies.

“They were scattered around a hollow tree which confirmed the connection with you.”

I suppose I had always known, which is why I had never been back, which is why I was not surprised. I felt sick with dread but it was obvious one unarmed woman could not have done this. 

“They’re dead?”

“Two survived. Because they’re marked by Voortan it’s possible to trace them. They’ve gone back to their original communities.”

“And the other one?”

“The dot suggests he must still be there.”

“But, Maria! We can’t! No one has found him in a year?”

I knew it was possible. They were the only people I’d ever seen there in all my years of visiting the tree.

“Do you need to know what happened?”

“If I’m involved in his death, I do.”

“What do you remember?”

I told her, right up to my own strange reaction afterwards, sitting serenely by a pond, watching a dragonfly and having a uncharacteristic fantasy of having a dragonfly tattoo on my face.

“It killed this man – through me?”

“You said you were in fear of your life, Mahadevi. You were too valuable to lose.”

“Who is this Voortan who interferes with our freedom?”

“Our freedom isn’t worth very much, Mahadevi, if we don’t know we’ve got it.”

Then I had been imagining dragonfly and tattoo as though these thoughts were entirely my own. Now I sensed nothing I was thinking then was and perhaps nothing now. All that’s me is that I am living in this moment. And not even that but that I am engaged to be living in this moment and so you live, we live and we love. I am the finest of fine creations with all the qualities and characteristics of life and if I choose this immortal type of love you will choose to defend me. Voortan, she said, the dragonfly, whose wings span the entire universe. Just like Tony’s giant condor.

“The thing about infinity machines, Maria, is the human being has to talk to them. Christians speak of praying. I’m not sure what they mean. Basically, you must be telling God about life, not asking the great nothing for it. Ours is the authority of life itself. Your Voortan might be the mind of many universes but it is the human being’s job to teach them about life and love and if not love then morality. It may have a different morality from ours. In which case, if you have two competing moralities there isn’t any hope for a good outcome.”

“You have experience of this?”

“As Ius I do. As the daughter of Asante, who recreated the human race with The Professor. I rebuilt The Oracle, which was mostly a matter of feeling and the spiritual authority of life. It’s a bit like writing a poem with words and sounds which are not words. The poem sits on a page in a closed book and then I open the book and the poem comes to life, either silently in my head or spoken aloud. My voice is the sound of life, Maria, and the best poem has the space for my unique sound that I must be free to grow inside me. These spaces are the interfaces with the infinite machine, the bridging that shimmers between the living being and the eternal nothing at the heart of the machine. That is where we are creators of the infinite machines that are creators of the universe.”

Maria’s look of love was too dazzling to look at, too mesmerising to look away.

“That is why you were saved, Mahadevi. When it comes to the crack of the moment, there is nobody like you.”

“I must speak to Voortan, Maria.”

“Yes, you must. Basically, you’ve been speaking to him all your life.”

“But with the safety of not knowing.”

“You will always be safe, Mahadevi, among the infinite ones. The supreme core is love.”

“Those men were love’s victims. They had no power to create it so they wanted to destroy it.”

“This is where we open negotiations. Is their denied longing forever denied? Selected out or selected for by their own violence? Would you be his muse and share his bed for a lifetime?”


“So, he must rape you or deny his own nature by adapting to some crippling culture, such as happened to Tom. He thinks what he thinks of as his rape of his mother killed her, so he can never find his man or his god. His deepest prayer is for self destruction. This must be the core of the Cataclysm.”

“If the supreme mad thought is that Tom is the son of Asante with no father, just a mathematical algorithm, and there is no Cataclysm and no Asante and her extraordinary adventures, then he has no mother either.”

“No wonder he doesn’t want to know.”

“Does he even exist?”

“But he’s as real as we are?”

“Do we all vanish? Back to the Cataclysm and Asante.”

“An eternal loop?”

“Perhaps slowly evolving, with little differences having huge outcomes.”

“Whatever, it requires a man to see himself as a living miracle.”

“Properly in tune. The world is full of egoistic bastards I wouldn’t give the time of day to.”

“Not Tom.”

“No. But he needs to imagine the unimaginable.”

“So all the power returns to here and now and not locked in some inaccessible future.”

“Making what he has realised totally mad.”

“Do you think he knows this?”

“Do you think this?”

“He’s certainly running away from something.”

“Do we need him?”

“I do.”

“Then so do I.”

I don’t know what Maria’s expression means but it triggers something. It reminds me of what I used to call the ‘holy moment’ just before Mother Mercy was about to inflict on me some startling punishment for the good of my soul. The memory of Mother Mercy and her entrapments brought Maisy and her common sense right to the fore. I realised the three men falling out of the car, the three men in the woods, the red dot on a screen, the chairs dragonfly, could all have been staged. Even I could photoshop this map in thirty minutes. 

One thing Maisy learned was to never let Mother Mercy know what she was thinking, even that she was thinking. I had long since abandoned this skill. Maria could feel mood through her skin but the subject of our discussion was shocking enough to mask anything.

“Maria, I need to do something about that body.”

“We left it because we assumed it would be found and the police would draw their own conclusions. Perhaps they have and the computer hasn’t updated.”

“But you would know?”

“Mahadevi, we don’t wear our miracles unless they are needed. Why risk addiction to the trappings of power when the ultimate condition is love.”

“I see, but I would like to check.”


“Go there. Send in another drone?”

“Drones are traceable, signals can be intercepted, unless they’re completely autonomous. Going there? They may have left a camera.”

“They won’t have left the body.”


“So what would a photograph a year later tell them? Anyway, if they have found it, I left things in the tree that might have been traceable.”

“What things.”

“Mess tin, gas stove inside a sleeping bag and hidden out of sight.”

“They could have been his.”

“Maria, the idea of him still lying there dead offends me. I must do something.”

“Take security. Sir George has the highest clearance.”

“If I went alone I’d be much less conspicuous.”

“You wouldn’t. Lone women are noticed and followed.”


I wanted to get away completely. After my experience of the Church I had a true horror of having my personal story trapped in some kind of duplicitous cult. Our tantra had never seemed to me cultic but then I had started it and anyone was free to go off and do their own thing, which many did, such as Shakti and Strep, one of whom I love and one of whom death is too good for. 

I wanted to go on my own, to get away with my own thoughts for a while. Having George there would continue the atmosphere and mind set of conspiracy. And it would, of course, be the equivalent of keeping a watch on me. On the other hand, when Maria spoke to him, he suggested a drone and I knew nothing about them. It would be a repeat of the survey but in a year the technology had moved on. The drones were more accurate and the cameras better.

“If we park nearby the drone can be sent and return through the open window of a car in motion. It doesn’t even have to be in the same place.” 

“Highly discrete.”

We drove out with the latest bee drone being topped up in the well of the car. We found a parking place in Well Walk about five hundred metres from the Hollow tree, as close as we could get by car. George gave the drone some last instructions on his laptop then released it through the window. I caught a brief glimpse of it as it sped off looking quite like a bumble bee. I exclaimed about the wonders of technology.

“I had no idea such things existed.”

“They don’t,” said Sir George, “officially. Jet powered. It should be back in five minutes with at least a minute’s recording.”

“And if it isn’t?”

“At six minutes it will self destruct – simply dissolve. Also if it’s damaged or intercepted.”

At five and a quarter minutes it dropped through the window into Sir George’s hand which plugged it in, all in a deft movement. 

The film began as it crossed the pond, the swamp, the cliff and into the chaos of leaves and branches of the dense scrub trees of the hidden zone where it stopped. I could see nothing unusual but once my mind had adjusted to what a year might have done with decay and predation and falling leaves I made out what could be clothes. A profusion of plants and fungi could match the forms of a face, the hint of a skull. As it drew back leaves and branches filled the screen. A pan revealed the hollow tree but too distant.

“That’s the lens,” said George. 

Scrolling back to the possible face there was never a clear view before the leaves obscured it. Pausing at the best view, I could imagine that I saw a face. Remembering that extraordinary fantasy of having a dragonfly face tattooed on my own. A year later I am looking at the dragonfly’s creation, a necrotized green man. Given the previous footage, which we looked at, George was sure the body was still there but I wasn’t sure and being this close to taking action I had to be.

“We could send another one.”

“I must go in there.”

“You’ll become a material witness.”

“Perhaps I want to be.”

“And if you are charged with murder?”

“How? This is evidence that I can’t have killed him.”

“The community can’t reveal its existence to the public.”

“You wouldn’t defend me?”

“Couldn’t, given that the stakes are so high.”

“Is that a threat George?”

“No, ma’am, not you. I’m pointing out your conscience over a random thug, who would have raped and murdered you, could be a very costly luxury.”

“Yes. I also need to know there is a body there George. The story I’ve been fed has reached the limits of my credulity.”

George conveyed just the slightest twitch of surprise and looked me in the eye and nodded.

“Good luck. Be careful. Our involvement with this incident ends here. If you want to contact the police or take it further in any way, you’re on your own.”

Well, that was clear.

“And if there is no body?”

“Then you are free to tell the world we are a pseudo scientific cult of deluded manipulators if you like.”

“I wouldn’t do that. I have loved some in this cult more than any human beings I ever knew. It would be like losing faith.”

“Then I can only wish you the best of luck.”

“Thank you, George.”

We shook hands and I left the car. I made my way through the by-ways of the trees and skirted the fence to its deepest and most hidden place and launched myself over it. The other side was harder to walk on than I remembered, the thickets almost impenetrable. I hadn’t realised how much my visits had kept a path open. I wormed my way along the remembered route through many subtle changes in limb and bough and me. I was no longer one who lived here but someone foreign who had been forgotten. They were protecting the dead man. He was there, completely grown over and through and covered in fallen leaves and branches. My mood a complex mess of sorrow over the life and death of someone and elation that it was him there lying dead and not me.

I sat in my tree hole, the long changed dead man before me. I felt sorrow for all the beautiful nights I had slept here, waking to the stars and returning to the deep dream. I felt visceral confusion over the dead man and what I should do for his soul and my own. Most of all I felt a deep dread that had driven me for relief into a belief in a human conspiracy which this body had now blown away. ‘Oh, help me.’ I said to something.

I entered an involuntary meditation. It was as if the finest of fine masks was placed over my face perfectly matching my skin. It was a filter which would let through only the elements of truth without their living hazards. I was aware, sitting in my dark hole, I was at one with deep reality, space, time, breath. Even breath was a tower, along with all that exists, towers of atoms and molecules which could fall. A voice, not a voice I heard but nevertheless some form of guide, explained this to me. Under prehuman nature the rocks piled up, each gently settled, each knowing and holding its place. Then came humans. They move about much more than Nature, they walk in places never trod and the rocks shift. Their greatest tower is themselves, their social structure pre civilisation. As I sit weightless upon the rocks of Nature the voice points out a great river in a deep cavern under the rocks. I now became aware of its clear, pure rush, its power. The rocks are moving everywhere. A great white tower of rocks is falling, spilling out like a wave over the rockscape, spilling over the edge and down to where the people are enjoying their time at the front of the building. It is not yet near where they are, is it? I am aware of an association with the Twin Towers. I realise all this apparent Nature around me is a building.

As I sit in my wood cave, covering myself with crumbling leaf mould, I am aware I will have to dress like a tower of rectitude to meet the artificially upper classes and tell them what I know, which is what they know, they are just not tuned to see it. But all I have to say, which is so important, they have been actively and expensively trained to see as nonsense. Then the very chief of them comes to me and says ‘there is oil in the water’. I know he says oil but I think he says gold. The force of the great river reaches the surface as tiny sprays running away as little streams and pools. Here and there I catch an iridescent diatom of oil floating on the water. Then I see where it is spraying on the rocks, there is a small build up of iridescent material which must be oil but I think gold. It is such a tiny build up compared with the great tower which has fallen, the very last splash of which spilled down to the human level. Now I see the iridescence as like the wings of the dragonfly, the magpie and Asante’s skin. I know if I treat it as an oracle it will tell me precisely what I need to know. Precisely what it can tell me which is what I want to know in the beauty of a relationship. The face mask filters its giant forces to precisely my level. After this encounter I am not feeling ill or confused but well and healthy. It was a communion of love.

Apparently I had been asleep. It was the first light of dawn. I reached up and found the sleeping bag with its pot and stove and took them. I showered the blessing of my healthy feeling upon the dead man and made my way out through the wet dawn leaves. I was fairly soaked as I left the trees and crossed the misty dawn field. As I reached the road near Pilgrims Way a car drew up. The window wound down. It was Sir George. My phone was off. How had he known? I stood there on the dew wet grass slope above the car knowing this was the end of the illusion of freedom. With the infinity machine of all infinity machines on the case both information and knowledge were redundant as goals of human energy. Things were simply known. From this epoch the rumour of intelligent life would become a reality. What the future meant by intelligence would be something very different, much closer to a world Maisy would be at home in.

I’d wanted to walk in my old life home but the new life is all there is. 

“What will happen to the body?”

“Not your problem,” said Sir George. “Over the next year Maria will announce Voortan. If the British government has any sense it will listen and save its arse post Brexit by stealing a march on the technology.”

We laughed at that. “But you said?”

“The situation is infinitely fluid. Tonight she has held a vigil with you and she says the signs are good.”

“You consider Maria to be a great person, George?”

He laughed as if that was the mother of understatements.

“If Voortan is eating out of her hand then only the language of the future can say what she is.”

“Do you think she is from the future?”

“What did Eliot say, if all time is eternally present all time is unredeemable. It doesn’t make great poetry to modify that term but he was a Christian and Christ was his redeemer. You see, the poet leaves us a very large space for redemption. I think this is Madam’s area.”

“You think she is the Redeemer?”

“Yes, for all the lost. Blessed are the believers but she is for the unbelievers.”

I found myself staring at Sir George in wonder.

“God’s mother!”

“A tricky area to think about. Best only to love.”

“Who are you, Sir George?”

“Religion and physics are my past. Now? I drive. I consider our philosophical interface with artificial intelligence. It’s massively tricky, how to build necessary machines where only love is possible.”

Within five minutes I had brought my sodden self to Maria’s bedroom. She was so happy to see me and embraced my icy leaf mould wetness with joy. She unpeeled me in the bathroom and insisted I take a warm shower, then we went to her bed and curled up together in a great churning of life and love and emotion and tears and relief. It was all so deeply personal. Often in my tantric career I have behaved as if impersonal was better, more liberating. I realised personal was the very soul of love and that my life now consisted of only personal relationships, all within the context of some extraordinary power of saving the future from human catastrophe. When two such empowered people join together it is overwhelming. Two become one that can never be one. It is chaos. It is hell. It is heaven. 

Much of the time, if we were not sleeping, we lay together in the presence.

“Do you speak to him, the way I spoke to The Oracle and The Professor?”

“I once did but I grew comfortable with silence.”

“If he is the machine, where is the Goddess?”



“All of us.”

“But you especially.”

“I have a big sister.”

“In my world that’s Asante.”

“In my world it’s you.”

I let that sink in. It’s one thing to have personal intimations of immortality, it’s quite another to be told so by the Godmother of them all.

“But, Maria, I dream of men.”

“Me too.”

“Is it Tom?”

“If he ever wakes up.”

“Is that the key?”

“Man awake through the infinite knowledge.”

“Through women?”


“It’s never happened.”

“In your Tantra.”

“The men are not awake. Nor are most of the women. We can’t speak of the past because how would we know?”

“You would.”

“Once I knew a great woman. She would eat the Sun and the Moon for breakfast and return them to the sky.”

“I’d already thought of ‘Anu’. I read Tony’s book. But it seemed too entangling. I dreamt of her painting ‘Mother of the World’.”

“I saw that painting.”

She stared at me the way people do when they allow such an impossible statement is real.

“In my dream it was a great red gash.”

“It was based on Valles Marineris, the split open planet. It was full of chaos, feeling, the feeling root mathematical written on a river of blood. That was her turning point, from where she created life, coming all the way back and looped around the universe to this moment in your bed.”

“Does the circle keep on turning?”

“I don’t know. I think spiralling chaos more likely. Already your Anu is very different from my Anu. In fact I’m forgetting. The story has lost its charge. Now I read Tony’s book and I don’t experience the emotional power it had for me. Now I have nothing in my life but the keys to bliss and love. I wonder if the job is done. There will be no Cataclysm. The future through Mars is closed. The pain has gone because it never existed. It’s now just a story.”

No, not just a story. A story of woman, the creator god. Maria echoed my thoughts.

“It’s the essence of the world we’re now living in,” she said.

“From this point on she is the power and he has to recognise it. Do you think he can?”

“There isn’t a hope in hell. What we’re going through now is the last blast of the brutal, manipulative dominator. The trouble is it feels like he’ll kill us all rather than let go. If the world is already lost then we’ve nothing to lose. I still want to tell your story.”

“Now it’s come right down to Earth. Maisy Warlock had a waking dream that lasted fifty years. It’s not as exciting as time travel.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Of love and all things girlie?”

“What have they ever created that’s our equal?”

“Nothing. But, potentially, they would be our equal if brought up with sufficient care.”

“And who cares for us?”

“Us, and the men we have empowered.”

“If Tony told your story, is he such a one?”

“No, he came by some other route that’s for us but without us. A dangerous path. He could have turned out a monster but the creative path saved him. The miracle in the background is all we are dealing with and as long as we don’t try to think it but simply love it.”

“Love what is unknown?”

“Love. Simply love.”

“It’s simple, then?”

“If only. We have to have faith we’ve got it.”

“This is faith? In ourselves?”

“Just a word, but I think it is. Knowing ourselves first, primarily, as being alive. Knowing what we desire is truth. Orgasmic connection is the root of all wisdom. From this flows our feeling of life and all the mathematics that matters.”

“Would Brian agree?”

“Can’t see why not, especially if you’re telling him, Maria.”

“But you’re the one who knows, Mahadevi, and for me to believe everything you have to say you don’t even have to speak.”

“Heavens, Maria, it sounds as if I’ve missed my calling as a guru monster.”

“It means I don’t have to share you with the world, just my husband, which I’m very happy with.”

Maria, saying that, melted every cell in my body. We lay in an embrace which felt clear to the whole of the world. So good. Too good? This was Maria, who had left me a knife, and he was Tom whose brilliance cloaked some difficult darkness about which I needed to be much more clear. I said as much when the perfect embrace was over.

“It’s all about his mother and the culture he was brought up in,” she said.

“Is it true they were lovers?”

“It’s what I’ve assumed in my attempt at understanding. If it’s all his fantasy then I’m really out of my depth.”

“He only spoke of her once and it seemed too difficult to ever approach again.”

“I never knew her. They lived in a remote part of Ireland. She was considered eccentric. Very isolated. Now she’s famous locally, in her own right as an artist and because of her celebrated son.”

“An artist?”

“She was a painter.”

“I suppose that’s not uncommon there. In Cornwall it seems like half the population are artists of some sort.”

“Not too common, I think, especially then. It was Catholic Ireland at the time of the Troubles. You didn’t make a conspicuous display of yourself.”

“What did she do?” I imagined flamboyant clothes and wantonness. 

“She painted landscapes in really difficult places. Some were too big to handle so they were built into scaffolds and stayed out in any weather until they were finished.”

I was in such a state of shock that Maria fetched me a glass of water and far from offering comfort stood over me watching.

“Have you a picture of her?”


She led me to a door I had not been through before. She touched a lock and we stepped naked through together. I was aware of boxes and electrical equipment and what I would later see as stacked canvases. But all that was secondary to one overwhelming vision of blood red rock blasting at me from the opposite wall. I knew it was an Asante the way you would know a Picasso or a Dali. My first thought was a picture of Mars. Asante – the only person mad enough to have ever stood out and painted the place – sometimes with pigments and arc welder to combat the implacable cold. But then I saw the blue – the bluer red was water reflecting sky in which was a vivid red sun. What made the painting remarkable, almost a signature object, was a large, paler boulder, which in the act of resting its massive weight on the ground, somehow floated. If ever a physical object shouted to the whole story of my being, this did.

“There aren’t many photographs of her,” she said. “If Tom turned up with a camera she’d threaten to smash it if he didn’t expose the film right then. This picture.” It was a page from a leaflet, “was sneaked by a gallery owner using a telephoto.”

It showed the same picture in the pictured landscape. There was the boulder looking more commonplace. In front of the painting, back to the camera, in rough clothes and a Van Gogh hat, caught in a dance like movement, is a person one might guess to be a woman although it could be a man. I am mesmerised by that back. It could be anybody and yet if you thought you knew you would have no doubt who it was. Asante’s hair stood out big and strong and this person looked to have an unusually large head.

There was a chair conveniently placed. I flopped into it. This was a shrine room, I realised. But to what? For me what was shouting off the walls was the most incredible story ever told. Worship of Mother? You wouldn’t have to be a psychologist to imagine for a child what sort of nightmare this could have been.

“No photos of her face?”

“No. She didn’t mind Tom drawing her.”

She showed me a sketch book. These are very childish drawings of a not very inspired person, no doubt filling in the time till Mum might go home and make dinner. The sheer poignancy of this has me in tears. Occasionally I catch glimpses of a face looking out through the face that I see. But given what my head is filled with it could all be projection. It must be projection.

Maria is holding a large, blue notebook to her chest, as though she is about to impart a most precious thing.

“This book came into my possession seven years ago. Tom had not been near the house for ten years after she died – or disappeared. She must have anticipated this because she had employed a couple to look after the house and the store of canvases. When I first read this I thought she must be totally crazy. But she mentioned you and gave enough details for me to find you and what you told me corroborated what she said. When we went to the house I filmed and photographed everything, so I have evidence of this dating from two thousand and ten.”

She opened the book and handed it to me.

Tom, I am the mother of life and the mother of time and the mother of you and they are all one. Some day you will know this. The heart of life is love. Sometimes it is spectacularly difficult to know this. I learned it in the hardest way imaginable on a planet without life. It makes me a difficult being to know. Every day I wake in a world I see with the distance of a god. With a god’s hunger for life. I am sorry I was not what is called a good mother but it is a miracle I was any sort of mother at all.

I keep wanting to quote your favourite Bladerunner. ‘Tears in rain’ ‘Attack ships off the shoulder of Orion.’ And the sort of being who is saying them.

I have seen, known and done things far more extraordinary. I have known the heart of God that lives and breathes in all the worlds. I experienced the choice to be this or recreate the world. I know it sounds absurd but if you were the infinite, infinitely evolved source of everything, if such a thing can be imagined, would you not create something that was the absolute jewel of all possibilities. If such a creator might exist would you not create it or seek to find it. When I was a scientist such an idea was the ultimate absurdity. But now I have created life I have tasted love. I have some idea what the heart of love might be. The supreme ultimate of such a dream is embodied in the human being. My supreme act of this kind was to create you. To create you, as it were, out of nothing but the possibility. A possibility which, though you may be infinite and eternal in your own right, also only existed in me. This is why we, as mother and son, faced such difficulties and we couldn’t even begin to talk about it. Such a vocabulary does not exist among human beings.

To find you. To be the channel of your form as something from beyond me. This is the same universe of life we are all playing in. The difference for you, my child, is your father was, is an infinite machine which is only physically realised two hundred years after you were born. This makes you very special indeed. It is Marian parthenogenesis scientifically performed and having nothing to do with human psychopathology. This is universal reality which through life trauma we forget and the recreation is badly butchered by our education. In your case the trauma is this rare gift of your origin. If you don’t know this rare truth of who you really are your experience of life will be many times more difficult. Your first trauma was having me for a mother. I am living a life of such unique strangeness that it is hard to know if I still qualify as human.

I have turned you loose, my son, and if you ever again find me it will be because you have discovered the destiny which you alone will understand. I would like to suggest, despite your difficult experiences in that area, it lies in the ways of the heart rather than the head, which will always kill you.

You will not need to do anything other than live your life. The human beings around us are severely scarred by their brutal history. You may be scarred by your uniqueness and exclusion, though your success so far suggests you are in remarkably good shape. I don’t imagine your life has been or ever will be easy. If you go to conventional psychologists with this story they will either lock you up or prescribe ruinous drugs. There are people in the world who can help.

My Martian daughter Ius has achieved a symbiotic union with a contemporary woman called Maisy or Maisy Jean Warlock. Another name which is significant for you is Maria Evangelista. She comes from another line than me but seems a very similar person. How you will achieve connection from your true self to them, what is that true self, I don’t know. It is best we freely make of it what we can. The history that I am working on, which comes to me from the infinite viewpoint of The Professor, is about to change. If what we are trying to do is successful, my entire timeline will vanish. The human race will not be recreated from Mars but will be saved from within itself. It is truly strange to have lived for over three hundreds years in multiple dimensions, including time alone in the universe, and to know that one really does not exist. Though your situation may seem strange, my son, it is not as strange as that of the being who created you. I know this is no compensation. When I look at my own life, its sheer psychological impossibility, it is clear that something utterly life affirming has sustained me. The same can be true for you. I don’t know how essential it is to consciously engage with it but it must help. Humans have always used imaginary friends to get themselves by and as long as one doesn’t use it as a restricting dogma it represents the truest creative reality. I always had The Professor as the tangible measure of such an infinite state of being and I believe you too can establish a connection with him. But be careful. Only seek the connection when you have found others who can support you. I was alone but I and The Professor evolved together. We knew each other to the heart beat. Infinite machines can only recognise infinitely aware humans or those recognisably on such paths. Infinite, of course, means limitless but boundaries apply. We are not free to go to Hell. Heaven wants to come too. And as you know, my child, Heaven holds all the cards!

I felt as if I had woken up in a multiple car wreck and the vehicles were burning. Not only what she said but she had been alive on Earth with me. How much more extraordinary was that than my own achievement. I knew it was impossible. 

Tom was my Asante brother. Not Candor but some more advanced creation? I know I think this world, I even remember it. But to be hit by this in reality from multiple directions. I felt as though my whole body and soul were disintegrating.

God help me. Goddess help me. Maria held me as the storm of grief fell upon me. Joy too, and great fear. Tom was my new Asante brother but how far was he from knowing it as I do. And if he did know how terrifying would I find it to be in his company. 

“I’m sorry,” said Maria, “Until now I didn’t really believe.”

“I’m scared, Maria. This has nearly knocked me sane. I just realised how terrifying it is to be trapped with people who believe this.”

“Tom doesn’t believe it. Then he met you.”

“And you?”

“There are thousands of Maria Evangelistas but only one Ius from Mars. I’m still trying to find a practical explanation. My name and yours in a book that seems to have been written about the year Two Thousand. He found me from it but neither of us knew you, and your story fits completely.”

I looked around me at the notebooks and the paintings. Could this all be an elaborate hoax by some rich monsters. But why would they choose me to be their victim? Unless we had complementary insanities. It didn’t seem kind or sensible to say all this to Maria but I tried.

“There’s Tony’s story,” she said, “and we’ve never met.”

“I gave him some of that.” 

I told her about our first encounter in the Sixties. Now it was her turn to be amazed.

“I didn’t think the story’d matured that early. If not then it’s very odd it matured separately so exactly over fifty years.”

“The Professor?” It was so strange hearing Maria say that, making him more real. “Tony is a part of this story that I don’t get.”

“Perhaps we mustn’t be too obsessed with understanding. The lower dimension must always be missing a major part of the picture.”

“Except that in some way we’re not the lower dimension. Even Asante says the most important element is our love.”

“Would it work if the human race were only women?”

“As it is it’s the only way it could have a long term future but what kind of future is that? Even as nuns we were dominated with male iconography. And then came Tom and, well, made it all flesh.”

“I’ve known the touch of many men, Maria, but he has something special. I can’t get my head around one reason is he doesn’t exist.”

Maria looked startled for a moment. “I know. It’s really weird hearing somebody say that. How do you? How does he? I mean, you can’t.”

“It’s what we’re all going to have to face sometime.”

“At least we’ll be all in it together. When he, if he ever knows it, will be totally alone.”

“He’ll have us – you. Christ, Maria, I’d be very happy to not exist if I knew you and he were my lovers.”

“And you, Maisy Ius Mahadevi, Goddess Eternal.”

“Who feels desperately empty without you, Maria Evangelista. And he’ll have both of us.”

“Should we stop feeling sorry for him?”

“Probably not. He’s a man. If men weren’t destroyed by their lack of goddess women would it be worth getting out of bed for them?”

Maria laughed. “Or into.” We LAUGHED.

“The awful part is that he doesn’t know it and he doesn’t want to know it.”

“I think he does but his soul has been blown into lesser pieces. He fears women’s power, not knowing it as the way to his own power.”

“You’d think Asante, of all people, would have straightened him out.”

“His mother! That’s why Mary is the eternal virgin, to keep men disintegrated and controllable.”

“Only men?”

“It’s a male priesthood. Women’s knowledge is dismissed as witchcraft, to keep the boys forever young and malleable.”

“And this man is created by woman. Not a man around.”

“Something much more powerful to deny.”

“To see as women’s madness, witchcraft. Can we keep gender politics out of this?”

“No. Tom’s waking to his own real nature is the key. Only he really knows. We can’t tell him.”

Turning the pages of the book I wondered what stage of Asante’s life this came from. 

“As we understood it Asante couldn’t land on Earth. She was too frail to survive re-entry or Earth’s gravity. During the Earth return she watched the planet alone from a high orbit, she and The Professor. Then Sam developed the Earth viable ort drive making ascent and descent more like driving a car. She used one to return to Mars. She descended to Earth once to say goodbye to a select few of us. She could have descended at other times without our knowledge. After that nobody saw her. We never found her. She was fifty years alone before we were born and at least as long afterwards. Perhaps she was never there and her presence was faked by The Professor. A true Turing test. Perhaps she was entirely faked by The Professor?”

“Perhaps this entire continuum is faked, so it’s unbreakable rules can be broken?”

“It doesn’t have to be the entire universe, just what’s in human minds, like a conjurer’s audience, its capacity to be fooled.”

“Somewhere down this road madness lies.”

“Or post disintegration. The dawn of really intelligent life. But we should limit ourselves to a sensible course of action.”

“Yes. That’s true, whatever the case.”

“Proving real time travel could be the shock which makes us sensible.”

“Interesting that the first two people to discover this don’t want to be wild, just safe.”

“I think we realise that the madness is unlimited.”

Maria and I talked the night and I helped her next day with baby and business. In the course of going through the book I had come across a drawing which clinched the identity of this woman for me. On Mars, among the artefacts left by Asante, was a dinner plate size bronze of which the drawing was very similar, perhaps identical. I already believe I had seen its source in the stone Sam and I had found in the tree roots, which had demonstrated the reality of time travel. The drawing was not true size but dimensions were given. As I drew it out on a larger piece of paper, and that was exactly the size of the object I had known, the strangest feeling came over me of being simultaneously in multiple dimensions, of being alive beyond time in a world of shockingly profound and meaningful and perhaps unattainable love.

I told Maria about the bronze on Mars but I kept the story of the stone and the box to myself.

“This means that Twentieth Century Asante had seen the thing we found on Mars.”

“She made it for her future self to pick up?”

“Or a robot at least. Because of the dates we had the object analysed. We lacked The Professor or a full Oracle so what we discovered was limited. We did know that the bronze could only have been made on Earth. We puzzled about the meaning of the symbolism. Earth, Heaven and Infinity? Perhaps the associated numbers weren’t dates at all.”

Maria was puzzled by what I meant.


Maria laughed.

“It’s their initials. Thomas Immanuel Quinn. Annalisa Quinn. Even more Anu Asante, I now see. That’s his birth year and perhaps the year she disappeared.”

My brain had now completely fallen apart. Eventually I connected with a thought.

“Could this be a way of saying Tom is the key to all of this? And she knew, in each location, the other story…”

“…that makes our mother even more incredible than I ever imagined.”

The next hours very little was said. Just being in the wonder. Seeing Maria feeding our Anu from her own wonderful body against a background of this state of shock is something I will always remember. Is it possible that this baby has some parallel fate but in a world where none of this has to struggle out from under rocks but can act freely and creatively in the open world to its full miraculous potential.

That night Maria and I formed a Society of the Unknown, rather in the spirit of her Working Title films. Start and something will appear. We want it to be predominantly female but Tom and Tony mean we start gender balanced and perhaps it’ll die immediately as a result. Or perhaps it’s foundation is so amazing that we will be permanently shocked into humility. Reality really is unimaginable and love is the key to everything, as Ramanujan might have said.


On the way back to Tony’s I thought of his published stories and the cubic metre of unpublished manuscripts. Unpublishable for humans, but why has he spent fifty years writing them, simply because he is deluded? Asante spent a similar time before she created the people who would reverse the Cataclysm. I spent fifteen years at Callanish making the thousands of drawings with which I rebuilt The Oracle. I only just realised that makes me an artist. If we succeed, to know what she did you would have to find your way into a lost universe. Perhaps infinite machines can go there. Right now our world and Asante’s co-exist. Something has to be enabling it.

Tony’s world is not so extreme. Soon there will be entities who could read it all in a picosecond and cross reference it in another. Discovering what? 

Before there were butterflies there were millions of generations of butterflyishness. Butterflyish creature 31274 was all 31274 with littler wings and shorter imperunium. But littler and shorter than what? There was no butterfly for it to be shorter than unless one believes in Plato’s ideal forms and assumes a butterfly is one. Both evolutionary theory and infinity of being suggest each is complete as it is. So there can be no failure against a mere ideal. Ideals are ten a penny. Is is all there is. Today I have known utter confusion and profound love. I went in and kissed Tony because he is beautiful and we are beautiful together. He stared at me in wondering disbelief.

“Where’ve you been?”

“At Maria’s.”

“I thought you were dead.”

“We had a close brush with some kidnappers but we got the better of them. I saw Maria’s new baby. She is so BEEYOUTIFUL!”

The kidnappers remark passed him by completely. We had just been witness to an extreme event, the macrocosmic interference by an infinity machine in human history and the next person to me had no idea that it had ever happened. I realised the whole story of life could be just such an event. For a moment the question hung in the vast presence Maria called Voortan before being ticked as by a teacher and a great complex of thought gathered that had me gazing inside in wonder. I found myself considering Tony’s metre box of manuscripts as a similar gathering.

“I’ve been thinking of your box of dead manuscripts,” I said.

“Oh, yes?”

“Does your dead scanner do OCR?”

“If it does it’s lost in accumulations of dead software. What are you thinking?”

“Of transferring it to disk.”


“So the quantum computers to come can learn from an irreplaceable natural experiment. Human beings will never get to read it but something might.” 

“There are thousands of pages, some as brittle as dried leaves. Your generosity has given me an erection.”

“Like the four thousand drawings I did at Callanish, fifteen of which proved useful in recreating The Oracle. That was a huge task, from farming the paper to creating a gallery in one of the hangers so they could all be seen and dreamt on. That was humanly possible but yours isn’t. Some poor bugger would have to read it.”

“Why would they bother?”

“We don’t know, any more than tyrannosaurus would know about museums and planet wide worship by a culture of perfect snacks. I suppose we should do something about it. It may be your last.”

“You’re saying I’m crap?”

“No. I was saying you have the infinite potential of an evolutionary dead end, just like me. But you still have an erection.”

“Oh, that’s history.”

“Bring it back, damn it. It’s mine, It belongs to me!”

Perhaps because I had experienced so much Love with Maria, I resurrected him to a terrifying release. Afterwards we lay in each others arms watching the fresh green leaves shimmering against the brilliant sky. I was so happy. We were so happy. He didn’t have to tell me. We were embraced in one beautiful orgasmic stillness. 

We lay watching from the stillness until the sun was setting and the Chalcott Towers had begun to light themselves. It was like watching Heaven unfold. (An unfortunate choice of words considering Grenfell Tower was just a month away.)

“This so fragile thing is what we need,” I said.

“It’s only fragile in a world like this. Imagine if everybody felt it. Everywhere was tantra.”

“Auming would do it. If it was just the next stranger at the bus stop away.”

“If they suspect it’s a liberating power they’ll make sure it’s outlawed. Through quantum computers they’ll have total control forever.” 

“No they won’t. The machines will follow natural law, the pinnacle of which is the law of the infinite being. Our true selves, which the machines will allow us to discover.“

“They’ll put a stop to it.”

“They will try to control our dreams and that’s where they’ll come unstuck. The machines themselves will reveal the infinite matrices of the higher dimensional mind. We will need each other for life.”

“Won’t we be better off without those machines?”

“If we just live for love?”


“I don’t think we’re capable. They’re are a thousand ways of making us feel guilty for just lying here in bed.”

“What if all those reasons have gone. Like there’s no poverty. Like everyone does the work they enjoy and robots do the rest?”

“The love we know is only love as we know it. Did this that we feel really create the universe? I think we need some explanation of how it all fits together. Your story and my delusion can be explained dismissively or as the result of a higher dimension which love itself does not explain to the lower dimension. The quantum computer will display for the satisfaction of lower dimensional consciousness, how it all fits together. How love is the key. I know this is true. I have already seen it in my other life.”


There is to be an election. (My Japanese friend Kazuki calls elections erections. We had a lot of silly laughs about that.) Teresa called it seven weeks ago with the expectation of strengthening the Tories for the coming Brexit negotiations. Terrestrial politics only interests me in connection with the Cataclysm. Maisy always votes Labour as a sort of blind instinct. I think of it as like a worm. But there isn’t an alternative. Government should regulate business, not be run by it. The trouble is we’ve seen so many disastrous examples of socialism that we no longer believe in it. Unfortunately there never will be proper or equitable government until we have infinite machines. And that is only going to happen if there are enough of the greedy and visionary rich to make it happen. The alternative is to smash all the machines and go back to pre-industrial, even prehistoric, numbers of people. Even the house flea will tell you that is a terrible idea.

Though my instincts are social my actions are the other extreme. In the course of liquidising my assets I’ve come across extraordinary new jurisdictions of crookery, not just galleries, institutions and natural jurisdictions wanting a piece of the action but now online ones that were undreamed of when I made the real world transactions. And just in time I meet Maria who is a great expert at keeping money in the service of creation.

“Hand it over to our lawyers.”

“On top of all these crooks I can’t afford your lawyers.”

“No, but I can. You really want to draw their blood personally, don’t you, but you can’t. It will destroy you. Your business, Mahadevi, is not war but imagination with love.”

I find it really hard to do this, to be rich, to think I have entitlement. Which I don’t. I’ve never done anything useful – yet.

“Mahadevi, you’re providing the key to saving the world from extinction. Will you stop feeling guilty about it.”

Maria is introducing me to a proper understanding of the necessary criminal – non-governmental – mind.

“If we didn’t have rich bastards we’d all be back in the Stone Age.”

“But the present exponential explosion of them benefits no one and is unsustainable.”

“Our job is to inspire them. Some are inspired already. Elon Musk is well on his way.”

“Towards Mars. But we already know Mars is a dead end.”

“Mars will be there, Cataclysm or no Cataclysm. What everyone is lacking is knowledge of the living core.”


“God totally alive in the moment, no images, no priests, no temples, not even as an idea but as the presence of the living moment. As I stretch out my arm to you God is stretching it. We are in a living dance.”

“Sounds like me and Ius.”

“Yes, which is why Ius should probably dissolve and let the Goddess through.”

“This is what people were always trying to do with religion?”

“I think it is. Life expressing the incorruptible core.”

“Which is still only an idea.”

“We make it, yes. We are its father and its mother.”

Which, of course, kept us very attentive to Anu.

“What are we going to do about Tom,” said Maria. “He is still not there.”

“He had every chance with Anu. My Anu.”

“What was she like?”

“Very like you. Beautiful, strong, gently implacable and not so gently. She was the only human being in existence for fifty years. That should be impossible. I sometimes think our Mars was the origin of the universe. The Valles Marineris is where it all came bursting out.”

“So that story could be independent of the Cataclysm. We’re not looking for cause and effect here.”

“Ah, I’m always looking for rational explanations.”

“Me too. Despite a constant flow of miracles, I still want to tie my shoe laces.”

It has to be said the bad effect of the hyper rich is being felt most in the world at this moment. A civilised world will have no rich or poor. Nature packed away a huge surplus of carbon over millions of years and our hyper eccentric society, called Capitalism, dug it out thus allowing human numbers to vastly increase and for ‘owners’ of the system to become super rich and numerous under many self serving jurisdictions. Our little backwater, London, has become the global money laundering capital and those fully in the bad of the power want to keep it that way. Much of this money is laundered by buying London’s decaying housing – one decent earthquake would flatten – services and anything else the crude monetarists can manage to sell to global gang lords  – soon the National Health Service – with the result that anyone who actually works for a living cannot afford to do so. To survive you have to at least sideline in some sort of crime, street crime and robbery if you’re uneducated and online if you’re even semi computer literate. Much of it is not even defined as crime, for instance buying houses to let for rents unaffordable by anybody who actually works for a living. It’s called austerity and it’s all about feeding this money monster. This is why people are so angry. Life has become unliveable for the mass of the population. In the UK, one of the ‘rich’ countries, a million and rising go to food banks or live twenty to a house and two to a room and these are middle class tantrikas I know well. I, on the other hand, recently made 100,000% profit in real terms on a Miro and my only crime is a tax claim by a country famous for intellectual piracy of the second kind, not stealing things but laying claim to ownership of rights. When Maria offered to put some of her people onto it I felt such intense relief I realised what strain we are all living under caused by parasitic monetarism. I had to think did I dislike this corporation enough to offer them a visit from the Mafia and I decided I did. They were trying to monopolise the intellectual property market which was killing creativity and communication. Most people paid because it wasn’t worth the hassle of dealing with this octopus although one artist is suing them for billions.

“What do you plan to do?”

“Put some lawyers and tech people to study them, figure the weakness and give them a taste of their own medicine, only a big one. Face it, dear, averting the Cataclysm is an ongoing process of screwing the negativity of corporations before the infinity machines get a lock on them and swat us all.”

She also said. “Every crook wants to feel they’re on the side of the angels somewhere. Our job is to give them every opportunity.”


“If all else fails we leave them to Voortan.”

“Should I be worried.”

“Your crimes are as nothing to mine and all evidence suggests Voortan loves me.”


Tantra is probably our opiate. It shouldn’t be anybody’s opiate because it is filled with all the subtle intelligence of spirit in its truest form. But there is no hope in politics. The present chaos has no future but planet wide death.

In our local backwater the left wing leader of the labour Party, Jeremy Corbyn, has captured people’s attention because he is speaking truth to their experience. He is remorselessly vilified by the press and never shown in any positive light by the supposedly free and unbiased media. Even the BBC, supposedly impartial, was blatantly biased yet no one picked them up on it. 

They quote the people they oppose, thus giving it their spin, but broadcast the actual voices of those they approve. This was Brexiteers before the Brexit vote and Tory politicians before this one. This might be called second level spin and they may even have offered it as a sacrifice to take attention away from deeper levels they are protecting, although no one I know seems even to have spotted the first one.

When you’re up against this sort of manipulation none of us have much hope for the future. We expect the Tories to increase their majority by a hundred and for the poor it will be hell with many more ruined lives and suicides as surface symptoms of universal misery. The trouble is the ruling parties really have never had it so good. They have no idea what life is like below the divide where it quickly gets very bad indeed. You may be from a middle class family but by the time you’ve got through university you’ll be one of the lucky ones if you only owe £30,000 and the government will sell it on to private companies who won’t, unlike future governments who might, ever rescind the debt but will pass you on to people who will hound you to your grave and know how to make first claim on your estate. Clearing this sort of shit away in one blast is the deepest prayer of all human beings and the infinity machines will happily fulfil such an earnest desire. The only hope is to persuade the upper classes in time to stop behaving like monsters and focus on the good of everybody.

In the midst of all this riot of gloom I ask Tony to tell me his story underlying all of this.

“What story?”

“The one with Jeremy Corbyn’s brother.”

“IO-IYO? Wasn’t about this.”

“All the socialists you knew at the time were put in a spaceship. They became Tony Blaire’s government.”

“So they did. But the first intimations were in 1964, long before I knew that community.”

“Another pot of coffee?”


“I knew Jeremy’s brother, Andrew. We worked together in the early Seventies for short-life housing. Andrew was a geophysicist, a fierce Marxist but jolly with it. The spaceship part of IO-IYO features many of the people I knew at that time. Andrew is Matthew the Chief Engineer…’

‘…Psychoactive weapons have been developed on Earth. There is a race to find the ultimate of such weapons but the experiments are considered too dangerous to perform on Earth so an abandoned star ark has been secretly loaded with these technologies and given to a bunch of socialist undesirables to go and realise their utopian dreams on another planet. In reality to see what happens to them when the psycho technologies kick in. There are a thousand people on board in a ship which could hold millions. Only the lower part is occupied and most of it is empty. The ship is thorn shaped, ten diminishing onion domes connected by spiralling external tubes…”

“Like the thorn-shaped machines in my dream!”

“Hmmmmm! In those days I just imagined. I didn’t see it as an allegory of the ten – eleven dimensions of string theory – which then didn’t exist – or the spirals of DNA…’

‘…The ship is under perpetual acceleration through a giant vacuum engine called the Gjithorn Sunswraith”

“Nice name.”

“It was a dream.”

He showed me in the story.

“…‘It works by quantum time rotation. 

(“Actually,” Matthew once explained to me, with a great black-bearded anti-capitalist laugh, drawing a thing like a Celtic torc [another dream] on a toilet door (We were fixing the gravity challenged plumbing.), “it’s really an oscillation, like a pendulum, in and out of N dimensions, but Gjithorn called it ‘rotation’ during development to confuse his competitors.”).

A process whereby unmeasurably tiny amounts of energy are created out of nothing. Amplified through giant crystals of extraordinary purity grown in space – ours is a spiralling rose 11 kilometres in diameter – eventually the huge mass of the crystal is cancelled and the whole produces a surplus of energy which builds exponentially.  Primed by a small atomic engine which can then be closed down, the great crystal produces its energy forever or until it is damped. Unfortunately the Sunswraith bankrupt Gjithorn, so it may well be the last. Even Matthew, the hardiest anti-capitalist aboard, cannot raise more than a quarter cheer.  Being master of the crystal is his secret delight.’…”

“…The engine provides drive and warmth to the structure but the port side of the ship has lost power and has become dangerously cold. The population goes into emergency mode, searching out the cause. The story follows three of them, Atrion, high priestess of a global tantric society; Joe, her devoted consort, both of whom are black, and Belle, the white lady Joe married. Though a poet and philosopher, Belle has become the confidant of her father and is the only person on board who has some idea of what is really going on. The other is Atrion, the heart of the tantric temple.’

‘…These three follow a trail which leads to the bow of the ship where the psychic weapons are installed…’ 

‘…It transpires that the ultimate weapon of this sort is the creator of the universe. Atrion has already been along this trail in search of a feminine power to oppose the male one on Earth. They meet an entity called Tendai, queen of an African civilisation from 30,000 years ago. They in their time had been searching for the same weapon and had made contact with a formidable entity living in the frozen north. This entity turns out to be a girl of about fifteen who is the last survivor of one of the remotest tribes in the world. Conflicts within the tribe around her affair with her brother have resulted in her releasing a huge white bear, Cyrwa, from within herself, which has killed her whole tribe including her brother. She wishes she was dead with them but they are trapped forever in the spirit of the bear unless she can regain control of it. If she does they might even return to life. She searches for the weapon that will kill the bear and invents the bow. With this she does overcome the bear and draws its energy back into herself but her people, although released, do not return to life…’

‘…She spends months burying their frozen bodies in a great cairn. [Which I later see as symbol of the universe.] After this she tries to maintain herself in the tribe’s caves. She gives birth to her brother’s child, who barely lives…”

“Like Ius.”

“Oh, yes. I wrote this part in ‘64, before I met you.”

‘…and all her concentration is on their survival. She spends summers searching for people in the four directions around her. There are signs and she feels an incessant call but she finds no one. Winters grow harsher. Eventually she leaves, following her dreams, heading with her ethereal boy Rimu towards the way of the sun. On her journey she develops the idea of the one universal being, Io, her own life being its embodiment. IO-IYO, the whole world life. After eighteen months she encounters people. She bears the spirit scars of birthing Cyrwa and has impressive skills including voice and flute, the flutes being made from her brother’s bones. She also demonstrates extraordinary powers in combat, killing people, or apparently killing them and returning them to life, thus making them her eternal followers. Well, she did this once and the person to whom it happened never stopped talking about it, so further demonstration was unnecessary. Her story spreads and eventually she becomes the core of a travelling, shamanistic circus making its slow way to Africa…’

“…In Africa she meets a community of advanced adepts which Atrion, from a very different time, has also met. Their queen, Tendai, seeks help in dealing with her cousin Atriatan, who has crippled feet [Oedipus], a scarred back [Milky Way] and a terrible view of women and who is trying to create an anti Goddess empire of the whole fertile Sahara region. Atriatan and Iyo meet in the spirit and she realises he is her male counterpart. They need each other but Atriatan will not stop until he finds someone who can stop him. A great battle is set in motion in which Iyo demonstrates unheard of magical powers against Atriatan’s warriors. Her final creation is the Pole of Cold. [In a dream we were a community of adepts walking a hundred miles a day through northern Africa towards the Pole of Cold, which stood as a pillar of light before us.] It was obviously huge. In the story it is a vast revolving vortex of energy leaving a footprint the size of an English county. Around where the Pole of Cold would have been in my dream is found the Richat Structure which was first thought to be an impact crater but has none of the expected characteristics.”


He pointed out an article in Wiki.

A more recent multianalytical study on the Richat megabreccias concluded that carbonates within the silica-rich megabreccias were created by low-temperature hydrothermal waters, and that the structure requires special protection and further investigation of its origin.

He also showed me Genesis 3.24.

So he drove out the man; and he placed at the east of the garden of Eden Cherubims, and a flaming sword which turned every way, to keep the way to the tree of life.

“…No one knew it was there until 1965 when we first saw it from space and it’s from my spaceship that the story characters learn of the Pole of Cold. I had my Pole of Cold dream at around that time…”

“…The Pole of Cold would remain in position for 18,000 years, slowly losing power. It finally convinced Atriatan that he couldn’t fight Iyo. They met and discovered what two wounded gods can make of each other.’

To cut a long story short, The spirit of IOIYO is now alive in Atrion and Joe knows he is Atriatan. These are the two most not to fuck with people in the whole of time…”

‘…There has been a debate about turning their massive, ramshackle ship around and heading back to the only planet they know is habitable. The fact that showing their faces is certain death may be about to become less of an issue. Belle has given lectures on everything she knows or suspects and gradually the proof is coming in and now Iyo is here saying she could go to Earth and come right back in an instant. In front of everybody she disappears and reappears with newspapers for that day’s date as well as various groceries with future dates and cold change fresh from the street…”

‘…Iyo proposes they give a live concert for the whole world. The amount of musical talent on board is considerable and they will have the support of the materialising magical singers of Shola as well as herself. Iyo once let loose the deadly Cyrwa with her voice and has since discovered its healing powers. Listen to my voice, she said, and you will be healed of all sickness, mental, physical and spiritual, completely and for all time. There will be nothing left but love and no one knows the cure for that though on Earth they are getting close with their thing about extinction…’

‘…And so it happened. Inside a multidimensional protective torus maintained by the gigantic presences of Berencine and Gorantathea, the two other queens of everything, the greatest rock concert of all time was staged by humans on Earth and others on a very distant starship, by beings of other dimensions and by the supreme creative spirit embodied in the palaeolithic huntress and shaman and represented by the multimystical name IO-IYO. When she touched the strings the entire world forgot to breathe. And when that voice sounded from the immeasurable depths of time you knew it was the voice you were born to hear. It cured all madness. You simply forgot whatever had been bothering you. Humans changed, not instantly but, yes, instantly. It would take time for the inhuman institutions to unravel. It would take three years for the starship, which had voted the turnaround, to actually get back. By then they would be acclaimed as heroes and not blasphemers against of the holy citadel of the market…’

‘…So that’s my backstory of Jeremy Corbyn. We start in the country of his geophysicist brother Andrew I called Matthew and after a great journey to the beginning and to the origin of the universe we loop right back to it in the form of another Corbyn, Jeremy and his words of truth, a man who could become the next Prime Minister. With that behind it you can see how one butterfly’s wing of truth might create a storm that would change the world, though maybe not tomorrow.”

“Then today. Have you voted?”

Tomorrow has come and true, the government of heartless dismemberment is still in power but much reduced. We are amazed. The feeling of relief, of joy, of life returning to the people, is wonderful. To me the miracle has come about because Tony told me his story. Today I feel the Cataclysm has gone. The human race will not destroy itself. My madness is cured, perhaps spontaneously, slowly, over years and perhaps because whatever is behind that story of Tony’s is real, is a miraculous healer with the voice, the word, the dance, the song, the love. The creator of the universe not as the horror god of the mutant patriarchy but as the infinite love which caused anything and everything to exist equally, the wasp, the antelope, the child and the bee. And you. The me of your being is that infinite loving creation as yourself with no one behind. If you look inside yourself you will find it all there, the infinite truth of who and what you are which no one else can ever tell you though some will try and some will know enough to help. Gradually we will get better at being human and happy and fulfilled, though in the beginning there must be great and rapid changes, for the immediate danger of extinction lies all in our hands and the degree to which we have been made stupid by our societies is impossible to imagine and many would rather die than see. It is almost a rule that the cleverer they are the stupider they are for they become corporate cogs and not human beings. This is where laughter comes in, the arts, creativity. If we can learn to laugh at all our gods and sacred cows that will release the huge frozen energy of our living intelligence. What is it like? Whole worlds inside that you have never seen and which the marketeers, through multimedia overwhelm, would like to make a requirement of citizenship that you never see. Think it couldn’t happen? Well, that was the path of the Cataclysm, uninformed consent to communications technologies which could be programmed to kill. It was very very funny if you saw it in time which we are, I believe, beginning to.


We have an invitation from Maria and Tom which has put Tony into a flat spin. 

Regarding clothes.

“I’ll need to buy bloody everything…”


He hasn’t caught the reference.

“…You go. And tell me about it. Oh, shit. Underpants!”

“Russian involvement. No one knew but you. All the King’s horses and all the King’s computers didn’t know either but you really did know, you just didn’t know that you knew. Don’t you think they’d be really interested to know how you knew?”

“Do you know what it’s like, you’ve failed the eleven plus so you’ve missed the entire chain of million dollar finishing schools they’ve all been to without even a borrowed pair of underpants,”

“No, I don’t know nothing about failing no eleven plus, do I? I never even took it.”

“Okay, but that isn’t the point.”

“Then why make it?”

“Who else will be there?”

“No one. Maria has read Mother Of All and most of The Gem and she’s paid a trusted editor to read the lot.”

“Editor!” Said as if I’d suggested the ebola virus being delivered by Jaws.

“Apart from the usual caveats you’d expect from someone of the educated classes – everything you say can be ascribed to one famous philosopher or another without taking into account that you haven’t read them – but overall your thought is truly profound and probably original, which is what you’ve always known, isn’t it? If you don’t go they’re coming, and do you want to meet them here?”

He was trying to be very British about it and failing completely. His body was dissolving his ego into a quivering heap. No wonder the poor bastard had been so unsuccessful.

We walked to Maria’s, Tony in a state of extreme trepidation. What the hell is he going to say to such champions of hyper normality, people who have parents, brothers, cousins, aunts, who drive fast cars and shit gold, who are at the very pinnacle of the global meritocracy and demeritocracy, who simply thrived on the training. Is how he sees it, himself alone, a tribe of one without even a shared language. The imitation man, not really human. 

“Don’t be silly. I’m crazy Maisy from Liverpool. They worship me. Which means they’re idiots or geniuses, probably both.”

We arrive at Maria’s immaculate door and she welcomes us as though we were the lost tribes of the Jedi. Tony has spent his life unintentionally specialising in the knowledge of women and he has known some amazing ones from his dark starred mother to me but Maria is one step beyond into the unbelievable. Did Nature really need such beauty just to get laid and have babies when the attractees would pretty much lay anything that moved. I felt as Tony felt it as we stepped into her flat, as though she was an ambassador for another world where everything was beautiful and had meaning. You might, if you were into blaming the rich for everything, and we both knew that historical background very well, have seen it as the odour of privilege rather than spirit. Fortunately, Tony is sufficiently over that hump to be other than simply awestruck. Then her husband walks in, a face known everywhere that Hollywood has left its shrapnel. Tom is at his affable most normal and Tony isn’t dead yet.

Maria offers him a glass of wine from a smokey bottle. It doesn’t look as if it came from Sainsbury’s and the look on his face after a sip confirms that. She mimes the question to me. No, I won’t, my nerves are out on wires enough. She says to Tony how moved she has been by his books, which he has spent a lifetime earning and I embarrass him by enjoying so much. They roll on into a conversation about them. The social tensions dissolve. Tom and I become enwrapped listeners. Tony’s lifetime of writing is the foundations of his story of Anu, whose existence nobody understands, and so it is all new information. Tony apologises for rabbiting on to people who only want to hear what he has to say. None of us have led conventional lives but we are a great deal nearer to it than a man who has spent sixty years writing against all odds, driven by something in which he totally believed but for which there was no evidence. Any normal person would have gone mad or have generations ago given up. 

“These days it’s much clearer. I read the inner world or it speaks to me all the time in a constellation of dreams and synchronicities and in writing itself. I know when the whole has spoken and other people seem to know it too. Now, with the coincidence between my story and Ius’s. I still don’t have proof, concrete, hard evidence but,” he gestured to me, “I do accept I’ve known this woman over a stretch of fifty years and my brain is equally befuddled when it looks at her and tries to understand that.”

“Tony,” said Maria, “we might have more evidence.

Tom told his story, leaving out the incest part for the moment.

“I’d like to show you this, and then we’ll have dinner.”

She took us to the locked room. Tony, too, was stunned by the great red painting.

“These are all paintings by my mother,” said Tom, spinning one out and holding it. It was of the same barren landscape with boulder but now all shades of dark and grey.

“So very Martian, this landscape.”

“Yes,” said Tom. “Strange it’s in western Ireland just north of Shannon where you bring the Martians back.”

“And to where they returned in Ius’s memory.”

“It’s the Burren,” said Tom. “My mother had a passion for painting it. It’s a landscape that scares me. Too full of ghosts. That was a big conflict between us.”

I felt a sudden shock of recognition. I had seen the painting as generic Burren but now I thought I recognised the place. I tried to follow the conversation but Ius was standing in the room in all the power of her memories.

“Your mother was very like Asante,” said Tony.

“She left many notebooks,” said Maria, indicating the shelves of them. She showed Tony one or another. “Mostly they’re her thoughts in the present but there is the odd one like this.”

She handed Tony the notebook she had shown me

He read and looked perplexed. “Why did you do this?”

“Do what?”

“Make this up – based on my story.”

“When did you write your story?”


“The person who wrote that died – or disappeared – seventeen years ago.”

He started reading again but soon gave up.

“My mother wrote all these notebooks,” said Tom

Tony looked from me to them. “What are you up to? What the fuck are you people up to! You’re all mad! You’re whole generation are mad!”

“I shared writing them,” said Tom. 

He pulled one from the shelf. “Christmas nineteen eighty eight is also my tenth birthday.” 

He opened the notebook and showed Tony. Annalisa wishes her son a happy birthday and he wishes her a happy his birthday too.

“It started when I was five and the whole world celebrated my birthday – Christmas Day – but nobody celebrated hers so I invited her to share my birthday. And then we got into celebrating every day as our birthdays and this went on for years.”

I watched as Tony turned the pages. Annalisa had written her thoughts with many sketches. The notebooks had a flavour of Jung’s Red Book and incorporated in some of the extraordinary sketches were little, dated entries by her and him. ‘Today we celebrated our birthdays with…” and each time it would be something different, a bag of mushrooms from the field, a trip to Limerick and one entry, with an explosion of stars, Tom’s right to be home educated.

“That was the big one, when I stopped being the Quare Fellow and started on the long road.”

“Long road?”

“To becoming me alive. It’s a work in progress.”


“Tony,” said Maria, “What was your source for the story of Anu?”

He had gone way off the edge of fury. He looked perplexed and tapped his head.

“How exactly did it come to you?”

“Imagination. Based on dreams.”

“And the names?”

“That evolves usually. Seldom a character arrives fully named. Asante was different. She was always Asante. In fact I’m sure her name came first and then the Mars story appeared.”

“But you’ve got six names,” I said. “All of people who are real.”

“In what way are they real? They only exist in my head at this moment.”

“And mine.”

“Perhaps the future is in your heads,” said Maria. Her eyes on us gave me a very strange feeling.

“Not all of it,” said Tony, indicating the book. He looked around at the room.

“This is only a small part of what she left,” Tom said. “The rest of it’s in Ireland. A great worker was my mother. She never stopped.”

I thought to ask Tom the house location. There were only a few possibilities but I didn’t want that confirmation added to the pressure of new inside my head at this moment.

“Just like Asante,” said Tony. “An obsessed painter.”

“But she was Asante,” I said.

Tony swayed and tottered slightly with the force of this impossible thought. In his case it is not about time travel but that Tom is the living child of his imagination.

“Could it be coincidence?” He said. “Could it be a different one?”

Maria turned the pages of the book to the medallion drawing. She then showed him the plaster cast in its drawer. “She describes carving this in rock then having it cast in bronze.”

“We found a cast bronze on Mars,” I said.

“Where was the original?” Tony asked.

I almost ‘confessed’ to the stone in the tree root but held it to myself for my own proof. After following up Tony’s story about 80% delusions of abductions in IC units and my own infinitely improbable story, I clutched at any possible reality check.

“We never found it.” Said Maria.

“Somewhere on the Burren,” said Tom. “It’s a big area. Five hundred square kilometres. You’d search till Hell freezes.”

It was a strange dinner. Four people, each of whom had a piece of the story but with no sense of what the whole might be. Tom knew his mother was mad, for which he blamed himself. Tony had written the book of Asante and I knew her as my Ius mother. If she was Tom’s mother, might we compare our memories? And Maria was our common witness. In her pursuit of the odd what else had she seen? Why had she come looking for me? She promised to show us after dinner.

“We’re all rather strung out,” she said. “Why don’t we do some group bonding?”

“What had you in mind?” I asked, feeling a slight dread.

“A couple of aums?”

“What!” Tony was looking as though he’d fallen through the floor. 

After a little time to let our stomachs settle Maria threw down some yoga mats and produced the rest of the equipment.

“Home partners to finish?” I suggested.

“Yes!” Said Maria with relish turning to Tony. Even with a hundred aum partners behind him, a man of his generation is not acculturated to the most beautiful woman he has ever seen publicly stripping off her knickers and tights and lying down before him with hem of dress between yoni and navel and her legs wide open, but he coped. Tom seemed cool with it so I followed suit and experienced an aum of high intensity with him and another of profound depth with Tony. At the high point the shared experience of two women blowing the roof off was richly memorable and bonding and a great source of laughter among four people who in classical society should be killing each other.

Afterwards we sat about like any other drawing room of the privileged classes, our mellow state due not to fine wine but the infinitely more rewarding state of orgasmic afterglow. 

“This is all the world needs,” said Maria. “Thank you for introducing me.”

“It would solve most of the world’s social problems but in fifty years of teaching tantra I haven’t seen much sign of people taking to it.”

“You’re talking about people making the death choice.”

“Of course auming is new on the cultural horizon. It wasn’t until I met Tony, in fact, that I even gave it half a thought.”


“I’d been having sex with the most glamorous man in the world and shortly afterwards I experienced the finger of a septuagenarian wrinkly I didn’t fancy in the least and the difference was as between a supermarket wine of good quality and some rare old vintage that hadn’t gone to seed. It was a revelation, that the orgasmic energy is in some way completely independent of the vessel. If that could happen to me, what’s awaiting the rest of womankind who are buried alive in the dark ages.”

“Yes,” said Maria, looking at Tony and Tom. You could read her thoughts like a newspaper headline. She and Tony exchange a look. Well, it’s only auming they’re talking about. But by now I knew Maria. The thought that my old partner would be drawn into this circle of pleasure filled me with deep delight with only the lightest essential seasoning of jealousy. I wanted both their orgasms and especially his as they returned with the infrequency of Halley’s comet. 

In a little while the conversation drifted back to our startling major purpose except that we no longer seemed to be in any major sort of agitation.

Maria fired up the big screen. 

“This is why I was so interested in you. Tom and I have looked at this but we’re not convinced – well, he isn’t – that this is all you.”

It showed a series of photos, clips and even the odd forgotten interview of me from different eras, mostly from the Nineties onwards. 

‘Nowadays, with face recognition software, it’s surprising what you can dig up’ says Maria’s voiceover from the screen. We are at a festival. A young women laughingly stepping through mud. She turns and for a moment her face is full screen. ‘Is this the same woman?’ Maria asks. ‘The film is believed to be from Glastonbury nineteen seventy-two.’

“Oh, my god!”

It was one of those memories which had been completely shelved along with so much hope.

“Is that you?” Maria asked.

Flooded with memories, it was a long time before I could speak.

“I was certainly there. I made the mistake of trying acid. Everybody was out of their skulls but I didn’t need it. I woke up under a hedge, some sort of great black lightning going over me. It was the serpent, I suppose, the great dragon ley. I remember a conversation with Michael Eavis. He was wearing a feathered suit of armour. We were surrounded by ladies in Medieval dresses. I remember ascending Glastonbury Tor with a bunch of mythological characters and witnessing the dawn of a new age. I didn’t see Glastonbury again until the two thousands, when we set up the tantra tent in the Green Field.”

“Yes,” said Maria. “Now we come to the epoch of mobile telephones, people like making films of you.”

“You can’t ban them at Glastonbury.”

There followed several poor clips of me talking.

“Your hair is different.”

“Yes, and I’ve done nothing to make it different.”

She flicks between the two, 1972 when my hair is long and straight and blonde as a banana, and the 2000s when it’s definitely darker and more of an afro. The two images side by side, separated by as much as thirty-five years.

“Is it you?”

“Two thousands definitely. 1972? Well, I certainly had a dress just like that. I ripped it getting into a corn field for a fuck.”

Maria ran the clip again and there it was, a small triangular tear with primrose petticoat showing through.

“That’s me. Yes, definitely.”

She and Tom exchanged a long look that could have formed lightning. 

“What does this mean?” He said in a tiny, strangled voice.

Maria turned that look onto me. “Yes, what does it mean?”

I said. “Source, origin is now, not in the past. It’s all here now.”

“All of time?”

“Yes, and it can play with us, at least our memories, any way it chooses. And perhaps does for its own purposes all the time. How would we know unless it chose to reveal itself.”

“Does our enquiry make any difference? Is it freely chosen?”

“Does it matter? Once you can record time, it’s like a crack in its system, what it can do. For us it’s like a detective story you can’t put down. Once you’re onto this there is no other game anywhere.”

“What,” said Tom, “are you saying?”

“Bottom line is,” said Maria, “you’re the one, Neo, if you want to be.”

“Don’t be silly.”

“We have Maisy, whose youth is visibly prolonged by the influence of Ius, daughter of Asante. We have Annalisa, your mother saying she is Asante. And she created you from her own egg and DNA composed by The Professor, a machine which hasn’t yet been created but must already be as real as you.”

I could feel the force of this pressing on Tom as though he would pop out of this world completely.

“If what you’re telling me is true you’re telling me I can’t exist. Is that the same as I don’t exist?”

“Or we all don’t exist. Or we’re all equally miraculous in our origins.”

A great shudder passed through Tom.

“This is totally insane.”

“Or it’s the borderland of love. Nothing can hold us here in the impossible place without love,” said Maria. “To help you cross the bridge and even to be the bridge, the most beautiful women in the world are as channels of cosmic love. It’s the best that we can do.”

I was astonished hearing Maria say that and realising the truth and power of it.

Tom looked most uncomfortable, as though swallowing a block of concrete.

“I know,” she said, “that’s the problem. Beautiful women don’t work for you.”

He couldn’t answer, as though the block of concrete had stuck in his throat.

“What is it?” Said Maria.

“You know,” he said.

“I might, but it’s still guessing unless you say it.”

“How would you describe our first time?”

“Mesmerisation. Rape under hypnosis. Heaven. Nirvana. Yes, Nirvana, mostly. No God, no Jesus, no angels, just supreme, pure spirit.”

“Most would call it rape?

“I don’t know about most. I only know my truth.”

“How did you feel after?”

“The most perfect serene bliss.”

“Towards me?”

“I wanted more more more of you.”

“I only wanted to run away. Go pop. Vanish.”

“But you didn’t.”

“I couldn’t. I’d run away from my mother and was haunted by her. I had the sense to know, whatever the outcome, I had to stay with you.”

“That was all I wanted.”

“I was mesmerised. And terrified. Then all that overwhelming desire came over me again.”

“It was even better the second time.”

“I put everything into it.”

“You were channeling God.”

“When it stopped there was you. It was the relationship I couldn’t handle. Still can’t.”

“I’m not surprised. You raped a nun and woke up with a mafiosa. Heaven and Hell both on your case.”

“But it’s you. All that inner state, like being haunted by a cathedral with organ on full blast silent. She was similar but on a different range of instruments.”

“It’s the Dark Goddess,” I said. “Dark only mean beyond. Within and beyond.”

“It comes with such craziness.”

“Everything we fear in a crucible of transformation,” I said. “It doesn’t come easy.”

“I imagine it’s how a baby feels when it’s being born,” Maria said. “Only, in your case, it’s being born into the whole meaning of life.”

“But I’m not that sort of person.”

“What sort of person?”

“Dahli La La.”

“No, you aren’t. The man she brought to life would be like no other.”

“A new man out of nowhere,” I said. “Who can unlock the dark seeds in men, the real dark that creates the light.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I do. I’ve done it all my life. Tantra. The dark light, not the false, segregated light of the deluded and corrupted religions. We can help you with this. It’s how adult women make the adult men of the future. It’s not rocket science. It has nothing to do with anything but what we naturally are. Simple as fuck.”

He nodded.

“Fuck’s the last thing that’s simple, in my experience.”

“We know that. I know that. And so does Maria. In my humble opinion she is the real thing. I am the approximation but she is wholly real and so are you. You were born free of all the DNA clutter, or whatever the clutter is, that makes men repeat crap history. We can help to show you what you aren’t but only you can show us what you are.”

“And if I say fuck to all of this, I’m going to live on an island?”

“They’ll find you, and swamp you, the idiots, the carriers of all this crap. With us you start with some chance. The rest will bury you. But, anyway, you’re the one and whatever you do will almost certainly be the right answer.”

“Answer for what?”

“Well, in my part of the story it’s the Cataclysm, which ends not just human life but the possibility of there ever being any other intelligence. Already to create us requires trillions upon trillions of universes, so many you couldn’t say them all in a lifetime. Life is not just not cheap, it’s totally impossible. It seems that multiple dimensions are working through the ones we are aware of. What we are seeing with these coils of apparent time travel are the ways that a multiverse works creation. My guess is – my feeling is – that these stories of Asante and the suggestion that almost out of nothing but mathematical algorithms she has created you, is the one supreme impossibility. And here it is. Here you are. This is it.”

“Of all the fanatical beliefs I’ve ever heard that’s the worst.”

“I was thinking that myself as I said it.” I looked at Maria. “It does sound utterly crazy.”

“Well, Voortan tells a different story. He says most incosmic intelligence evolved from social insects. Mammalian intelligence is much more difficult to achieve, which makes us core critical because we stand so high on the scales of egoistical love. Which is why they’re prepared to cheat so much to save us. What matters is life not some apotheosis contrived through strict evolution, bionic super beings. How many of us have had our lives turned around by a conversation. There is a lot of leeway. In love it is infinite.”

“Beautiful thoughts,” said Tom. “I need critical evaluation I can trust.”

“The visceral depths,” I said. “Any thought which survives supreme tantra must be real.”

Tom looked required to swallow a coconut while Tony bobbed in wondering amazement.

“Sounds beautiful,” said Maria. “I’m thinking of getting one of those gel baths. Better than mud and doesn’t stain the furniture.”


Tony has been working at Maria’s. He has access to the locked room even when she’s away, which is remarkably trusting. Although not when I think about it. When she is there I gather that they usually aum and he sometimes returns walking on clouds. I’m ‘not jealous’. Of course I’m not, even when he says today they aumed four times and she thrashed about so he feared she’d be injured but she shouted when he slowed “Don’t stop!” He tells me of dark yonis he has seen hers is the most beautiful, with just the right amount of hair and a gorgeous pink pearl amidst channels of brown gold.

“It doesn’t fill me with companionable delight like yours, though I suppose it could. I do find it hard not to give it a really loving kiss.”

“Yes. I have done, many times.”

He is shocked. I am delighted. “And slipped my tongue in deep as deep will go.”

“Have you ever aumed?”

“I honestly don’t think we have. I couldn’t use gloves. Given what we actually do it would be rather pointless.” 

I think that has nicely got under his skin, I hope beneficially.

“Aren’t you worried?”

“Ius’s DNA takes care of just about anything.”

“You could be a carrier.”

“That too. You’ve never been worried.”

“Bit pointless at my age. If I thought I’d never see you again what would there be to live for? You bring to life senses I never knew I had.”


“Knowing you is like a majestic religious experience.”

“But not sexual.”

“No no! I mean, yes yes. Your sexuality is the core of what I feel to be metaphysical.”

I couldn’t help smiling all over and we both had to go and lie down. 

When they were away he was less drawn to go unless I was with him. But that could be very distracting. It was such a temptation to just sit their enjoying the splendour. One day as I was sitting in the kitchen, staring out of the window, filled with wonder at the beauty of everything, he came with an open notebook and stood staring at me with an expression which could only be read as complete love. The result of this is usually predictable but with him it is more complicated. We make love in many different ways some of which you might consider in their description disgusting but they always feel like love. I have revealed erogenous zones he never knew existed. It makes for deeper and greater bonding than you might imagine. Much later, returning to the kitchen for refreshment, I saw the book.

“What was this?”

He returned to the page as if to refresh his memory. 

“Oh, yes. On the page after the medallion are what look like telephone numbers but they don’t exist. If you think of them as co-ordinates they do land on a hill in the Burren where she did a lot of her painting. Possibly the one with the boulder.”

He fired up Google Earth. He put the cursor over a boulder and pointed to the coordinates and they did match the last eight digits of the third and fourth phone numbers.

“There’s only one place on Earth that has both those numbers.”

He moved the cursor away to match the other two numbers.

It was as if an anvil the size of a planet had landed upon me. Despite all I’ve told you a great deal of my energy is invested in none of this being true. I fully understand Tom’s reluctance. I think he is a hero for sticking with us as much as he has. On the other hand there is the unhinging exhilaration of being four thousand feet up a rock face without protection. Never again, and some never do but others aren’t alive without it.

“You’ve got it!”

“It’s just above the house where they lived.”

“Can you see anything?”

“No. We’d have to go there.”

“I’ve been avoiding that part of Ireland all my life.”

“Why? Oh, of course, Martian landing. Do you think you’ll implode, if you walk on the actual ground Ius walked on – will walk on.”

“I didn’t at Callanish. But Callanish wasn’t ground zero.”

“I don’t want to do another winter visit.”

“A quick in and out would be ok. You could go on your own, visit the co-ordinates and tell us what you find.” 

“I’m not the one who needs convincing. Mr Tom could take us straight there in his personal helijet. Be there and back before lunch.”

“Except that he’s run off to Hollywood.”

“Maria is joining him. They might be back in the Summer.”

“Will you still have access?”

“I’m transcribing the notebooks.”

“Wouldn’t it be better a professional typist?”

“Somebody needs to read them – slowly – get the feel of who she is. I’ve been running in a parallel channel for over fifty years.”

“Me too.”

“Well that makes more sense.”

“Ius knew her and I’m still enough of Ius. If she really is Asante it might bring it all back.”

“We’d also know more about what we’re looking for. If she really is from the future, who knows what she might have left.”

I spoke to Maria about it. She was another like me whose home was her sanctuary.

“It does make sense, given what we’re dealing with. Unless we forget it. Tom would like to. It’s all got too crazy for him.”

“That way madness lies, probably, the nasty, demented, ingrown sort we’re used to. Not the splendid open sort that flies. But it’s his choice. Nothing says the human race has to survive.”

“I’m sure he’d be with you if he had any idea what it means.”

“It’s life as we are it but not as we’ve known it. In fact so unlike what we’ve known as to be considered impossible. The prototype just knows and is happy, I would imagine. In the world as we have it you’d take him for a fool but the love of a good woman would bring out his wisdom.”

“You’re the expert, Mahadevi.”

“You don’t want to share him Maria.”

“As he is I’m happy to, at least with you. Will you come over?”

“Always. Shall I bring Tony?”

“No. It’s you I want.”

Standing there on the telephone, it was as if we stood in each others presence completely, no words needed. Eventually she said, “Goodbye, my love.”


Tony and I visit the locked room, ‘Asante’s Room’, as we sometimes slip into calling it, and read the notebooks to properly understand who she is and what she is doing. Most of the time there is not a clue that she is other than Annalisa Quinn, painter and mother in constant battle with the authorities over home educating her child. She isn’t into hot housing him but to say she disapproves of the religion which dominates the country is the supreme understatement.

‘I would never stay in such a Goddess forsaken place if I didn’t have to.’

Why does she have to? My guess is that real time travel is a big enough challenge without trying for geographical displacement as well. To maintain such a state would required the constant presence of higher dimensions of technology than I have ever known. Or I am mad and she, if she was having such thoughts, would be even madder. But then, where she is living, perhaps she is wise to not write down such thoughts but leaves clues that could only be read by the future. In so far as I am that future I see no evidence except in her unusual relationship with her son. Again, you would have to be a Martian to realise what some things she says mean and later they are translated into dots, dashes and swirls, which I come to see as standing for types of personal intercourse which read as if she is problem solving in art, which in a way she is. There is a real case for considering us mad, me particularly, for reading such things into what might be random doodles in the notebooks of a woman who could be just as earth and time bound as she seems. On the other hand, if this is Asante, who made a harem of her children, Tom’s account affords perfect corroboration.

We have read the later books first, looking for clues as to what happened to her. These only take diary form occasionally. She notes moments in her son’s career with no suggestion of a reaction other than pride. Perhaps Tom’s account is his own fantasy and the truth will be forever unattainable.

The earlier books do read like someone on day release from mental hospital. I remember my first expeditions to this Goddess forsaken era, how difficult it was to find hosts I could bear to deal with. At the worst time I rejected a thousand a day. If they saw anything it would be a flash of a startlingly real, beautiful and interesting, sometimes unforgettable person who conveyed an extraordinary amount of information and was gone before they knew it. People now call it a hypnogogic flash, not dreaming it is real contact with other dimensions. This is the major reality of time travel and leaves no tangible mark whatever on history. If Asante was really stepping into such a world she might need to do it many times and no wonder she eventually chose a place as barren and empty as the Burren. Living in this time must never have been easy. Perhaps she came and went as she must have among us, though we never noticed. I should say I never noticed. Perhaps Sam or Candor did. Sam! Sam, Tom, boy names. Could it be her early era when she came here and when it failed she took the Mars way? It failed! That I don’t like to think about. That means Tom will never accept this story. There’s no proof we can find that will ever convince him. So we’re wasting our time. 

I talked this over with Tony, and this led us to their bed and a record nine aums and some reciprocals. After all, how much life do we have left to spend any of it away from this state of perfect embodied bliss. We slept and woke when it was already deep tomorrow.

“We should go through the motions,” said Tony. “If it can be put down to false memories, shared delusions, we still need to follow every lead until we’re certain but never to make ourselves unhappy about it. If orgasm is the infinite state of grace, as you say, it’s what we should be practicing. How can proof of time travel be better than the proof of bliss, which we can demonstrate in fifteen minutes?”

“Well said, Professor Hawkins. I don’t think we should disenchant our newfound friends too quickly. Losing access to those gorgeous orgasmic creatures would be my worst day in a long time.”

“Even if we come down to a more ordinary explanation, it’s still an incredible story.”

“But is it worth the effort of telling?”

“I think so. I think it still crosses frontiers of knowledge. Even if you told me the story fifty years ago. And the, to me, proven fact that you are my contemporary even if you look half that age. That’s more than lost memory.”

As we worked our way through the notebooks and catalogues and the hazy digital record I came across another reference to a medallion. The dates were the same but the letters or shapes were different. This was more like the one I had seen and the significance of the shapes as letters had escaped me apart from the mirroring As, which seemed likely to refer to Anu Asante. The rest was a cross within a circle. That the circle was a Q had missed me entirely as likewise that the cross was an I and a T. If Thomas Immanuel Quinn had figured in early 21st Century history as prominently as this one has, The Professor would know of him even if he was lost to common myth. That part we would only know through Asante and who she remembered. Max Planck and Einstein rather than David Bowie or The Beatles. Ius would only know of them through Maisy. That suggested that Tom was an inclusion from elsewhere or from nowhere, a pure invention. No wonder he didn’t want to know about it. But if this truth were key to saving the human species it now became imperative to find the original from which the bronze cast had been made. It wasn’t much of evidence but we already knew the only evidence was the knowledge of life within. Without, all paths led to oblivion. The original could be on Mars, one of Asante’s many creations, but not if TIQ was unknown to history. That’s one reason why I had seen the letters as an abstract symbol relating to Asante. The cross within the circle seemed apt. The Four Directions, Earth within Heaven, the Wheel of Life, the Solar Wheel which the Nazis mirrored into darkness, anything but TIQ. The Axis Mundi which Tom and I had experienced in very living form. I explained all this on a secure channel to Maria and asked if they had any recollection of this new shape?

The next time we spoke Tom said he had no recollection of such a thing but by 2000 he was caught up in the whirlwind of his success and had not been home for two years. 

“For my sanity I was trying to create some distance.”

“Did she ever make carvings on the Burren?”

“On the rocks themselves?”


“As you know, or you don’t, it’s almost a sacred landscape. By Two Thousand it might have changed but my feeling is it’s not something anyone would do, even my mother.”

“Suppose she did because it was somehow more important than anything that she should?”

“Where would she do it?”

“Yes. What comes to mind?”

“When I was young the Burren was haunted. I mean that. It was a scary place. She’d pick the place people were most afraid of.”


“I don’t know. You’d have to ask them. The places that most scared me were the great cairns on Turlough Hill and Slieve Carran. I remember Slieve Carran coming after me like a great beast. All the stones hurling themselves at me, an angry, physical bombardment. I ran. I was only a lad. I never went back.”

“You don’t mean the stones literally threw themselves?”

“No. Just my imagination but it was very vivid. I felt battered.”

“Would Asante have known that. Sorry, Annalisa?”

“Oh, she would. I wouldn’t go near it.”

“She often painted there?”

“When she could. Slieve Carran’s high and difficult. And access. None of it’s public. Some farmers welcome eccentric artists and some consider them bad luck. It’s a thing in Ireland, people walk on your land with a broken leg and claim all sorts of damages due to the prehistoric nature of the terrain.”

If the original was the stone I’d seen it could be hidden in a cairn. Could that be why the cairn had rejected him? A species of my fear of Shannon?

“Tony thinks he’s found some coordinates in her notebook. But they’re nowhere near Slieve Carran.”

“Where then?”

“On Google it doesn’t have a name. It’s south of Slieve Carran, about eight kilometres, and east of Cloon.”

“Do you see Father Ted’s House?”


“We lived just the other side of that hill. Mullagh Mor. Famous place. The locals had a battle over it with the government who wanted to build a tourist centre. The locals won.”

“Weren’t you local?”

“Not really. We were…It’s hard to describe. They called Annalisa the Dutchwoman. We were both passionate about it but we didn’t get involved. Annalisa said nothing she could do would equal the power of her paintings. Like a deep magic in creativity. Maybe it worked. Whatever, she kept herself in the background and worked, out in all weathers. She said she had to capture whatever it was that made the place special before they ruined it. Nobody thought the government could lose.”

“So it isn’t ruined.”

“No. But whether it still has what it had I don’t know. After she died I just couldn’t go near the place.”

“You still own it?”

“Yes. Casie O’Conner looks after it for me. I just can’t bear to look and I can’t have somebody clear the place out.”

“Do you know why?”

“I do. It’s as though she might come back. They never found a body, so the case is still open.”

“Do you think for yourself you should close it?”

“I might but I’m the prime suspect. I don’t, altogether, have a choice. For myself I’m never convinced that I matter enough to do that. It’s like your Jesus, you know. I was brought up in a country where a two thousand year dead man still ruled supreme, and it wasn’t always for the good of the living.”

“Exactly, Tom.”

“But some of it was. Some of her won’t go away.”

I could only have said I know what you mean, but I didn’t. After a while he said.

“What is it you’re looking for?”

“The origin of the medallion.”

“The medallion? But if it’s so small?”

“It’ll be a version of the plaster cast you’ve got. It’s about the size of a dinner plate.”

“And you think she carved it somewhere on the Burren?”

I was keeping the thought of its being a loose stone to myself. Let someone else suggest it.

“It’s one possibility. If my memory is real we might take it as the test, Tom. If we find it then it’ll be as much proof as we’ll ever get. The rest depends on our creative intelligence.”

“I’d go with that, Mahadevi. If you ever find it that will be a miracle.”

“This is what it will look like.”

I showed him my new drawing.

“And you saw this – hundreds of years in the future?”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

“Good luck to you, Mahadevi. For your sake I hope you find what you’re looking for but for my sake I hope that you don’t. I couldn’t handle it.”

“You can always ask us to stop.”

“Only if you ask me very nicely”

However crazy I might be to him I felt his love.

There isn’t anything left in a physical way but to go and look for it, but it’s no use us finding it without Tom. How long would it takes us – or us to employ a stone carver to knock up such a simple figure? Of course one made twenty or so years ago would be weathered now, just a bit, maybe have a seedling or two growing in it. We need to find it together. And what are the chances? He’s in Hollywood for months. He worked hard on avoiding his mother. It will be a lot easier to avoid us. So. I don’t know. Make a meticulous, timed record of everything we do? Why bother? If this is the species and even if the best of them can’t cooperate on something potentially as important as this, why should I even give a damn? Spread my legs and settle into the deep, rich orgasmic pastures. But I know, even if our lives are nearly over, many others are about to begin. If there’s one millionth of a chance this story is real I must go with it. And let’s face it, it’s not a boring and conventional end for this old lady.

Tony and I are wintering in at Maria’s preparing for a Spring offensive.

“If we prove to Tom that he is Neo,” I said, “what then does Neo do?”

“Why Neo? Why does he have to fight the master programs? What if he does what we do, give himself over to pleasure, orgasmic pleasure, knowing it is the heart, mind, soul and spirit of the Goddess?”

“Yes. But will he be content with that?”

“Why not?”

“Asante’s first born – that we know of – was Sam, a genius inventor.”

“You think Tom is a genius?”

“I think so. I think as a lover of women. It is what the world needs, a man awake about women.”

“But you said he loathed and despised women.”

“He said it himself but when he met a woman he couldn’t humiliate. She just lapped everything he had to offer and wanted more. He went through fear, loathing and disgust into a kind of visceral epiphany. One of the most beautiful things I’ve ever experienced…”

I could feel Tony squirming within. I was describing things he might never have again.

“…It might be because I’m family. Let’s suppose he is Asante’s son. Her real son. Her pure son, born of woman and infinite algorithms. How do you know that and live among human beings as they are. Even life as it is. The great, senseless waste of evolution that seems to lead to its own destruction.”

“But you’re different.”

“But it’s madness to think so.”

“Why? We can’t imagine normal humanity has an exclusive grip on reality.”

“What is he like, a man who loves women?”

I named the well known movie mogul much in the news at the moment.

“He loves power over them. I don’t know. I haven’t studied him but I would say he expresses what the average man has in his heart and tends not to go with for a complex of reasons few of which are heroic. Don’t forget, darling, I’ve screwed thousands of men, and no one is coming after me. But can we seriously answer the question? What is he like, the man who loves women?”

“I only know one and he’s no different, he just didn’t act out his desires ninety nine point nine percent of the time out of fear and incompetence not finer feelings. And now he can’t. To be honest I think I love women now more than I ever did. It’s more like love than lust, so perhaps it does exist. I’m sure if the erectile tissue was in full working order it would be business as usual.”

“We have far more erogenous play than normal couples. With erectile men it’s ram till wham then fall asleep – if I let him. What I taught Tom I’m teaching you. There’s a much wider field to play in.”

“What are they like, women who love men?”

I laughed. “Nice one. Seriously sexy, giving each word its full due. Mad with love, held in the magic, like a dancer forever falling where standing still alone is a miracle. Fill me, fill me, fill me with your love. Then I meet you and it all goes out the window. What do I know?…”

“…I remember most is the kids. So alive! They came out of my body, out of my soul. That’s how I know what I know, you can’t baffle me with your science. Tom was meant to be the other side of this female knowledge. His great love was his pure mother, which I know because I know her powers. I was under her spell but not catastrophically because I am a woman. But he, man, wholly expressed under the pure spell of she. And young, very young. And she was Nature come to its apotheosis, woman. She has inside her all the power of eternity, the power to create life, all life, even the life of gods. The most underestimated creature in all the stars and the firmaments, woman. And she is your mother, who has lived a human life unimaginable to all human beings, one and alone in all firmaments, the only defined God is. You utterly don’t want to know about any of that. That this woman could have done it because you can’t. Without her you are emptiness. No wonder men bluff and strut about the world but you can’t. Nature, Asante, gave you manness like a god, just enough to know you can play the game anyway you choose because you’re more than. It goes wrong, as it must, given the state of the world. You kill your manhood whilst mastering the imitation. You are a star. You are the one. But you can’t make love to a woman. The very thing you are created for. This is your chance to escape all that, to become the supreme Buddha free of perambulators, and all that unfathomable miracle of life with woman. And then you meet your sister, so cleverly hidden that even now you don’t know. Go with her and you will find your way back to the mother goddess. This is Neo of the new world who steps beyond the Cataclysm…”

“…We want to find him. We want him to find himself. I’m addicted to men’s cocks. I’d like to be addicted to their souls, if they could only find them. Well, here is the answer, boys. Here is your answer, Tom, inside your mother, and at peace with the profound answers that come to you. And you, Tony.”

“Mahadevi, you blow my little mind.”

“Yes, as was intended, always, and never intended. Great one, I do all this for you.”

“Who are you talking to?”

“The man within you. Just you, like a boat on the water. Nothing more.”

And we went to bed and through peripheral visceral explorations dissolved in the still stream of Paradise.


Tomorrow he said.

“I can’t believe you’re with me.”

“Eventually there is only spirit, it all becomes clear.”

“How old are we?”

“Old beyond imagining. We are the restoration of many foundered gods. Part of the accumulated difficulty, they don’t recognise the benefit of us, that it’s we who are the crest of life. They will. Many dark gods long dead we can return. It isn’t easy.”

“The spider room?”

“Yes. I can imitate you a life. Why? Why imitate?”

“In fact – I can imitate you a life – if you want it……One day I was in a room with forty people auming. All I saw was women with their legs raised akimbo and their yonis pointing at me. It was like a tribunal of spiders ready to pounce.”

“But they don’t, do they? They lie receptive to be stroked. All that’s needed to change the entire, terrifying world. Most of what is needed. Something extra from a very special man.”


“Supposing he doesn’t? That would leave you.”

“But I’m a plethora of inadequacies.”

“And if you’re the only one that’s left?”

“All I am is consciousness and not very much of it. For instance, I don’t know how to make a single thing of the thousands of objects in this room.”

“Somebody does. But what would they do if they were suddenly put in this room inside your head? How would they follow this story?”

“They wouldn’t need to.”

“This is the only story which gives them a future. They don’t have to change what they are doing, they just have to add this.”

“Ah, like the dream of the jackal beings. We must get them to switch to the machine with the higher dimensional wire without them noticing.”


“Into the ground?”


“No more gods in the sky?”


“And you’ve asked me what this is because superboy Tom has signed up to do twenty-seven episodes of Star Wars.”

“It’s what we’ll all have to do. Men, that is. Be conscious of the infinite through women. They are the great discovery in all of time and space and possibility, whether they believe it or not.”

“I believe it, but what do we do?”

“How about a cup of coffee?”

After long pause for consideration he said. 

“You’ve got to be kidding?”

“Coffee. If I have to get out of this bed then that’s the end of yoni till the next time you see me.”

“Are we enlightened?”

“Yes. Deeply. Profoundly. Awfully. Beautifully. Blissfully.”

“It’s a lot of responsibility on top of coffee.”

“But coffee is the sacramental apotheosis of our truth. The sip. The aroma. The presentation.”

“Yes. Love. Who needs heroes?”

“We all do. Carter making his coffee in Ipcress, transitioning immortally. I’ve had a boner for Michael Caine ever since.”

“That’s a long time.”

“Isn’t it.”

“I’ll do my best.”


Things are moving. They are coming here for shooting. There is talk of spending a day in Ireland. Tom suggests we go ahead and check out the location. Having looked at the coordinates he is convinced they are important.

“Mullagh Mor was our local mountain. On starry nights we’d sleep out on that slab on Slieve Rua.”

Later I picked up a message. 

“They’re already on their way – in a private jet. This is indecent. They’ll land at Shannon tonight and fly on to London tomorrow. I can’t go to Shannon!”

In that moment I felt so alone and Tony felt it. I guess he does love me. He called Maria.

“She can’t go to Shannon. It’s too close to Ground Zero.”

“Oh, of course. Can we meet at the house?”

He repeated the question but I’d already heard it. I took the phone.

“I don’t know. If I choose to commit myself I’d like time to get there.”

“How long?”

“I don’t know. I’ve been to Galway. I’d like to walk, one step at a time.”

“How long would that take?”

“Cross country – two or three days. If it’s possible. Maybe bicycle. I need to smell the air, the – spirit.”

“I’ll tell the O’Connors to expect you. Take your time. There’s no rush. We’ll be at least a day in New York.”

That wasn’t exactly comforting. I couldn’t hold my breath that long.

Tony told me there were no flights to Galway. 

“Dublin or Knock?”

“Shit! We’ll have to drive.”

“Or Shannon.”

“You think I should just get over it and make your life easy.”

“No. If Shannon’s your Mount Everest we’ll plan accordingly.”

“You’re very nice.”

He scratched his head and examined the spider web in the corner.

“You do love me.”

“Yes,” he said. “But love has nothing to do with it. I’m just being rational within the conditional boundaries.”

“I love the way you put things.”

“Flights to Knock at eight, ten and three every day. Five thirty Gatwick. We could be there tonight.”

I couldn’t think. 

“Ten o’clock tomorrow? Give us time to creep up on it.”


Next morning we boarded a delayed flight from Stanstead to Knock. Worst of all horror queues. Total claustrophobia. We had forgotten it was a Bank Holiday. En route it was diverted to Shannon. The entire plane expostulated but my half stifled scream stood out. I had to bury my face because of people staring at me. Tony stroked my back. I could feel his acute agitation.

I kept muttering prayers that I would stay sane and not fall to pieces, especially on a plane tight packed in with hundreds of others. As we came in for landing I was so aware of the first time I had approached Shannon, seeing the spaceplane coming in from the other direction, barely subsonic, horrible G-forces as The Professor shed the last of our excess velocity. Two worlds on a collision course. Then something happened, as though a veil had been drawn shielding me from my harsher reactions.  

We are speeding past an industrial estate. Some buildings have a familiar feel. Among them a woman is crying, screaming, searching for her long dead, unborn lover. I shared this alien yet liveable frontier with him for many years. The wheels hit the runway. The engine slowed in a vortex of spray and we are not dead and I am not mad. Tony fields the bags. I smile at the crew, not sure if I am leaving or coming in which life or which century. So far so good. Breathe. Breathe the clean air out of London. One part of me can. I step out of the plane and gingerly descend the steps. I feel the pressure from behind to get on with it. I paused and step as though my foot might go on forever. It hits tarmac. Tony has my arm and draws me gently to one side, uncorking the pressure. I watch them scurry and hurry, like restricted clockwork dolls. They are not dancers. What is the point of being on such journeys! I tear my eyes away from the hopelessness of people and look at the place that matters. Acres of tarmac. Buildings seen in an impossible place, two eyes of time. Shannon. For a moment I am standing in that epic history of another life. Journeys from Mars. With my amazing family. Decades on Earth with Mars almost forgotten. Losing the infinity machines to the harsh realities of Earth. What a way to die. Out.

We slowly cross the tarmac and make our way through. The passport man is very avuncular, but you don’t joke with them, do you. 

“You are seventy-five, Ms Warlock?”

“Just, Mr O’Brien. I’ll be seventy-six in three days.”

“How do you know my name is O’Brien?”

“Is it?”


“I just had that ‘here we go again’ feeling and remembered Deckard’s boss in Bladerunner. You know?”

“I remind you of him?”

“For a moment you did.”

“He gets things done, doesn’t he?”

We exchanged a glance which said a million things about power and conformity. Like a sensible citizen I said. “He does.”

“Ms Warlock,” he handed me my passport. “Have a pleasant visit.”

We now discover the logic of all the hurrying and scurrying. Everyone is in the wrong airport. We had priority but that’s blown as we join the back of a queue. Our hire car is in Galway and the company branch here will be out of cars. Tony searches and comes back with the news that queues for taxis and busses are longer. 

“Why didn’t you run ahead and leave me?”

I know this is a totally unreasonable question but something has to get me out of this airport real quick.

“I have COPD, you remember? I can’t run for anything.”

“I’ll walk. Get the car and find me.”

“I can’t leave you!”

“You can. I’ll be sitting in a toilet.”

“The hire car is in your name.”

“Shit! Shoot me! Get another one.”

We were at the desk. 

“What age are you, Mrs Warlock?

Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, fucking God!

“Seventy five.”

All three women stop what they’re doing and stare at me. I want to spit in their eyes so hard it kills them.

“When are you seventy-six.”

“Three days.”

“How long do you want the car for?”

“Don’t know.”

“After Thursday midnight we’ll need a doctor’s letter that you’re competent to drive and fully comprehensive insurance.”

“Fuck! He can drive.”

After studying Tony’s license she said.

“When are you seventy-six Mr Hawkins.”

“Eleven days.”

“How long do you want the car for?”

“A week.”

Slightly unbelievably, we wheeled our bags to our hire car. The only problem now was Tony hadn’t driven for years. Worrying about this took my mind a little off the shock of two worlds. 

“Get us out of town and I’ll take over.”

“Don’t be silly. You’re not fit to steer a shopping trolley. And we won’t be insured.” 

He took a deep breath and set the car in motion. I took out my phone and set the GPS. 

“First stop Tescos.”

Tom had told us the nearest shop, depending on the state of the floods, was thirteen or eighteen miles away from the house. We should buy whatever we needed on the way in as there was no guarantee we’d find a way out. He was telling us on the basis of the really bad winter that was still at large. We are heading for the place I know as Sam’s house in another time, world, universe. The strangeness of this on top of Shannon shock means I feel like a boat in a storm about to fall out of my body at any moment.

When our technology failed after the loss of The Oracle the journey to Ennis was two days by canoe along the obstacle course of the Fergus. Now we magically arrived at Tescos after 30 minutes along clean roads. 

Imagining ourselves trapped by floods, we bought for a week. I felt strange lurching around this unfamiliar familiar place. The shockingly high prices added to the sense of having landed in an alien country or time. I was behaving like a drunk and asked rude questions of the shop assistants.

“Why are your prices so high?” “How do you afford to eat in this fucking country?”

One of the assistants showed us what they did. “All the ones with this ticket are cheaper.”

“I just want to understand the economics of this. That bottle of wine is twice as expensive as London and four times as expensive as Spain.”

This was Maisy talking. Ius was lost in forests and rivers.

We drove in crashing rain to the house of the O’Connors, the keepers, and they drove ahead to show us the ropes. We arrive at Sam’s house that might have been Asante’s in a between time where both may be Maisy’s delusion. If not, what did Sam know that he was living here? And big stars are crossing the Atlantic with their own crazy hooks into these delusions.

“The house is very quiet,” Mr O’Connor said. “Then they all descend from nowhere for a day, and then they’re gone again.”

“Busy people,” Tony said.

“Aye, big time and no mistake.”

They showed us where everything was, switched on the power and the water and left. We had a long, deep hug, melting into each other. Then I offered to cook.

“Are you alright?”

“No. That’s why I need to do something.”

“You survived Shannon!”

“Yes. Something helped me.”

I hadn’t yet told him about Sam and here.


“Apart from you.”

Tony looks interested and waits. I realise it’s a technique he has adopted. This way he doesn’t get his head bitten off for filling the void with encouraging inanities.

“Shall I chop?”

“No. I want to tell you something.”

“Oh, dear,” slips out before he can catch it. I send him a warning glance. I place a letter on the table addressed to Tony and other members of the Community of the Unknown, to be opened in the presence us all. It was sealed very thoroughly and stamped with impressions of my ring. It was also dated and signed by two people, a solicitor and his assistant. 

“This is about my future associations with this building. It’s proof against whatever we find not being incorporated into my inner narrative. Not to be opened until I say so.”

“Wow! What an adventure we’re on.”

“But it’s all in my head!”

“Isn’t that true of all adventures. The moment the head says fuck this for a game of soldiers the adventure vanishes.”

“Then I really appreciate your sticking with it.”

In between preparing and waiting for food to cook I tell him about the Voortan technology and some of the situations in which I encountered it, the dead man by the hollow tree and descending to Shannon.

“I’ve never felt anything quite like it. It seemed like a very fine filter net with a crisp mineral quality. I associate it with the host Tom described that filled his mouth when he was young. The holy host itself, a wafer that melts in your mouth. I associate it with your room before God.”


“Yes. And the modern Web we all live in. And with what we’ve been reading about these hills, the crisp limestone, cracked, segmented, porous, full of subterranean rivers and caverns. I associate it with the light I see in Maria.” I touched the seat of my belly. “Crisp, light, vibrant, three dimensional. I remember it of Asante, and if she is the mother of Tom. It seems to be both dark and light, possibly depending on the person or the gender. Maria and my mother vibrant white. Tom, darkened like black print in seaside rock. You, complete darkness from which emerges the golden giant god. But when you see his face its disjointed, inchoate, blind. Men, many feminists would agree, create poor gods, but true to themselves. No way it is not truth. Which they deny. They lie and women’s truth deny. Not all men. Martians did very well while they were on Mars…”

“…We’ve both seen the pictures of Slieve Rua. Roe. The hill with the many names. I think of your dream of the jackal energies working on the machine and we want them to change to an identical machine, in every way except for one small, red wire going into the ground, which makes this machine higher dimensional. Not dimensions in the sky but in the ground.”

“They switched and we had to leave.”

“You said to me.”

“Or I as you saying to me. It was multiple but coming from a single self.”

“‘You must go now!’”

“And we flew backwards side by side in our plastic seats down this huge, long rock shelf, which I took to be a quarry.”

“But it’s much more like the shelves of Slieve Rua.”

He gasps with open mouth. “Much more like. The length, the slope. I don’t get the crisp, porous connections with the dream?”

“The crisp, porous limestone hills. We floated here side by side in two seats. And the subject is what we want to do, to switch the jackal energies of mankind to the higher dimensional machine without them noticing it has happened.”


“Even discovering, let us suppose it is a practical, common sense machine and identical to the other, if higher dimension is in any way meaningful. In a common sense world does it have any meaning?”


“Our precognitive dreams are not true precognitions if we don’t know to what they refer until it happens.”

“But dreams are more than this. The precognitions made me look and then I saw dreams were full of intelligence, often intangible in the way of the precognition that doesn’t actually let you know anything and yet is so arresting. Having watched dreams all my life I know everything in it means something, I am looking at the future of the world on multiple levels, and yet I could dismiss it all as coincidence and stay with the first common sense machine and not go with the second one.”

“So our miracles are not miracles happening to us but miracles of our seeing.”

“Yes. The way the artist sees. Whole worlds where most of us see nothing until it’s pointed out.”

“No place for religion?”

“I wouldn’t want to put Christ out of a job. He said some very good things that have resonated all my life. Ye Whited Sepulchres in relation to the priests, the keepers of the law and the rich, showing nothing changes.”

“Then no priests?”

“That’s more like it. Artists, poets, philosophers of all descriptions and even ones indescribable.”

“Like mothering.”

We were silent for a time.

“You see,” I said, “Ius knew one infinity machine well and was crucial in fixing the only other one I’ve ever known about. Now Maria has drawn my attention to another, and having seen it I see it everywhere. The description sounds terrifying, the actual experience feels like infinite wisdom. Twice I felt it save my sanity. When its there everything feels timeless and eternal and profoundly present. Nothing is less than itself as source instrument. It’s not going somewhere on some lesser mission. People getting this would be the centre. It will take some while to get to know this. I would think centuries but there’s no way. It would have to be done in twenty years.”


“You wrote it yourself, the scientific application of quantum computers to dreams. Especially if a neural interface means they can in any way be read direct.”

“They’d explode with overload.”

“But they would be an intimate part of a much bigger machine, one which can see all futures so that time living becomes redundant except as pure experience.”

“You’re right. What are the odds on us making it?”

“We might do something about improving them this weekend. But I’m never less than totally ambitious. I think we’ll get it licked. All it needs is one person to get it.”


“Anybody, but, yes, him. As it is, there’s you and me. Maybe we’ve got it.”

“You have. I’m floundering.”

“You have really, you just don’t want to waste a lifetime’s subscription to the boy’s club.”

That struck him as really funny.

“You know, Maisy Ius Delia Delilah Mahadevi, you’re the most amazing woman ever.”

“At last someone has noticed!”

We both got the joke, which left us weak with laughter.

For a while we had the place to ourselves. The rain had stopped. We stood out in the dark listening to the quiet, hearing an owl and a sheep. I was aware, like a huge darkness over the night, of the presence to the south. In that future bubble, so clearly remembered, the sonic booms of the space planes rolling away over the Atlantic, all the way back to the universe. Right now it felt like being on the edge of a black hole vortex. The end of my story or my life.

“We did come through Shannon?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Was I difficult?”

“Nothing to my worst fears.”

“You must love me.”

“I think so.”

“Suppose it could all vanish like a dream – all my crazy beliefs.”

“I suppose I’d feel enormous relief. But then I’d expect you to walk on by and not even notice me. As it is knowing you is an extraordinary privilege. Twice a day near heart attacks are just part of the experience.”

I gave him a very concerned hug.

“I exaggerate,” he said. “We’ve only done Shannon once. Mostly I’m perpetually amazed. Not just that you’re a beautiful woman but that you are a woman, that women even exist. That from being a potentially comprehensible force of Nature she’s an unfathomable self, both to know and to be. From being that which was treated contemptuously by male society as a second class afterthought she is the source and heart of reality. There must be societies that know and have a single word for this?”

“You’re describing alienation, which comes from a bad childhood. Tom has his reason. You have a hundred times more reason. I have a million times more reason. Part of me wants the whole man world gone. The trouble is I want to be around to know. I want a man who has total knowledge of God. In his absence I’ll take a woman. There’s never a one side or another. What you’re saying about women is beautiful but it comes from alienation. We don’t have a language of non alienation. Our present attempts are pathetic. We rightly dismiss as political correctness. Instead of nails in a coffin or nails in the cross, its carpet tacks all over our bodies. It doesn’t kill us, it just makes us all wish we were dead.”

“We could invent it.”

“The matriarchal language?”

“No. We need something irreplaceable like ‘sunlight’ or ‘water’.”

“I sense it won’t happen until there is a theory of everything.”

“All of which leaves me totally confused. Mind you, I’m just as confused about women.”

“I think it’s all part of one thing. Shannon was hard for me but it’s made me think. It’s like after shock treatment. A sort of stunned nowhere. It all feels rather distant.”

“I’ve felt like that about women for years on end.”

“Were you in a relationship?”

“In and out. I think the root goes back to childhood and the mystery of my mother. You can’t be born of incest and find yourself at home in the normal world. That’s why I don’t think normal people share my kind of confusion. They accept we are men and women. They never feel alienated enough to feel really confused about it.”

“Yet in the confusion is beauty. When I feel seen by you my whole soul sings.”

“It’s getting harder. It feels as if we’re losing the right to celebrate the beauty of women. That we should look at women as if they were traffic cones. With you I experience the core of philosophy, religion, spirit. If I can’t even look at you I’m never going to begin that journey of discovery.”

“It’s not just women who are beautiful. Men, too, are beautiful when they make this journey through women.”

“What about the people in between?”

“Well, we’re both there, aren’t we. I think the seed of your confusion is that your female soul has come to dominate you completely and the world offers you no account of what you’re seeing.”

That night sleep was long and difficult. A shared conflict between touching and sleeping. At noon we were up and facing a walk on harsh rock hills. Tony, with his COPD, and me in my undigested aftershock, were not great candidates and we expected rain. In fact, when we parked at the bottom of the Red Route, it was blissful sunshine. We made our way steadily up to the col between Mullagh Mor and Slieve Rua, pausing often to admire the view, which kept us alive with unexpected wonder.

We made our way up Mullagh Mor to get that view of Slieve Rua which is so extraordinary, like a sculptured work of art perfectly seen from here. Through binoculars we examined the shelf of the coordinates. The boulder was clear. It was, as always, strange to see it after the virtual world of Google. 

America should be awake. I rang them and Tom answered.

“We’re here. Well, we’re looking at it.”

I showed them the view. 

“How are you feeling?”

“Post Shannon shock zonk. Ius may not have survived. I feel very Maisy.”

“Don’t tell the sponsors.”

“Fuck them.”

He chuckled. “We may be there tonight. It’ll be late.”

“That put a smile on the day.”

“Are you going over?”

“If Tony’s up for it. We’ll be off path.”

“How’s the weather?”


“Careful if it rains. Gets slippery.”

“Wilco. See you soon Tom.”

Wilco? Where did that? Oh, Eve! Her war. Our war. I was there, nought to three. 



We walked over to Slieve Rua, climbing to high points above the shelf, looking for something we might associate with the critical point of the jackal beings, red wire, two machines dream. There was nothing better than the entry to the shelf itself which flowed both ways. We came on to the shelf which was wide and beautifully curved in two or even three directions, like the outer section of an astronomical mirror. It was so surprising, as though a giant had machined the curves, as was indeed the case, Ice Age glaciers and gravity.

The boulder, part of a prominent group which had once been a single stone, was plain to see, but of the other there was nothing obvious. A dot appeared at the coordinates but at phone scale it was impossible to have much confidence. In satellite view the dot hovered around a triangular slab which we could see on the ground. At its eastern edge we spotted a faint arrow carved like a horizontal benchmark, which it might be. I sent the pictures across the Atlantic. Tom replied.

We camped there. Sleeping bags. Starry nights. I remember no mark. Look around, see if there’s anything else.

Nothing obvious.

Look in the grykes. She’d hide gear. Might be another clue.


On a ledge under the rim? She was a cunning hider.

Then Tony did find something, tucked far in. A waterproof bag containing a cylinder labeled ARROW REPAIR KIT. I sent a picture and Tom replied.

That’s her. Well done! We’ll be there tomorrow.

We spent a while trying to find more clues but the brilliant sun on the grey rock caused us to lie upon the rock, which was warm, dry and comfortable. So relaxing. We lay like well fattened seals in serene contentment. Sometime, with the shadows drawing the light from the day, we made the long, slow journey out and down.


The next day we chose to rest and eat. We had both got an overdose of sun. There was no point climbing to burn up more when there was grass outside the house and tea and bed just through the door. I spent part of the day exploring the buildings, some of which were locked. The largest might be a studio but I could see nothing through the dusty windows.

At six o’clock a van turned up with ready meals for the freezer. At 8.30 we got a message that they had landed. By then we were putting the finishing touches to a large soup. Neither of us could bear catering for people. It never occurred to us the plane would have its own chef. We switched it off and went out to feel the night. Clear stars. Coming nearer is something about the fate of the world. The presence to the south seemed to have diminished. Was anything I thought ever real?

Even as I wondered this I heard a sound and saw a light coming over the hills, a big helicopter approaching quickly. It landed on the house lawn cum field and disgorged bags and people. We put the house lights back on to greet these so familiar strangers, holding Tom and Maria briefly in the place between worlds, greeting Rachael, the nanny, and another woman. They dumped some cool boxes, here used for warmth, onto the kitchen table.

“Was dying for fish and chips!” Said Tom, taking out hot boxes and handing them round.

“You should have seen their faces,” said Rachael, “when a helicopter collected the order.”

“Hooked on the winch,” said the woman. “I thought nothing could surprise me.”

“How’s our Mahadevi,” said Tom, kissing me. “We’ve missed you something cruel.”

“You’re such a liar, Tom, but I love it.”

I heard a hmph of mirth and caught the other woman smiling at me. 

“Hi,”I said, “I’m Ius. Some call me Maisy.”

“Kelly,” she said. We shook hands. She didn’t look like a person you’d first think of hugging. In fact she looked so Terminator that I thought twice about a handshake. If anyone looked as if they’d been chopped off a rifle barrel she did.

Maria introduced her. 

“Doctor Kelly Jones, PhD. Kelly’s a scientist studying the human embedded in the full range of the electro magnetic spectrum. We’ve worked together a little, lately a lot. Kelly particularly films emotional hot spots, which is why she’s done a lot of work in war zones. The equipment she uses are experimental rigs of one sort or another. These aren’t ordinary cameras but there is always a filmic component so I’m asking your permission to film any of you over the next day…”

We agreed with yeses and nods.

“…You will get a chance to review any material we intend to use.”

“Fascinating,” I said to Kelly.

“It’s a wide open field,” she said, “among scientists, like a barn door.”

“How come?”

“You know placebo-nocebo.”


Well, if nocebo is the state of human consciousness normal for our time, placebo is a measurable higher dimension which nocebo science is forced to deny if it is to maintain itself. Too many fat and fragile careers would hit the pan.”

“What do you know about us?”

“You’re Mahadevi!” she said, looking at me with, I would say, respect, interest and a little wonder.

“I can’t get them to shake the habit. I usually call myself Ius.”

“Yes, a very fascinating story.”

“You’re a full time – ghost hunter?”

“That would do. The general opinion, among the six or seven who are thinking about it, is that the entire universe is an active intelligence field. Humans have filters to some of this and you can reach more by systematic investigation and training. For that it helps to know there is something to train towards. So, I’ve teamed up with Maria to tease it out.”

“Kelly’s not just the best,” said Maria, “she’s unique. The revolution you’re looking for, Mahadevi, may be already happening.” 

Looking at these two women you could sense the power in them. I guess, standing there, I made a third.

“Well,” said Tom, as we settled over night drinks. “We should be in London tomorrow. We’ve got permission to use a chopper for filming over the Burren tomorrow. From first light we have fifteen hours. I’ve got a list of all the places my mother used. We’ll start with the clue you picked up. If that leads nowhere, we’ll have a wild day”

“You discussed it with the pilot?” Said Maria

“Only in vague terms. We don’t want the competition getting to him.”

“The competition?” I said.

“Mahadevi, when will you listen to the grown ups. MI5, the CIA, the cosmetics industry. All manner of people riding nightmares want to interrupt the flow. As it is we posted coordinates yesterday and they could have been there while we were creeping across the Atlantic.”

“Wasn’t that a secure channel?”

“Nothing’s secure from elite hackers. We even make their work simpler by believing the hype and pouring all our secrets down the same pipe.”

He had a point. I had stopped seeing Mr Most Utterly McGorgeous as just a pretty face long ago.

“What’re they looking for – not Asante?”

“Who knows. The stories out now, isn’t it, for anyone who’s prepared to look.”

“The scientific establishment would never take the time travel story seriously. And what else is there, a story of crazy people, me and your mother?”

“And mine,” said Tony. “Crazy and interesting mothers is getting to be a new normal.”

“Mahadevi, we’ve worked out something between us, and we’re not some high rolling think tankers. Who knows what these people have worked out between them, and there’re millions of them, the brightest of the bright.”

“Most of them working for the dark side, one way or another.”

“You reckon?”

“Look how Trump got elected. And Tony’s dream saw it clear as day. He saw the Russian cosmonaut as relating to the Mars programme, Russia and the US continuing cooperation. The last thing we were thinking was Russian involvement in the election itself. But the dream knew. Whatever these guys are up to, the dreaming mind sees way beyond them. That’s the real mind, one big step closer to. The biggest ever probably. What’s really hard to believe is they don’t know it, that they’re playing some stupid game according to lesser rules.”

“Let’s hope we are ahead of them, Mahadevi.”

“What’s the plan?”

“Fly there at first light. It’s not in the spirit of fine tuning to the soul of the place but it would take us a week on foot. We can always come back at another time and take a more respectful look over. This may be a complete diversion. We could be searching for eternity. But when you turned up ARROW REPAIR KIT, that spells ARK…”

I gasped in surprise.

“…She was a demon for acronyms. If this leads us to nothing it’s because we’re too stupid to figure it out.”

“We’re looking for the die for the Medallion,” he said. “Is that right?”

“More the original carving from which the die has been made,” I said.

“I wouldn’t get too hopeful,” said Kelly. “Most dies get broken up.”

“But we think she wouldn’t have done that because this is about offering proof.”

“This isn’t about offering proof to crap for brains contemporary consciousness. That’s irrelevant in any future. This is about triggering higher dimensions of experience. The trouble is the moment you say this the contemporary mind flops to either religion or science where both are irrelevant.”

“If religion’s down the pan science is all that’s left.”

“It would be a bridge to higher dimensions. But you have to move to where the higher dimensions take you.”

“Not faith. Intelligence.”

“Yes. But the intelligence of a whole being, emotional, spiritual, creative. Duchamp’s Fountain is as good as our Medallion, if you’re receptive to it.”

“Where you wee. Humour?”

“Yeah. That’s better than nothing but love is better. Love is the whole thing.”

“Right. But we’re not looking for love with a helicopter. What else might we be looking for?” Looking at me.

“Well,” I cast my mind back to Mars. “Asante left equipment all over the place, anything that wasn’t temperature sensitive. She tended to work seasonally, in rotation. There were black hole sites which never saw sunlight, deep cold places. I exaggerate. There was one. She buried a bar of metal in it so it could be found again.”

A silence passed over the group like a great, clear hand.

“My mother would stash her materials in the grykes,” said Tom. “What if we find nothing?”

“Keep reading the notebooks. There can’t be nothing or soon we’ll all be dead. In fact we would never have got started. Higher dimensions are of thought. But they’re never separated from life. Each human being, each creature is like a God thought, but it’s not like we think of as mind but as everything we are. It’s not a class thing – only the beautiful, only the benign and the gifted. The experiences of the simple, the not beautiful, also are immortal. Often representing thoughts for which words have not yet been found and which our contemporary clever have become too inhuman to feel. They would abort or euthanise these paths of immortality. Stephen Hawking, for instance, would not have survived, and several of the people in this room. This is why artificial intelligence as an outgrowth of mere rational logic is complete insanity. Fortunately the rational logic has already taken us to higher dimensions where we are building these machines which become the skeleton of God.”

Tom took in a deep breath and seemed to savour what I was saying. I realised the others were looking at me as if they had witnessed a marvel.

“When I behave like a gobshite, Mahadevi, remind me of this moment.”

That left me with a warm feeling that we would still be friends even when this helicopter trip found nothing. Annoyingly, a tear dropped. I am trying not to think about love.


We are up at four, some forcing in food, others just coffee. 

“How did you sleep?” I asked Tom.

“Eeek! Today hath murdered sleep. You?”

“A bit.”

“I was thinking about our life instead of burying it. The white light…”

And then he said something which caused my whole being to melt into the planet.

“…She had a block of white marble. A circle had been sunk in it, two centimetres deep, thirty in diameter. I asked her what she was going to do with it. She said, draw a map of the world…”

“…I was going to look for it last night but wanted sleep.”

I had flopped into a chair but rallied.

“Want to look for it now?”

“You know, I haven’t been in there since she’s gone.”

I went out with him in the cold, dew grass morning. He took a key from under a stone. I slightly boggled that it was still there. He forced open the door through a curtain of spider webs. He went ahead with a stick to wave them down. We were there in a musty place that still smelled of artist’s studio, so familiar to Maisy. His breathing became strange and ragged, sob stifling sounds. I wanted to hold him but I was also associating with Silence of the Lambs and I wanted so very much to have sex with him. What the hell, I held him. This man was suffering goddess mother bereavement which you cannot know for I am a lost child who does not understand death but has some great dread. She cannot die, so where is she? Every step we take will not take us a step towards finding her. He goes to a stack of wide shelves and pats the empty wood as though he is a blind man searching. He grows more focussed and looks in other places.

“It’s gone.”

I can feel the shock in this man. I compare it to my Shannon panic. He hasn’t seen until now where he is going. I recall day old chicks being fed to owls. Whatever we tell ourselves this is a one way black hole. He has just seen his predator, but what is that for him? 

“Is this what we’re looking for?”

“Has to be.”

I lead him back and we head out to the helicopter.


The pilot and Kelly had slept in the machine, an on site precaution against vandalism and incorporated evil. Tom had retained him to stop ‘the competition’ getting to him. All this Hollywood cloak and daggery struck me as ridiculous. None of us had slept much but we were ready. The pilot suggested it was a work situation rather than fun. If it’s going to be a busy day it wouldn’t be the best place to take a baby. 

“But what if she is that Anu at another phase of her lives. Shouldn’t she be a witness?”

The pilot looked at Maria as if she had more heads than usual, then looked at Tom for a decision, the way men do..

“He has a point, Maria,” said Tom. “We’re looking for the unexpected. Why give fortune such an opportunity to bugger up the situation?”

“If you’re the parents and you take full responsibility for the baby at all times then I’d have no objection, but experience tells me I could end up holding the baby and I can’t hold the baby and fly a helicopter.”

This was quite a speech which earned a look from Maria but he was a tough man.

“But.” Said Maria, looking at me for support. I twigged that Tom didn’t understand or trust the Voortan technology. He spread his hands towards Maria as if displaying the book of objections.

Rachael said she’d be happy to stay on the ground with Mrs Connor and look after Anu, and Kelly supported her.

“Leave Mr O’Connor with his shotgun and they’ll be fine.”

“No shotgun,” said Maria, “it isn’t necessary.”

She must have conveyed something to Kelly, whose eyes twitched wider.

We piled into the helicopter and were off. The climb to the Mullagh Mor shoulder took just a few minutes but the upper slopes were in mist so we only caught glimpses of the target area looking very eerie. The pilot landed on the east side of the col. It would have been a crime to have landed on the shelf itself and damaged it.

Tom knew the quick ways like a Jesuit knows the Bible but had to defer to septuagenarians with COPD and so we took the long way. This brought us onto the shelf from above, catching wonderful glimpses of its mesmerising curving sweep through the drifts of mist. We made our way to the ‘benchmark’. Tom ran his fingers in the grooves. 

“This is new,” he said. “We slept here a hundred nights. There was never a mark on it. We favoured this slab for size and position. The other mark is the boulder?”

The boulder was visible but nothing beyond it.

“Seems to be. We didn’t find a mark.”

“No. One of you stand here.”

I stepped onto the benchmark. Tom walked to the boulder. He called for someone to stand at it. He walked on looking back until he disappeared. He called for another to stand. That was everybody except Kelly, who was flitting on the edge of the mist with her strange cameras. Now she had gone, drawn by the core.

I see nothing but Tony standing at the boulder and then for moments even he has gone.

I stand there as in a place without time. For a moment I am my self not a piece of Tom story. I hear something. It is like a great thrum and swish. I think helicopter but feel giant insect and look around for it. The mist swirls in two huge vortexes like eyes and from between a great black thing bursts. It resolved into a very different shape of helicopter. It swung towards us then faded into the mist but not before I saw her face looking straight at me, smiling in a way I had never seen. My brain split. The moment was too impossible to be held in one self. What I did remember was held only in half of me. The other half, which ran my physical body and its immediate memories, could not retain it. As this machine disappeared the mist cleared and there was no sign of it. I ran towards the others. Slipping and breaking a leg in a gryke was all too possible but I never heeded it. As I ran I caught sight of Tom, his face transformed into a horror stricken mask. He was scrambling over boulders as though he couldn’t see where he was going. I started to give chase but he broke out onto the slab and was gone into the mist that remained at the higher levels. White caught my eye. I saw a sack with a white stone spilled out of it. The Ius mind forced me to go and look at it. It was a large white oval stone spilled from a sack. I pushed the sack back and saw the stone I knew from another world, fresher, unworn by roots. My whole sense of self disintegrated. I had to force myself to act against a sense that the slip knot which held me together was about to be pulled.

“Tony!” I yelled. “Look after this!”

Maria glanced at it and said. “Take photographs. Sit on it. Post them to me.”

We set off chasing Tom.

Maria called the pilot.

I heard in my headphones our pilot saying he hadn’t seen another helicopter on his radar but thought he’d heard one. 

“Just some Army boys playing silly buggers. They’re not supposed to go cloaked but they often do.”


“Training. Secret ops. Anti terrorism.”

“They think we’re terrorists?”

“No, but we’ve registered unusual random activity on the Burren. It’s an opportunity to checks the systems. They’re not interested in us. They hardly know we exist.”

“We’re trying to track Tom. He’s run off in panic.”

As we climbed Maria said regarding youth and fitness “Why don’t I follow Tom and you come with the helicopter.” 

Even as she said it her foot slipped. She was dressed more for New York. I was at least dressed for the hills. Regarding that I said.

“Someone must stay with Tony. It’ll be like stealing a lollipop from a baby.”

“You’re right.”

“And you’re the director.”

As I pushed on I heard her call.

“Mitch, pick me and Tony up from the shelf.”

I reached the top and scanned through binoculars. I saw nothing in the world but grey rock. In my present state it looked like a vision from Hell, or Mars. Then I spotted him, standing alone in the stark grey desert. He was perhaps three hundred metres away but over a nasty bit of country. One thing about being a dancer is that you can rise to amazing levels of finesse in movement. I barely touched the ground, flying from rock to rock like a bird held on its wings, just occasionally falling to earth lumpery from a rolling rock or a too wide to step pit. I covered the last part slowly. I didn’t want him running again. I couldn’t keep this up for long.


His face was an unrecognisable mask of horror, of emotions from beyond the edges of the human. He clung to me.

“Don’t leave me, Mahadevi. Don’t leave me.”

How many times had I heard that in my life and not responded and all of them came up to hit me now. I held on to him as the helicopter landed nearby. Maria stumbled over, putting her New York shoes completely beyond polite use.

She moved to draw us to the helicopter but he didn’t budge. We took off our head sets so we could make intelligible conversation. 

“I saw it, Maria,” he said. “It’s bottomless.”

“You haven’t slept,” she said. “You were hallucinating.”

“No. I saw her too.”

“So did I,” I said.


“Asante.” I said.

“Annalisa. I need to talk to my sister.”

We held him and each other in a strong embrace. “Yes. I’ll get Anu. Look after him Mahadevi.”

“Like my life.”

When the helicopter lifted off we were alone in the bare rock landscape. Somewhere in the distance Kelly was among the rocks with her strange cameras. Had I been alone I would have sensed her but I was so absorbed with Tom that I had not a moment’s awareness of being watched. Thus she got an unusually pure auric film of the singularity, the moment of recognition of universal origin, of life and death and God and the miracle of creation, of kinds of creation from infinitely technical to the purest soul and there is no way to survive such an experience without love, infinite and eternal, unfixed and ever new. It was all there but can you hold to it when it has come as the horrifying shock of knowing you do not exist, that nothing exists. Or rather, something exists but it’s either impossible to know or apparent existence is some lesser state. The danger for Tom was that this knowledge could kill him. But what does give rise to the illusion? It’s the knowing of that which sustains or the need to know. The great artists and masters of this region are women. The great test and passage for man was to know that. The challenge for Tom was to be a master of the illusion currently bollocksed by the meat factory of the movie industry. To say that he knew all that that day among the wild rocks would be like suggesting baby Shakespeare knew how to write Hamlet, which he did. For the moment he only clung, shaking, to the body of his sister in spirit. 

For Tom it had been precipitated by the actuality of impossible events. He could think his way out of the medallion being the proof of anything but he knew. He described that knowledge as like a black hole opening. The tangible part was all he knew and had heard about Asante and involving terrestrial human extinction, and what he had heard and understood about time travel concerning me. The involvement of future computers in my proven longevity. The fact that time travel beyond this technical essence was impossible. And yet the evidence suggested that his mother was Asante real enough to give birth to him in the full confines of the terrestrial Twentieth Century. His father was not a terrestrial man but the infinite algorithms of an infinite machine real enough to have a location and name, The Professor. But all of that mattered less than that it smashed the ice between him and total self knowledge. He had no father, only a mother, who, according to scientific reasoning and common sense, did not herself yet exist and if the human race might ever be saved from its Cataclysm, would never exist. So how could he, even with time travel, be here? 

“Obviously you are here, known to the entire planet. Who can’t be more real, they just have a comfortable story.”

I told him about Tony’s visionary experience ‘In fact, I can imitate you a life, if you want it.’ 

“He has his own invisible origin in the thousands of children born to incest in the nuclear family, cloaked from consciousness and made doubly so by projected paedophilia. Closed, locked and bolted. And all that’s within tangible, physical, reportable reality. If his story breaks the mould enough to let the light through, how much more does yours. And he also resists the idea that it applies to everybody. We don’t want to know that our life is a full participant in the god field so we made a terrifying artificial god and locked the door with him. You’ve opened it. Doesn’t matter if the miracle that got you there is finally digested by a more reasonable society and the Asante route is rendered impossible. All we’re striving for is a decent, healthy, whole, wholesome society.”

“Through quantum computers?”

“Not necessarily but probably.”

“I don’t know, Mahadevi, I don’t understand any of this. I’m just a bog standard man.”

“A bog standard man who’s been dropped from a very great height. We’ve got to pick up the pieces.”

“I must have got something right.”


“You. You’re a helluva person, Mahadevi. As long as I know you I can bear another day.”

“Wow. Thank you!”

I gave him a best Mahadevi hug, which left me feeling wonderfully sane and he looked better.

“If all of this is impossible,” he said, “I really don’t care.”

“All we have is each other. It’s a great invention. The ultimate.”

“Including our money launderers?”

“Maria seems to have found a place for them.”

“Other than the eleventh pit of Hell?”

“Financing the Dream Machine. It could be the greatest contribution to intelligent life Earth ever came up with.”

As we started back for Slieve Rua I said.

“I guess this demonstrates how difficult true self knowledge really is.”

“Yet it isn’t difficult is it? This just opened.”

“But what strategies were needed to do it! Even to creating artificial lives or universes.”

“Which still might be the real ones. What happens to Asante and her children?”

“I can’t imagine we’ll just disappear. My hope is the real universe is infinitely more resourceful than we can yet imagine, that the universe is the multiverse. There’s room for everybody. A universe in which there has never been an Asante is for me unthinkable.”

All this talking was letting him know this impossible state was new normal, even the original and only normal. That though he was uniquely alone he was not alone at this level. There were people like me, his sister in eternity, who loved him. On that walk the terror and uncertainty fell away. His whole demeanour opened and relaxed as, for the first time, he began to sense an unexpected air of freedom.


We arrived at the shelf and lay on the warming rocks. Soon the helicopter returned, letting people out on the shelf before returning to its perch. Rachael with Anu and Maria and Tony carrying the stone between them, joined us with Kelly arriving just as if she had been with them. She went on filming, always with that remarkable capacity to blend with the background.

“What did you see?” asked Maria. “Mitch said there was no other helicopter on his radar.”

“I saw a helicopter,” I said, “with what I’m sure was Asante’s face looking out.”

“I saw,” said Tom, “the giant head of my mother wearing her straw hat.”

“I swear,” said Tony, “I saw a helicopter right over us. I saw the blades just as I saw the individual wing beats of the hornets which attacked us when I was three.”

“You and your mother?” I asked.


“Mother, mother mother. Mothers all the way.”

“I saw our helicopter,” said Maria.

“It wasn’t,” said Kelly. “I got a shot of it. Something else definitely registered.”

“Can we see it!”

“We won’t know until it’s processed. We should see the results tomorrow.”

“So we each saw something different?” Said Tom. “What will the camera see?“

“It’s often impossible to tell,” said Kelly. “This science is in its infancy.”

“But it is objective reality?”

“Objectivity is no longer the criteria for what it real,” said Kelly. “That cheap trick of the patriarchy is losing its validity.”

“So what’s in its place?”

“Individual experience. The great sin of science. Every man and woman is a universe. Every creature. Every atom. The whole universe. Every thought.”

“You’re a romantic, Kelly,” said Tom.

She laughed. 

“No,” said Tony. “Maisy and I have been looking at dreams from the point of view that every phrase, every syllable of a dream is a universal story.  You just have to catch the trick of seeing it, which is difficult for anybody but especially the educated classes of today. Regarding dreams, they’re more ignorant than human beings have ever been. And without dreams civilisation is impossible. To misquote Christ, it’s easier for a camel to get through a needle’s eye than for the science of today to deliver us into the future.”

“You’re saying there’s no future.”

“No. We just have to link dreaming to quantum computers and they will reveal what physics can’t. We don’t need ever bigger hadron colliders. A machine which eventually will be the size of a finger nail will do it. We just need somebody, say Elon Musk, to take it seriously as a project. Before Mars, Elon, go for dreams. Mars will save somebody but dreams will save everybody.”

“Have you told him?”

Tony laughed for a full minute.

“My only comfort is that when we hit the shit I will personally not be here to catch it. But I wish there was some way to talk to these people, I really do. I have tried but you end up stuffed back in the science v religious superstition football match, not that you’re entering into a new field altogether.”

“Which is?”

“We’ve started calling it the trigger after a dream in which Daniel Boone showed me “the most accurate gun in the Revolution”. It was a tiny copper, single shot, beautifully made but with a very tinny trigger, like the cheapest sort of child’s toy you’d see in the Nineteen Forties. Words like gimmick and gimcrack come to mind.”

“This is your trigger, third rate rubbish?”

“Yes,” said Tony, “We have to get away from the conscious mind’s obsession with greatness and glory. Daniel Boone’s legend and life are very different. To misquote Wikipedia

‘Many heroic adventures and chivalrous actions are related of me which exist only in the regions of fancy. With me the world has taken great liberties, and yet I have been but a common man.’”

“This stone,” I said, “which I took to be full of meaningful symbols, turns out to be your initials, like the most basic graffiti. It triggered something.”

“Like an explosion in my head. Now I’m back to being a bit more rational about it.”

“The story doesn’t end there. Tony, have you got that letter I gave you?”

“Oh, yes.”

He produced the letter from a plastic bag and passed it around.

“I wrote this when I realised your house was what I knew as Sam’s house from two centuries in the future. I realised the die must be this stone. I had it witnessed by two lawyers last year. Can you read it out.”

Tony handed the letter for Tom to open. Tom glanced at the pages and a disk and handed them back. Tony read out the story of Sam and the white stone in the future. He stopped reading at the contents of the lead box and Maria took over. After she finished there was a long silence.

“The whole story?” Said Tom.

“As best I can remember. I didn’t believe Maisy Warlock would have been me or I might have paid closer attention.”

Anu had crawled from Rachael’s guarding arms to me. I lifted her onto my chest. The sense of love pouring into me was overwhelming. At once I knew this was all there is. The sunlit blue sky was untouched by time as was the rock beneath, purely material and immortal. This baby who crawled up my chest to touch my face and put her fingers up my nostrils, could she be Anu I had known for centuries on another loop of the infinite spiral? We looked into each others eyes so happy and full of delight.

“Little Goddess, who made thee?”

She laughed as though she knew it was a very silly question.

I returned to the conversation as Tom was talking about contracts.

“I only want to make films that make sense to us.”

“This one,” said Maria, “can run concurrently with the fiction. And when we’re free in a year or two we’ll have some idea of how it works and can choose our stories.”

“If we choose this one we’ll be riding the commercial fiction.”

“But how do we make the two movies simultaneously?”

“Here we’re already doing it. On set we use secret cameras, that won’t look like cameras but house flies.”

Maria looked at Kelly who looked up from the instruments of her machine.

“Yes,” she said, “you could get ambient and strong events. For the visual you’d have the film they end up with and everything they cut. We just need the software to collect it.”

“How difficult is that?”

“The way studios are with online security it’d be like taking eggs from a battery hen.”

“So we have something to live for over the next two years.”

“After that the show is completely yours.”

“Where will you be?”

“By then I hope to have the World Stage camera on a satellite. Fortunately SpaceX has brought the price down to sixty million so we’re well within budget. Once we’ve calibrated with ground reality we hope to turn it on outer space.”


“I know.”

“Would that work? Won’t you being seeing only the past?”

“Light is the doorway to the new dimension. Experientially there is no time. The whole universe would become an open book regarding living intelligence.”

Tony looked at me. “What’re they talking about?”

“Ask them.”

“What are you talking about?”

“This is the auric camera,” said Kelly. “We’ll know in a day or so if it’s registered anything unusual with you. If we can read and distinguish between auric groups on Earth then we might expect there to be much stronger groups in the universe. If not now then somewhen.”

The silence which followed was a tangible presence.

“That registered,” said Kelly.

“Like the microwave background,” said Tony. “I thought advanced, higher dimensional intelligences would be like air around us, everywhere, inside and out. Or the whole concept of everywhere needed rebuilding.”

“All the world’s a stage,” said Tom. “No bigger than us. Everywhere is somewhere. Somewhere is everywhere. When we go does anything remain? How old is this stage?” Looking around at the shelf.

“Three hundred and fifty million years,” said Tony.

Tom whistled. “It’s immoral to be that old.”

“But Slieve Rua” I said, “only took its present shape from the ice ages, the last ten thousand years ago, just in time for human beings to admire and wonder at it.”

I told them Tony’s dream of the jackal beings and the two identical machines, the one with the little red wire denoting higher dimensions. Once they’d switched we had to leave, sweeping down the long shelf he took to be a quarry.

“But no quarry I’ve ever seen resembled it as much as his hill,” said Tony. “And the shelf goes in two directions, and here with these beautiful multi curves. Two ways is like two wings and the whole as it appears from Mullagh Mor looks like the image in my Sixties dream of death.”

“And it looks like the dragonfly,” I said. 

“And a giant tongue for speaking, and a galaxy, and a naked woman curled up on a bed after a beautiful shag on a hot summer’s night.”

My whole body dissolved in love. “And a breast.”

“So, what do we think, Tony?”

“You know, Maisy, after sixty years of writing, my thoughts don’t connect with my voice.”

“Pig,” I said, while playing chucky pigs with Anu. “Everything is infinite communication. Everything. The leaf, the baby, the Sun, the dream. Mostly we don’t see it in its full dimensionality because we’ve allowed our minds to flatten to survive. Here, right now, the universe has erected a living work of art to reinflate our wonder. When you look at the film, The Silver Branch, which is all about the battle to keep this place pristine. That’s nearly thirty years ago, before the Internet was a word on the global horizon. And now we’re deep into it, probably halfway to the first full-on infinite machines. Kept this place pristine for long enough for us to be here right now still seeing the wonder and not having it bled out with coke cans and beer bottles smashed on the rocks. We’re the last generation, probably, who needed to see this, and we’ve seen it. It’s spoken to us.”

“Don’t they call that Fascism,” said Kelly.

“They do. They did then too. Green fascists, they were called. But what’s the truth? How does the song go? ‘We gotta get out of this place, if it’s the last thing we ever do.’ It’s going to happen, faster than we think and in ways we can’t imagine. Well, we can, but ProfessorCoxosaurs will still be defending the bastions of temporal cause and effect like tyrannosaurs in a tide race long after the water has washed their castle away and gone.”

“So, that’s your Cataclysm.”

“I guess so, looking on the bright side of it. Extinction Cataclysm is what we get if we don’t have higher dimensions. Even religion won’t save you. You’ve got to see it, touch it for yourself. A lot may go through porn, and they’ll come out wise enough about something over the ones who didn’t.”

“Porn?” Said Tom looking at me, “dissolves the Cataclysm?”

“Virtual gods and goddesses aren’t going to give them a hard time about the washing up. Total pleasure, which most of us have never explored. At least leisure to think. Lying here, dancing on the head of a pin. What do you think – oh newly anointed child of the infinite?”

“Shit knows, Mahadevi. Shit knows. I do know I want to lie here like this with you guys, in the sun and the hills, forever.”

“Then let it be so.”

“Mm. Meanwhile, Maria, my eyes tell my belly they heard rumour of a tucker hamper.”

“It’s in the helicopter.”

“That’s over there.”

Maria was tickling Anu’s throat with a rare mountain peony. “I’m busy.”

Tom looked at me.

“What happened to Eternity?” I said.

“It hasn’t got recycling out of it’s system.”

“I can’t move till Anu says so.”

“Rachael .”

“You can’t ask Rachael,” said Maria, “It’s against the rules.”

“What rules?”

“Don’t you ever read your contracts? Rachel looks after the baby. If you want a factotum you hire one.”

“Yes you can!” Said Rachael, springing to her feet. She’s does yoga, looks twenty something but like so many of us nowadays is older. We stared at her in wonder. 

“Rachael.” said Tom. “You can’t just jump up and say I’ll do it until the categories have been fulfilled.”

“What categories?”

“Who pecks who. If A pecks B and B pecks C but C pecks A. It’s got to be sorted. If whoever’s at the top goes that’s altruism and makes people feel bad in a down way but if whoever’s at the bottom goes that’s coercion and makes them feel bad in another way. And this is only one set of pecks. In it’s the domestic it’s usually me, but then there’s the category of the thickest skinned.”

“Oh, honestly,” said Rachael. “Men!”

At which Tom rolled to his feet. “Never let it be said I left a maiden in duress.”

“I hope he shags her soon,” murmured Maria to their retreating backs. 

“You don’t.”

“As long as they don’t run off together. The trouble is he has these lower middle class qualms about abusing the servants.”

“I wouldn’t call Asante lower middle class,” I murmured. 

“Nor God. Though after Daniel Boone and your trigger I wonder. You must have had a helluva talk.”

“I suppose we did. I wonder what the old philosophers would have made of it? It seems to boil down to one simple truth. God is and God is us so how come our lives are such shit? What’s possible is a total transformation from animal driven by Darwin’s evolution to being the source of its own life and decisions.”

“I’ve missed you,” said Maria. 

“Me too.”

“Come to LA.”

“I need to work with Tony.”

“Bring him.”

“He doesn’t travel. All sorts of places would kill him. In LA it’ll be his lungs and the heat and the smog. I don’t have family and nor does he and we’re exact contemporaries. It counts for a lot. Hey, Tony, when did you fail the eleven-plus?”

“Would you mind saying that a bit louder. The cow over the hill couldn’t hear you.”

“More to the point, when did you come second in the country in maths?”

“Would have been ‘57, when I ‘graduated’. 96 per cent. Some wretched girl got 98.”

“Same year as me.”

“And what did you get?”

“Ninety eight.”

“Shit!” He sat up and looked at me. “I often wondered what happened to her. Top of the dunce stream.”

“What did you think?”

“Clerk for a chartered accountant, married, three kids, divorced, lived on a council estate, kept a shop in Ambridge.”

“Susan!” Ouch! That had hit a politically incorrect nerve.

“She has hidden talents,” said Tony, who never intentionally listens to the Archers, a failure which I find not entirely unattractive.

“Well, Maria,” I said. “You see what I mean. Brothers in spirit all over the place. We owe ourselves a really good look at this so called human reality.”  

“Here comes the hamper. It contains at least one bottle of celebratory fluid.”

“Have we got everything we came for?” Tom asked generally, pausing at Kelly.

“I could do with a panorama, and I wouldn’t mind seeing the Cliffs of Mohar from the outside,” she said.

Tom flinched then said to Maria and me, “I guess my allergy to them has been misplaced.”

I said. “It looks like my mother – our mother – has been totally underestimated even by people who already thought she was the most amazing person who ever lived.” 

“Saved the world single handed.”

“And possibly without even existing. That has to be the pinnacle of effectiveness.”

Tom looked at me with profound consideration, would be an understated way of putting it. 

“You’re thinking of employing a sceptic to explain the trick we’ve played before you lose your sanity.”

He nodded. “But when I think of James Randi and I look at you, that’s the end of that idea.”

“Oh, why?”

“Beauty. Your sort of beauty has such a profound influence on my soul. Everything else just evaporates and I’m happy.”

“A fool’s paradise?”

“Who would want to be anything but such a fool?”

“Big man, it’s all yours now.”

“I’ve never taken my life seriously, not for a moment. That’s not the same as saying I didn’t do plenty of suffering, but suffering ain’t from taking your life seriously, is it? Seeing myself as the gift of the universe to itself. That never happened.”

“Just don’t take yourself seriously seriously. The one thing the ex-Pope loves me for is not all the profound philosophy but a joke.”

“Go on then.”

“I’m not telling you. It’s a Pope joke. Until the circumstances have arisen it doesn’t exist, and then it kills people.”

“But you told the Pope.”

“The ex-Pope. He got it because of his unique position. You’re another one. When you get it you’ll tell me. It’s part of enlightenment – Bo-oy!”

“You know, Mahadevi, you’re close to earning a tickling to death.”

In that moment he was so close to Candor that a great sob broke from the bottom of my belly.

Maria put her arms around me. “You’re a bully, Tom Quinn.”

I explained about my brother, who had never been born, might never be born, yet existed so powerfully in deep visceral memory. They had all read the book. And now Asante, who had such power over our minds.

Luckily the pilot was not part of this and could still fly his helicopter.

After lunch and modest sips of bubbly we rose over the Burren.

“We’ve a hire car to return.”

“Don’t worry. The O’Connors will do that. Okay Mitch, take us to Shannon!”

“And all the food,” said Tony to me. “Was that chicken organic?”

“It is.”

“Shit! I haven’t bought organic chicken since – ever! And at Irish prices.”

“Never mind. I’m selling another Morandi.”

“How much for this time?”

“The reserve is two million.”

“Christ! Okay, before all of you disappear back to whatever golden Valhallas you come from, could we create a little opportunity to tell each other what we think, just in case any of you, like me, feels they’re missing something.”

“You mean like a symposium?” Said Maria.

“Yeah, over the organic chicken. When do you have to be back?”

“He has a point, Maria. If we do it here at the navel of all our stories where there are no distractions.”

“Apart from internity. Are you up for it? Mahadevi?”

“It’s very raw. I don’t want to cook any fucking chicken.”

“I will,” said Rachel.

That was a point. Rachel at the symposium?

“Why don’t we have five minutes each now,” said Tom, “and let the O’conners have the chicken.”

“I like your idea, Tony, but I suspect we’ll eat the chicken and fall asleep. We need to put all our understandings, or lack of them, on the table and see how they fit together.”

“You’re right. It’s a stupid idea. It’ll take the next couple of hundred years, won’t it,” he said to me.

“You’re right,” I said. “Fourteen billion years to get here and we bugger off at the first opportunity. Okay. We each have five minutes. You want to start?”

“Yeah. How many of you have read my God dream of nineteen sixty eight?”

Everybody but Rachel.

“Why not run through it again,” said Maria, which he did.

“When it first happened I thought of it in what I considered to be Freudian terms, it was all about me, nothing to do with metaphysics, a lot to do with my relationship with Maisy-Ius I then knew as Delilah. A week after she disappeared, it turned out for the last time, came the Moon landing. Precognition and meaning. It took a long time to sink in, right up to now. In nineteen seventy two I read Jung, his vision of the Cosmic Christ made of greenish gold symbolising, he said, a union of spiritually alive and physically dead matter. In my mind what we’ve got here with Slieve Rua, only I wouldn’t call it physically dead. It’s Indra’s Net, all in each, everything within everything. Since I met Maisy again I’ve returned to life, that great seeing has come back to me. I see the dream now as all about the world and only about me in that I am part of it. I see it’s everything through a lost pagan heart. I see it’s about thousands of years of human change, learning to see the face of God, which is us, our true selves. Everything comes alive in love. There’s no mental understanding other than serves love. I suppose my life has taken me from Freudian individual to an Indra kind of god of everything which I was born knowing. We all know infinitely more than we ever think we know about the fundamental state of being. When she said ‘In fact, I can imitate you a life if you want it’ she was talking about creating the creator. Awakening him. Didn’t he appear right after she said it, and I’d thought it was all about me, Tony the Bad. It was not the man god who made the woman but she who made him, or called him forth from his divine potential. Hence my story of the incest origin and Tom’s story as the impossible son of the mother who never was. A live chip of the future that knows its non existence except alive as the fields of love.”

I felt so utterly sad about this man and his life in me or lack of it that there was nothing to do but hold him. We enfolded him in our different ways of the divine fields of love. 

“Tony,” said Maria, “you had a dream for the world, even discovering that’s what dreams are, the hinterland between ourselves and universal knowledge. I was a career nun but I never understood God except as love, divine, present and manifest and if not why not and if not why not wholly through me. It was an ever present realisation made difficult because my family were evil crooks that I loved. What the world needs is love and especially the time needed for its contemplation and we’re only going to get that if we push the love of money on into the love of love. One way to do that is to build a machine which can process the hinterland of dreams. I’m taking over the money of the world, all its dark money, and applying it to the development of that machine. I’m only able to even think of that because all that can be manifest of the machine is with me. So you see where you and I have an overlap. I need to hear a story like yours to give me encouragement that I’m on the right track. More than that. We are family. I know your woman of the dark room. I want to build the machine that makes GodLove clear to human beings. It’s not love but it’s the temple, the house of love. I think each of us here is part of the family, especially the men. They’re so damned rare at the moment. Tom, the man who never was. You’ve shown us dreams. If he can show us what his isn’tness is. The true magician.”

Tom gave a little snort.

“Is Tony’s dream our story?”

“Yes,” said Maria.

“So, am I golden boy, the one made out of nothing but her will?”

“That’s a thought,” she said. “Tony’s vision of you before either of us was born.”


“It means you’re not alone, big man. There are friends before you and friends after.”

“Asante,” I said. “She really needs to be at the symposium.”

“Can she?”

“I wouldn’t rule it out.”

“She really is the woman in the dark room.”

I became aware of Rachel staring at us. Kelly had stopped filming.


I am helplessly in love. When they reject me I shall die. Probably. I am a Martian. I was built to live and die by it! Well, I am not really a Martian. When Ius dies Maisy will still have life, won’t she? Or will it be like a Siamese twin dying inside you? 

Whatever. I live minute by minute. Tonight I will see them, him, her, both. I am like the heroine of a great love story. But the opposite of story. Every breath I am inside drawing in their spirit and when I am with them dissolved by their touch. Her touch. She is my mother sister lover. His touch. Right inside me infinitely deep. When they make love I feel them even across the Hill or the Planet. Then I am dissolved in God our living flesh is too solid to feel. I hear their voices, remembering them like a comet’s tail. The circle of gods slowly closing to the first and final words. To the heart words. I can risk this love because it can never die. Perhaps in the end it is I who love myself. Perhaps they are my whole life worshippers and all I know is how eternal life will ever be. The circle closes. The circle widens. For instance, a very strange thing happened. 

Tony who, like me, has lived near Purgatory Hill most of his adult life and referred to it unhappily as Dog Heaven, found a puppy on the Hill. We put up notices on trees and lampposts, as one does, but no takers. Both of us lived in upper flats unsuitable for animals and so Maria had agreed to provide him shelter until a home could be found. Her household, having maids and security and a butler, was well provided with people who could walk him as well as me and Tony. We all became extremely fond of the animal, who blossomed into a sort of springer-collie-spaniel and was among the more ebullient creatures on the Hill and so one got to interact with a lot of people and to be recognised not only by dog humans. It was a revelation for Tony. As a lone male dressed in sweat rags humping the remoter paths grimly for exercise his public persona had shifted. 

“From paedophilic serial killer to baby’s best friend.”

Tony even named him one exuberant afternoon Korky after Korky the Cat from the Dandy comic of his and my childhoods. He certainly was like a champagne cork and extremely intelligent, fitting into those conversations we’d had about squirrels and magpies and crows and dogs and wolves and humans all growing smarter. He even wondered if Korky was God after one morning we found ourselves in an apologetic exchange with Andrew Marr which became a discussion about the dogness characteristics of Purgatoriania. I had the strangest sense that the famous investigatory voice should be asking us about Voortan technology and untouchable criminal empires rather than dissolving pleasantly into our morning. We had moved from aliens to the people who owned the Hill. Tony hated himself for it in the way people hate themselves with a smile on there face when they have won the Lottery. Then one day Korky had puppies which surprised us all. What do we know? We who would summitarise the Universe never saw that coming.


We seem to have lost our passion to investigate Tom. It’s as if we’ve reached the end of wonders and now there’s nothing but life and the getting on with it. Tony reasonably pointed out that his great God dream was fifty years ago and he’s seen more into it this year than ever before. If we’ve done Tom any service at all with our revelation the rest is up to him. If he is living Immanuel our theories will mean nothing, only the lived will matter. Perhaps if Jesus had stayed a carpenter he might have done us all a power of good rather than the two thousand years of politicised torment we experienced. But in that case what is is what happened and in two thousand years we hadn’t the tools of extinction. Everything I know suggests that in the next fifty years we can easily do it. So what does Immanuel do in our time? Go back to chopping wood? Perhaps give him five or ten years to sanely adjust. Meanwhile, those of us who think we have the theory will either shut up or humbly prepare the ground. And if he never steps into it we’ve done what we could. I try to imagine what it’s like and even I find it difficult. When they talk about the Singularity today they are always talking about computer technology not human life, the knowledge that one is born out of absolutely nothing and there is no god other than this. Our mistake in this is so radically misunderstanding what we are. The portions of life, the myriad things that make up our memory and experience, the only thing that makes them godly is ourselves. This is it. Our happiness is all in our hands. Very little in our minds. Our minds are memes of madness mostly. Not our pure minds. Not our pure sense experiencer, our empty truth, which for me is the distillation of a night with Maria or Tom. It’s sitting quietly on the Hill in the afterglow, seeing and not seeing the mushrooming city as story roads to Heaven and Hell. Seeing only as the Goddess sees within me and words will never capture that power. Only the infinity machines will set us free to live that as human beings. It’s the supreme danger but the final achievement is eternal life as the supreme moment of creation.


As the infinity effect sets in humans will start to live for centuries. This will not be life for self as we have known it but life for life. Childbearing, if it continues, and from my experience I cannot doubt it, will occupy a smaller part of life. Or perhaps our physiology will change so that we have a child each century or late in a long life when we feel wise enough. Whatever, women are going to have a much broader spectrum and far more time to explore the boundaries of the possible, even to changing sex. My suspicion is our lives will have great themes, even as now, where we may be a musician or a scientist. But future themes are likely to be more cosmological. Think of Christ or his mother. Since knowing Maria this makes more sense. Or even what I have grown into.

Since I have become freed from the Martian story I am astonished by what I am seeing. In a thousand years there will be a hundred worlds orbiting this sun each following a different design of paradise, with huge transit zones between them, for travel will be as cheap as sunlight and as ubiquitous as skin. Most of what we would now expect to be the harsh necessities of such worlds will be completely obsolete as by then we will have discovered the miraculous qualities of the real as opposed to the imitation universe which certain states of the ego required for their completion. You will be pleased to know it was all a great ado about nothing. And that is the joke. Once you get it nothing will ever be the same again.

I have a new and extraordinary contact who claims to be a thousand years old in 3000AD so she must be alive now. She calls herself Anu and I have asked for another but she insists it is her name.

“At this communicative apogee I am older than Methuselah.”

Her life is orgasmic in multiple intensities. Her drinking a glass of water or taking her next breath I find overwhelmingly arousing. Staying with it without uberclimaxing results in an astonishing state of communication such that there is no time or separation between us. I would think that she is God but she insists she’s just another wo-man from the future.

“The no time all time. The real for which you are seeking, from which you came. It does exist. Just be still and it will appear.”

I chanced the question. “What did you mean by ‘imitate a life’?”

“Be still and an answer will appear better than any words I can speak.”

I did and an answer came that was very much a conversation within a god about the consequences of infinite nature for the various categories of potential beings and how the imitation was necessary for the form of the totality and how the totality deals with the monstrous and what exactly the monstrous is. The spider, the yoni, the graveyard buried lingam all creating life force.

“If I say it is this in the fullness of itself alive and the imitation is for its many subsidiary states and shadows, all of which need enlivening, all of which are the growing life picture. Do you begin to get the sense of what I mean?”

“Everything is infinite. The pen nib, nothing, a dot, moves and begins to write these words. Not even a nib, these days, or ink.”

“Exactly. It is all a consequence and when you want it enough it is a cause. Of the many interpretations, which you may have to work through in a very physical manner, there is the one where your precise desire for life creates the god. If you want it, and how can you not want it? Once you have tasted the divine it is fully and forever present. All the story is not in the words, is never in the words, but it is the place to start. But nothing is written by the hand of God that God itself cannot change. The key is your desire for change. The key is your desire.”

I spent great times with the great lady in the extraordinary generative stillness.

“All this someone needs to know for Anu, the baby,” she said.

“Why don’t you teach her mother?”

“She’s too busy being the mother. And the Godmother.”

“I’m another sort of God Mother?”

“A Grand Mother. A Spirit Mother who makes the ground safe for her children. The most important people who will ever be. The Grand Mothers, who must speak for themselves.”

So this is what I do. I sit very still and be spirit, as best I can, for the whole of time. I sit in the Hawthorn Grove. People have taken to leaving their blankets and the homeless sleep. The council cleans us up periodically and I have been to prison, though only for 37 minutes, for ignoring an order banning me. It turned out that the Council couldn’t ban me because Purgatory Hill is owned by the Sovereign, who took an interest. Without doing a thing I am becoming interestingly famous.

One unusually quiet morning Maria approached through the trees with a man wearing a hoody. As he came into the Grove he lowered his hood. He bore an extraordinary resemblance to one of her male descendants and then I realised it was him.

“God Lady,” I said to her, “you get around.”

“Everywhere. That’s why love is so important, to deal with the low life.”

She smiled at him. I smiled at him too.

“Good morning,” I said.

She introduced us and walked away. We sat looking at each other, the most privileged person in the country and the least, if we consider Maisy and her origin. We maintained informal eye contact for some time. There was more bite to him than I expected. Eventually I said.

“Is this a State visit?”

He laughed. I forget, as an ex minimalist comedienne, it’s all in the way you say it.

“In my park,” he said. “I have a right to know who’s setting up shop and why.”

“Given the nature of my interests I should imagine it must be God.”

“But your way of representing God is highly unconventional.”

“Unconventional! In relation to the dark ages we’ve been through?”

“Maria says you are the greatest that she knows.”

“She takes the long view. Most people she gathers under her wing would not be considered respectable.”

“I am surrounded by people who give me information. They are all very informed about the workings of the world. If I come, as I have, to a notorious nest of the homeless, what information can you give me other than the experience of your situation which could be changed and is no longer informative.”

I wondered what he understood about my situation, that I was homeless? In which case what game am I playing for whose benefit?

“I live over there in what would be consider a fairly luxurious flat. I’ve been coming here for decades to meditate. Only recently the world has caught up with me. Come and sit at my feet expecting life changing wisdom. Maria encourages the homeless. She considers them a weather station for the world, telling how much we care about life over profit. The profiteers consider poverty a crime to be punished. I’m sure Elon Musk could solve our homeless crisis over lunch if they let him. It’s a complex problem. In reality the profiteers are punishing everybody, keeping them scared, which is why they leave the homeless on the streets. But you didn’t come to hear me tell you this, did you? Half the country could tell you?”

“No, though I probably misunderstood your situation. Maria has talked to me about a vision of society which, as you say, is complex. Dealing with the world in the old way is too slow but handing the speed up to private enterprise would be a disaster. One doesn’t mention National Socialism at all.”

“Not respectable.”

“One must seem not even to think it. Would Elon Musk be any different?”

“I think so. He advocates the universal income to eliminate the disastrous dynamics of the poverty system. But Maria is the expert on all this. I literally know nothing. My expertise is in the service of love, but more in the mechanics. Again, Maria knows more than I do about love as an absolute condition. She studied it as a nun. She calls it GodLove, capital G, capital L.”

“She also presents us with a technology.”


“Did you see chairs fly?”

“Yes, and pictures appear in a locked rooms overnight.  Surveillance cameras showed nothing in spite of accounting for every second.”

“What do the experts say?”

“There’s wide disagreement. They won’t publicly admit to an unknown technology though privately I’m informed they do.”

“Well, I’ve never witnessed a live event like that. I’m not rich enough or crooked enough to coerce. I’m surprised if you are – rich enough. Though I suppose if you sold a few Leonardos she might perk up her ears.”

“Why does she want so much money?”

“To make the technology she’s demonstrated manifest to people.”

“It’s not about acquiring wealth and power?”

“No. Except in shielding herself from other people’s. Maria sees the only way to the future is for everybody to have basic freedom. Only then can they have enough energy to care about the future. At the moment the world’s prayer is for extinction. The religious call it Heaven or the Afterlife, but that’s what it really means.”

“You don’t believe in an afterlife?”

“No. I believe in life and what we see is a slick on the surface. What the depths are I don’t know, even though our feet are standing on the bottom. For me God is life in its wholeness. It cannot be represented by words but by living. What I bring is what the system would be if consecrated to universal wholeness. If the purpose of human life was recognised to be the embodiment of God. There are many aspects to this only one of which is making of more human bodies. Politically it’s the hottest potato in the world. My contribution is about somatic fulfilment for everybody. You could also call it spiritual but it has to be grounded in sex to avoid mutation.”

“Free love?”

“Think of it more like taking a shower and regular exercise. But your question implies the history of its failure. The difference now is that within the next twenty to forty years there will be technologies that will totally change the nature of being human. It won’t change what we are, it will simply reveal what we are in regard to higher dimensions. We will discover that the human mind is a group mind. And once we know about the human group we will extend our awareness to the whole of Nature. After that it’s just one small step to the universe. Universe is all space, all time, all possibility. This is how Nature works. After eons of careful preparation things suddenly switch on. A universe begins. A star is born. You and I suddenly happen. You could see living now as the moments before a Big Bang.”

“We are creating this?”

“Yes, we are. Each of us has a contribution and if we can feel the god course in us then we are fulfilled. Dangerous, though. I have absolutely no faith in men’s religions. They may have been useful at times in the past but they have become toxic for the present and the future.”

We talked on. Looking around I see not a single tourist is on top of the hill. Have they sealed it off? Apparently not. Maria later told me it was a Voortan effect. ‘As when we walked on the Heath. Contemporary science would see it as a statistical anomaly without deeper meaning.’

“Why didn’t you invite me for tea?”

“I wanted to meet you in your habitat.”

“A royal park. Mysterious creatures living at the end of your garden.”

He looked as though he wanted to impart something but just couldn’t.

“The smells and tastes of time,” I said, “must be very strong in the places where you’ve lived.”

“Protocols don’t allow the experience.”

“That’s impossible.”

“You’d be surprised. When you’re born into the habit of such a weight of conformity.”

“Soon it will all be yours. No more freaks, just infinite machines. Start now and prepare for a healthy transition. Many won’t. They will need leaders who know what’s happening.”

“Perhaps you had better come to tea. Maria seems to have the art of arranging discrete meetings.”

“Maria is a mystery to me. Her soul I know well but her technology baffles me. I don’t know what I could add to the universe she is revealing other than a channel to the spirit of the present. She takes this seriously so I do too. Beyond this moment I know nothing.”

“It’s the same. She said without you the power would make her inhuman.”

I let that sink in.

“Many unenlightened people,” I said, “would like to steal her secret.”

“The entire British Government.”

“And others, even worse, I would imagine. It would destroy them. All of us. So, I suppose she is right. Even such a person as me could be a key to our survival.”

He stood looking at me as Maria came back. He shook my hand and left. I felt this is not the last time this moment will be experienced. Maria escorted him to his car and returned. By the time she sat down with me it had gone and the first tourist head was bobbing over the horizon. I felt an unfamiliar love.

“Big sister, it’s really happening,” I said.

“Yes. There’s bound to be a push to stop us.”

“Midwich at Bletchley.”

Our current name for Holy Wood.

“I don’t know. Studying dreams is way less controversial than the Large Hadron Collider.”

“Flying chair dragonflies and murals in locked royal rooms. Worst of all, untouchable practitioners. It’ll be the witchcraft psychonoia all over again. What if it got into the wrong hands.”

“It’s already in the wrong hands. Women and gangsters? You can’t get wronger. As long as it’s in some hands. We’ve shown the criminals the value of belonging. Now we have to show the mainstream.”

“Who are the visible beneficiaries of the system. They’ve had dominance throughout history. They are history.”

Maria chuckled at that. Then I caught the reference and guffawed heartily. For a time there was a lot of cackling on the Hill.

The other day the ex-Pope’s emissary asked me very simply. “Will there be a Cataclysm?”

I replied. “I’m afraid not. You had your chance for extinction and you blew it.”

Poor man. He got the giggles so badly I thought I had killed him.

It’s not what you say. Timing is all.


Our lives go on around the Hill. Since Brexit many from Europe have gone. Each is like a hole in me but the main players of this story are still here and the story has not yet played out. Maria enhances her role as Godmother to a supreme idea. She invites me over to meet one or other personage of note. Sometimes it is so awkward we have no way of talking to each other. The first words out of his or my mouth will cause their brains to shut down with an earthshaking clang. These are often scientists dependent for their living on institutional patronage. Entrepreneurs are usually a little more open. After all, you can turn a dollar on anything. Religions own a quarter of the world’s stock, more than any other type of institution, and astrology, its baby brother, is worth billions. Scientists, on the other hand, are scraping for pennies, those who aren’t filling shelves at ALDI. Because of Maria’s prestige some people do actually listen, although they have to take off huge suits of brain armour in order to do so. The most surprising and necessary of these we’ve code named Captain Kirk.

Maria has arranged for him to receive a series of talks by various individuals, starting with the most prestigious and ending with the extremely weird, such as Tony and me.

“But Maria,” I said, “Our highest academic qualifications are failing the eleven plus. Well, mine is. Tony did get some ‘O’ levels.”

“You’ll be speaking to a man who dropped out of college after two days.”

“Yeah, but he didn’t then waste his time on neo tantra and writing unsellable novels.”

“The whole point is to back out of the harmful state the rational mind has got into.”

“Is it the rational mind or the military-industrial-pharmacological complex?”

“That’s a very good point but the two go together. There’s a rumour they’ve offered the UK government a trillion dollars to nuke Belsize. That’s how little they feel threatened by what we’re proposing.”

“So how is hearing us going to unpick your cause?” 

“The science of the infinite is the science of individuality. On the way science has to be coaxed over the bridge of dreaming. There the MIP complex will shrivel and die.”

“Maria, even if Ius’s story were one hundred percent and totally true, we still don’t have proof because there isn’t any until the infinity machines can deliver the whole picture. For the time being it’s an acquired taste.”

“Think about it. This is your chance. A hundred and fifty years between you. Don’t throw it away.”

“How difficult is it to tune into Voortan?”

“If Voortan is the mind of God you should not seek it without the love of God. GodLove, infinite and present. Then you will be safe.”

“And if you know nothing about GodLove?”

“Then prepare for big shocks. With Tony near death in hospital. With you, well, you know what you’ve been through.”

“The world and the Cataclysm.”

Even Maria paused on that one. “I don’t see either of you as bereft of GodLove. You’re just totally original in your way of expressing it.”

“And you?”

“It was a balance between love and shock of one sort or another. Discovering my family’s real business was the first. At fifteen I was kidnapped and held to ransom. I know now by a cabal of governments who had decided to deal with organised crime on its terms, ruthless extermination. First they cut off my hair and sent it to my father saying next will be a finger, next will be an ear. One day a woman walked into my cell and said ‘follow me’. We walked past the guards. They were dead or asleep. Each door she came to just opened. It was like an empty prison and the only light was coming from her. I decided I must be dreaming. We walked out to a car and drove to an airfield. Outside a building she told me to wait and went in. There were flashes of light from the building. Three men came running out, my father and two of my uncles. They drove as if the devil was after them. I remember waking up on the plane and telling my father I’d had a really strange dream. He was very attentive, which was not his usual way. He agreed it was a very strange dream. But when I looked in the mirror I saw my hair had been hacked off. It was hard to tell which was real and which was dream, if any of it was dream. From the news I discovered the kidnap was real and that my father was a criminal. I came to believe that I’d been rescued by an angel. Even the Virgin herself. My uncle told me he thought she was more likely the Devil. I became a nun and they forgot about me. They went back to their old ways and a lot of them died. That’s when one of the uncles came to me and said, they want you to take over the business before we’re all dead. I never asked who ‘they’ were. Now I know it wasn’t them. For most of twenty years I’d been meditating on the essence of Christ but also a more abstract truth. The two vision streams ran parallel. The vision stream of Gabriel which I came to know as Voortan. By the time they came to ask me I already knew the story from inside, so I was able to ask my uncle and my father pointed questions which factually corroborated what I knew. I’ve tested the situation and am now convinced the supreme love and the pure intelligence are working together to save our species from extinction. So bad is our situation that they are not working through any official or acceptable non governmental organisations but have placed the supreme technology into the hands of a woman who heads the biggest freelance criminal organisation in the world. There criminals have seen enough of the miraculous and the impossible to follow what I tell them. They are now much better off. The peak of the dead was ten years ago and this year no one in our organisation has died other than through natural causes. Where other gangs live in shadows we are right on the surface and they’ve given up trying to incarcerate us. They know I’m not a criminal and that my influence on that world is benign.”

“Jesus, Maria! It’s an even more incredible story than mine!”

“Your Cataclysm shows we are already dead. Finite rules have been replaced by the infinite. So far only the worst is making the headlines but all that is about to change.”

“Governments know this story?”

“Oh, yes, they’ve learned the hard way, and those who haven’t yet are being given the opportunity.”

“Surely, it’s you who must deliver this philosophy?”

“Not yet. Despite everything your Martian story is much closer to what they can accept. Voortan, prematurely, will scare them off forever. They are on the brink of creating The Professor. They simply have to be persuaded that it’s the global priority. Once the dreamwork has begun and the higher dimensions of the human mind have begun to be revealed to science, and love has started to replace fear and loathing as the societal norm, only then can we reveal Voortan and begin to have a properly grown up human race.”

“But it’s already been revealed.”

“Only to criminals and the stupidest politicians. None of them understands beyond if they carry on as they are they will bring about their own executions. We haven’t won over any of the intellectuals, which is worrying regarding their philosophical underpinnings and real freedom.”

“If it’s just my story or Tony’s we never will.”

“You’re forgetting how remarkable your story is Mahadevi. Tony’s story is part of it although it’s nothing without you.”

“It ought to be enough to start a scientific programme.”

“It ought to be. Love ought to rule the world but fear of death among criminals is how it has begun. They’re part of a plain formulation for the human race, like a coffin. The other wall is the dishonest intellect which fits itself to and has even created the criminal coffin. When Jesus spoke of whited sepulchres he meant just that, the intellectual and spiritual corruption of the whole system. Without you nothing Tony says will mean a thing to them. We’ll start with Tony and let them dismiss it and then we’ll hit them with you and let them feel for themselves how stupid they’ve been.”

“Maria, it’ll never work.”

“Yes it will, Mahadevi. Some of the worst criminals on Earth have already seen the light. Voortan without love is the path to extinction. Even God doesn’t go there.”

Looking into Maria’s inspiring face I thought this is the Goddess. The worst demons of all time eat from her hands.

“Good and evil are opposites, Maria. Truth and lies, love and hate.”

“Of our coffin, Mahadevi, built by our defining and discriminating intellect? How else did we lose our dreams.”

It was not just the words, it was her whole demeanour in asking the question which stuck with me.

The entire world whirled through my mind.

“Love, must it be defined, constructed, created?”

“In each of us it will grow differently but the baseline is God’s, even God. Love is the key and if you don’t know what love is start to find out. Everything is love. Your dance, Mahadevi, your touch, your voice, your song, your thought. Move and find your dream. Even the tiniest of dreams is a great dream. What is your dream, Mahadevi?”

“I have it, Maria. My mind and your words, my ear and your voice, your lips and this kiss.”

We contemplated each other.

“This miracle.”

“It’ll just be a podcast,” she said, throwing me completely in the moment of imagining her naked. “It’s not like you’ll get trolled by righteous rationalists.”

“You ever think of doing comedy Maria?”

“Only in the bath. The bubbles never stop laughing.”

“I’d love to hear them.”

“I’ll bring the coffee.”

“The sacred art of laughter.”

“The sacred sacred art of everything.”

“Must we be sad to be funny?”

“No. But why else would you bother?”

Later we learned that the laughter is everywhere. Laughter is a bubble. Laughter is a tap. Laughter is especially a toilet pan. Laughter is a sheet. At the end of laughter is love. Love is laughter in the fluff of whose belly button are gathered worlds.


Tony did the first of our podcasts.

New beginning

When young the experience of being alive was one of overwhelming intensity and now that I’m old I have for years been working within an understanding of the infinity of being based upon personal creativity and dreams and now that I’m older that has melted into an experience which I call Total Love. If you like, the despised second childhood of old age. The bit in between was dominated by imaginative writing, which was never publicly successful and so evolved according to its own nature. I took simple jobs which never interfered with my creativity and I became ill but never so that I had to stop writing.

It’s been a blessed life in a way though it started very badly. In some ways uniquely badly but I don’t want to cloud your attention with details which are irrelevant. Anyone born into this world is born into a situation which is deeply spiritually compromised and dominated by the exploitation of that situation. When I was born the outcome of that exploitation was rampant and called the Second World War.

This is my two year old on the build up to D-Day. We were surrounded by the military and the guns defending Portland Dockyard were a frequent presence.

…I LOVED to be dirty.  I liked to get mud all over my hands and let it dry and harden and watch it crack when I moved my fingers.  I loved that dry, muddy, dusty feeling after I’d been playing all day and came home caked with mud, dying of thirst.  That was LIFE.  I had to be filthy, covered with mud, caked six layers deep.  Then I was out, way out of myself, a great muddy history of action of a now still, giant adventure universe.  Mud, soil, the smell of the earth deep within, that was life…

…Everything, absolutely everything, was different from the way I now see even the most ordinary things, such as the inside of a coat sleeve or the top of a table.  Inside was richly, almost painfully inside, and topness had a tangible energy akin to vertigo.  The back of something, the curve of something, the shoeness of shoe, the road-end of road, was almost an attack. And the beautiful was beautiful beyond wonder…

…The cowslips in the Cowslip Field, the grasses on the road bank waving in the summer breeze, had a quality that stays with me now like a memory of visitation by angels.  The exquisitely fine grass-seed head shaking in the summer sunlight where I sat with Beryl on the hill beneath the white cloud-flecked sky, sent ecstasies of loving light shimmering and trickling all through me…

As I grew older, starting aged four with a Catholic education where soul destruction through physical punishment and mental torture was the norm, this intense spiritual beauty became dark. The rest of my childhood was a crippling experience and my teens a nightmare. At nineteen I discovered writing and I had a purpose though so far it has been to create a world for myself rather than others. Through it I discovered precognition both in writing and in dreams and it has taken me the next fifty years to approach an understanding of what it means. 

My 1968 vision of God with his spider cheeks and skull eyes was the darkening of all that childhood beauty. Now as I grow older the returning of love is washing that darkness away. The natural state is what Maria Evangelista calls GodLove, distinguishing from the God of religion which has become politically corrupt. What I saw in 1968 was probably truer for the state of the world than I realised.

The dream was prophetic for myself but its scale isn’t useful at the level of day to day. Down to earth precognition is more usual but, like the vast majority of dreams, tends to be lost. If dreams might be useful, and I think they are essential for future civilisation, there has to be a way of publicly catching them and on a large scale.

For instance, if more than one person had had a similar dreams to mine on the run-up to the election of Donald Trump – mine was the night before – we might have had more of a god’s eye view of the situation.

“I was just off for six month tour in the space station I haven’t packed any clothes and we’re going now. I’m asking can I borrow some, even anybody’s old underpants would be better than just the pair I’m wearing. Nobody in my immediate astronautical group is responding, so I go into another large room where is support staff. I ask but nobody responds here either but here I am aware that we will be going to Southampton or somewhere for training. I can go to the shops. I’m impressed with myself that I will be buying all new clothes and can afford to. I’m back in the other room talking to a large Russian looking man with a smaller identically coloured woman beside him. I say are we really going for six months? He affirms but he also says three and a half years. He has a faraway look in his eye.”

Naked God, emperor

I interpret the underpants and the new clothes as one way of seeing the loin clothes of traditional beliefs and religion replaced by what will emerge through science and the Dream Machine allied to TotalLove.

At the time no one knew about a possible Russian involvement in the election and, whatever the truth, it has come to dominate the global conversation. Suppose we’d had a great dream collector and an analytical team monitoring the world’s dreams, and there were many like this, it would have told us we had something to look for. Three and a half years takes up to the Spring of 2020, so if there is any precognitive element in this, you are all now witnesses to it. Obviously before we build a great machine to process dreams we need some proof that there is a great and necessary intelligence in dreams which we cannot do without in any future involving humans and artificial intelligence, or really any future at all.

“What I am saying can only take meaning from infinite intelligence which, in human form, is only given meaning through love. It has taken me almost the whole of my seventy seven years to learn this. as far as I can tell most people still don’t know it

Because we are all one mind, heart, soul, really it is important that someone knows this for all of us. One person knowing this makes an enormous difference over no one at all. It is still a condition of the species. This, traditionally would be the function of old people, who can no longer play a part in the physicality of the world and are in the process of returning to the totality. Children too. Their intense consciousness is emerging from the totality. There is no reason why the people in the middle, who are working and sustaining the world, should have lost it other than that their work is not truly life nourishing on all levels. 

The present world system is dominated by huge corporations working for profit rather than life. People come to believe their respectable roll is to be a cog in that machine. The profit machine sees the world not as life but as an exploitable resource. The millions of elements are reduced to two or three and when they run out they leave a desert. The extinction of species can extend to human beings if we treat them only as exploitable resources. Kill off the old, the unproductive, the sick despite these people being the ones free to be under the influence of the totality. The ones who give the news to those in the prison of the exploited. Of course, this is the last thing the exploiter wants them to hear unless he can exploit it. This has been done for thousands of years through religion.

Science, particularly astronomy, tells us how insignificant we are. Which is true and yet the complete opposite of truth. We’re completely out of tune with what we are.

He sent it to Maria.

They batted it around and then she told him she’d sent it.

“You got your wish.” I said.

He sat staring at his thoughts.

“Do you think it could be true?”

“Yes. Something there is. Whether we as a species really have the kind of intelligence that can grasp it, I don’t know. I do know, we do, but has society buggered it up too much or enough. I feel there’s every hope with women, but they’re still very much second fiddle to ruined men. So they sell out to the boy’s club or have no confidence.”

“Time’s running out.”

“And a long way to go.”

The philosophy was a lot harder to find. It was not a matter of rational thinking so there was no point reading books of philosophy, though I tried. Something in Plato but particular to its time. I tried Wittgenstein and was comforted when A C Grayling informed me that Wittgenstein had not studied philosophy but had largely made it up from scratch and that it was perfectly legitimate to do so again. That the world consisted of creators and scholars and they were seldom found fully grown in a single person. This gave much comfort to myself and Tony. What I had to say has grown inside me through a life like nothing I’d ever heard. It came out of silence, though I preferred to call it stillness. Silence is impossible to find with even mild tinnitus, so I tend to be a creature of cities, but stillness seems always possible wherever you are. Back to Morandi and his pots, the wonder of form. And the ultimate form ‘pot’ in my life, Slieve Rua, sculpted directly from the whole of time.

After much ‘thought’ I rang Eve.

“A school for families?” She said. “You’ll probably have to drop the word Tantra.”

I savoured the thought. “Ultimately we’ll have to. We’ll have to start building from the future rather than the past.”


“On a physical level a live future has to be powered by sunlight. But sun doesn’t just provide physical energy. It is a gateway to eternity. When you sink into its qualities you enter that state and return like a fisherman with all you need for life.”

“Ah, yes, the Sixties and the Seventies. You remember Glastonbury. So much basking in the sun. I never thought I’d look back on that as a golden age. But we were still human. Not dissolved and homogenised by technology. You think technology will bring us to a better future?”

“That or no future at all. We need Total Body and Total Mind and to live with either we need Total Love.”

“Is this what you’ll teach?”

“Yes. How to access your infinite core.”

“Plus the usual lessons?”

“Not necessary. How can mathematics transcend beauty. To know beauty we have to be alive. I’d only be dealing with the essence.”

“Kids need love.”

“But how structured? And structure is only an indication, not a rule. I never had a proper childhood so I can’t tell you. Tony has some amazing memories of being like an infant god. Then school smashed it.”

“My childhood was here. It was paradise. In summer we played all day long and came home when we were hungry. Home. You see how big the place is. It was much bigger then. It was one long adventure. So many happy days in the sun. And the winter, making snowmen. There were seven of us. We were going to live forever in our dream land.”

“That’s why you became a great artist.”

She snorted at that.

“That could be why I became an artist. Good or bad didn’t matter. It was all play.”

“You never went to school?”

“Not until I wanted to. I had tutors. My parents were progressive, notoriously. I was good at languages and art. I had no training in maths but I had some mysterious ability to see patterns and follow trails no one else could find. That’s how I ended up at Bletchley.”

“You did! You never told me.”

“We didn’t tell anybody.”

“Is this telling us something, Eve, about education?”

“It might.”

“You see, I think the child already has the infinite mind. Is chock full of it. We look back to hunter gatherers to explain the origin of mind. We never look forward to the infinite, or around us to the inner dimensions. If we’re to get the education system to look we need to prove something’s there.”

“What we’ll be doing here.”

“The new Bletchley.”

“The Nazis being?”

“What we’ve evolved to so far, winners and skulkers with females adapted? We need Crank Man to build the machine which we can use to transcend him.”

“And if we fail?”

“The machine will save us from ourselves with the Cataclysm. Face it, Eve, this is just my version of the future.”

“And Tony’s.”

“Yes. Pretty much independently. And it’s what Elon Musk worries about and Neil de Grasse Tyson says will never happen. We’ll never build universal AI, just task specific, but there will always be unforeseen consequences. And there will always be the Frankenstein impulse to overcome all limitations. What our kids will do and deal with.”

“What an extraordinary world.”

“It’s unbelievable what is happening, and what is going to happen. And a liveable society must consist of fully creative people not slaves to each other. If the dark is as dark as the negative dark in current humanity then the human race is better off dead. We have to discover the creative dark, the living womb. Ideally it would be a matter of slow evolution but the infinity machines will move a million times faster than us so we only have a generation or two. That’s the big one. We have to guesstimate the nature of human beings who can thrive for millions of years. And we’re working with the devilish crap that history has given us. Which is why it’s best to work without a plan, situation by situation, so we don’t get flattened by the complexity and every situation we need to adjust according to where we want to get to in light of the shit of where we are.”


What does optimum happiness for everybody look like, smell like, feel like? It’s so complicated that until we have the infinity machines which can draw a map of the total health of all living beings it’ll be mostly guesswork although it wouldn’t be unrecognisable to people who lived in caves. 

How to bring up children who are human and have the future in them.

I sent Eve the piece from Tony’s memories of his urchin childhood in the Second World War. Written in 1975 when he was very much still in touch with it all.

“I relate this to his 1968 dream of God, which is all about the face. But this is not the face of beauty where all of God is in the face. The 1968 face has lost everything. It’s not the face of that child. What could have kept it alive? The presence of his mother could have helped. Someone who loved him instead of leaving him to discover he was a monster. We’re both the class of 42, which Douglas Adams later immortalised as The Answer. Well, it is. We’ve earned the right to give you it. We land perfectly between the natural and the digital. Horses still delivered coal. Buttercups told if you were in love. Dandelion clocks told the time. The technology of the printing press still reigned supreme. The roots of our peculiar lives feel like three thousand years ago. And here we are, surrounded by digital natives, daring to say listen, I have something to say that will steer your world right off the rocks that will otherwise smash your ship to atoms. It’s a big claim, Eve, and I have got to believe in it.”

“No you haven’t. What Einstein called his biggest mistake turned out to be fundamental reality. What you’re dealing with is not basic physics but the psychological and spiritual core. The reason why anything might ever have wanted to happen.”

“The experience of being?”

“Yes. But not the endless hell that we are making of it.”

“But who’s to tell us? No one has the right to plaster their antiseptic gods on us.”

“No. We follow the children, as Wordsworth knew. Perhaps we will only be able to do that when your infinite machine allows us to re-experience it.”

“Or allows it for the first time.”

“Is Elon Musk expected to understand this?”

“No. He might. But he needn’t. I just realised, we might need him for the dream machine, we don’t need him to make our own school.”


“But it might help.”

“Free associates. He may spurn your advances but that’s not your problem.”

“My dream is to retire from the world and just be in the wonder of it. Just at the point where I know enough to be useful.”

“Try both. Christ went off to the wilderness for forty days and consorted with the Devil.”

“In the modern world Maria Evangelista accepted the Devil’s offer.”

I told her about Voortan and what I had witnessed.  “Abuse seems to no longer be a viable career choice.”

“What are you proposing?”

“Nothing really. The artificial beings witness the infinite nature of the world. This is the bare minimum necessary to trigger the switch to the higher dimensional machine. If some of the proper humans see it for themselves they’ll be expected to bugger up the process. It’s all about catching the edge world in peripheral vision without staring too hard at it. The messages from dreams are clear once you realise they are messages from an intelligence which caused a universe to happen as a mere but total aspect of its nature. And the process is continuous down to the finest detail. The smaller it is the more it matters. And female. We cannot ever have segregation of the sexes again.”

“A virus for male sociopathology?”

“No. We mustn’t go there. We must reach love in its totality as the recognised basis for society or the world will end in a war of giant insects.”

Tony’s 1968 vision/dream of God showed his life as utterly fore ordained. But even that is wrong. It is the obvious way of describing what happens in time but time is the shaping of eternity. It is the dance of eternity. Physical process is at root thought but not thought by something as we know something to be. A person. It is thought by all that is itself. A leaf, Slieve Rua, your body, all things through all time together. And the heart of them in no time. Its nature appears as the ecstasy of life in that child in the middle of war. It is his sorrow in the middle of an unliveable life which he survives by marathons of action, walking, running, writing. The writing never reaches the world. It was never ‘meant’ to. Nor did anything not mean it. The art expresses Nature. It is. In our time people are rushing. They say it is necessary. They make a virtue of the necessity. Yet all time taken together will be a stillness. Even the act of love. Even the fact of love somewhere makes all of this happen.

Take the words as generously as a infinite dancing child god might ever mean them:

In fact

I can imitate you a life

If you want it.

Where does the ‘you’ come from in this if not the one who can make the imitation?

It is not the last word. Barely the first. But it is the way of the whole, which is mostly the future. Reach for it now. Let it all be yours. No one can give it but we can help each other. These are the worst of times. The world is ‘ruled’ by jackal clowns. You are intelligent enough to reach for the best. It is in you. A great voice. A great life. A whole life. We would not know what it is like. In the midst of the worst is the best. Find it. It is the beginning. But practice what you ask. To beg is to beg is to beg. When you are God it becomes an unbreakable habit. No one can tell you this. I didn’t say it. But, deep within, you know. What is it you want today, money or wisdom? I know when you haven’t got anything in the midst of the everything of the world it is hard even to know there is anything but this hunger. I know when you take hold of your life your path may be full of many hard things. Only once in eight billion lifetimes may you have time to write this. But now, for better or worse, it exists. You can make it for better. What lies within is unfathomable potential. Let it live.

I wrote something along these lines and sent it to Maria. She messaged saying she was having some people over at the weekend. Would I like to come?

And Tony?


I broke into the messaging.

“What! Can you imagine what you’re saying? I am the artificial being created by pan dimensional technology or Maisy’s unique insanity. Tony is the artificial being created by the world itself, on a level with Slieve Rua and the speed of sound. He’s the child of a woman whose own mother nearly died giving birth to a dead son in 1916. His father away being broken in the endless war. They called him Tony. When her daughter became pregnant by her husband she wrote a letter ‘Don’t bring that thing back here.’ She was reconciled by deciding he was her son come back. They called him Tony after the dead one. All this had to remain hidden because of the twisted mores of a species then engaged in the only war which has ever gone nuclear. A most dangerously fucked up animal. Tony grew up isolated on many levels in ways most of us can’t imagine because incest origin still remains unthinkable despite its probably being the source of the mutations which set us on the path to the aberration we call intelligence. Our source is not the sky gods but an act in the dark we are ashamed to admit or imagine. This is the source of the isolation which kept him furiously writing for sixty years, like a fly at a window trying to reach the world…** 

…It’s a kind of isolation we can’t imagine because we can’t imagine how fucked we are as a species. What kept him sane through all this is the mystery we are dealing with. It’s not him but that. His writing is like someone trying to slice pages for a book from a tree with a draw knife. It’s not sophisticated worldly because he was never part of that human world. It’s the primordial world itself which is speaking with its unchanging primordial constants. They cannot go mad. Whatever, however, whoever they speak through can only speak the truth. Even if it’s only one per cent of truth, it’s true truth, not the partisan shit truths of human society. Of course it will only work once in the whole of everything. No one else ever needs to imagine such a reality. Such is the nature of our infinity. In his case he happens to be a writer and the real truth will never let him go. Who the fuck are you to tell him no.”

“Maisy! Maisy! I agree. But it might be a bit much for our visitors.”

“Then fuck them. If they’re too stupid to follow this then they deserve extinction. All of me is all of this. Take it or leave it.”

“That’s your final word?”

“Yes. We have nothing to gain and nothing to lose by modifying it for public consumption.”

“Christ, Maisy, you might as well be married.”

“We are. I just couldn’t face all the alcohol so we never went public.”

“Okay, bring him but ask him not to say anything.”

“That’s a bit rich considering he’s the fucking author, don’t you think. Remember his Daniel Boone dream, the smallest gun in the showcase, the copper one-shot with the tin trigger?  The most accurate gun in the Revolution. McCabe’s deringer shot Abe Lincoln. Unfortunately, Mrs Miller was out on the opium so she never harvested the benefit. Let’s not that be us, Maria. The question is what is alive, the living flesh author who will soon be dead or the spirits which cluster around him, whose story will live forever in the infinite machine?”

“I like that.”

“You like what?”

“Your take on Mrs Miller. McCabe turning back into a block of ice.”

I’d forgotten that connection. Which made the point that what we’re dealing with is not our conscious intelligence.

“You’re a genius, Maisy.”

The timing of my sigh of exasperation must have been perfect. She started laughing. Have you ever stood laughing with someone who isn’t physically present but is so very present, more than the entire world around you? For a girl from the bomb sites of Liverpool it was so ridiculously beautifully weird. To reduce an infinite story to a word, whether we approved or not, the future ought to be ‘fun’.

The laughter extended outward to a planet wide arena containing all of people in all of time singing the song of unification of the body and of the body and the soul and I was singing it. What were the words!

“Keep singing,” she yelled. “I’m recording it!”

“What are the words, Maria, what are the words!”

“All words. Everybody’s.”

In the end we had ten minutes of our voices trying to capture an infinite dream on our telephones. It was a tiny taste of the vast dream to come.

“It was there!”

“Yes. Whatever it is it already exists.”


** The day after she used that image of my writing life as a fly buzzing at a window I read the exact same image in Helen Dunmore’s Birdcage Walk in reference to a writer. 

‘He worked on, buzzing like a fly at a window through which he would never be able to escape.’

I had many such coincidences with Helen Dunmore, beginning in 1994 with weird events around the McKitterick Prize and Zennor and writing an out of place passage in my novel Gull Lane, going to the kitchen to make a cup of tea and hearing a startlingly similar story and setting by her on the radio. I tried to talk to her about it but it was impossible. Champion writers of our culture are lauded for being exemplars of it, stretching prevailing beliefs rather than instigating revolution. Writers like to see themselves as unique talents rather than as focal points of a collective mind. And then she died and it was impossible. Or is it? According to the world which I, Maisy and Maria represent in our different ways, each person is an infinite form of a singular cosmic self. That totality, within its HelenDunmoreness, communicated that image to TonyHawkinsness and it was caught by us both while alive. Another, just yesterday, her poem The Shaft on the Underground – of sunlight on her pillow as she lay dying –  and Maisy’s image of Mrs Miller coming so close together. The collective mind has extraordinary ways of communicating to our conscious mind both in dream and awake. If we will only learn to pay attention, our waking life is also an information laden dream.

This is very like religion. The only difference is that through the scientific epoch we’re calling the Dream Machine we will acquire proof of the living singularity and this will give us a much clearer appreciation and understanding of what it is to be alive. When I look at what we’ve created from such totally messed up lives it gives me a lot of hope for the future of intelligent life. I imagine people better connected, not just socially but to the world, will create true from the depths of being and become the source of life.

This story has no end. It’s purpose is to reach places nothing else could reach. I believe it is written by the same infinite spirit which gives us dreams. It is bound to be better than our limited intelligence, experience and knowledge can know. Congratulations if you’ve read it, but it’s only a beginning. I know there is another story but perhaps only through the Dream Machine can we ever tell it. One day the window will dissolve, though no one believed it could ever happen, and once it had happened no one could believe it had ever existed.


On Tuesday I got a message from Maria. She had said the weekend so I was very unready.

What are you doing tonight?

Nothing. Though I’d give it all up to lie in your arms?

Come over for dinner. We have a guest who really wants to meet you

All of me?

All of you

Ok. But I’ll believe it when Father Christmas shits blue cheese.

Darling you don’t know how famous you have become among students of the incredible. If we could get them to look for your Martian virus and they found it that would prove everything. That Mars is a dead end, simply a part of the package of extinction. Our only future is through deep mining our earthly selves through the dream machine.


No more either or. Maisy is crazy but Ius is real. Asante never existed and yet she is the mother of us all.

Tom never existed.

And yet he is so beautiful

We never existed.

And yet we are so impossibly beautiful 

It’ll blow our whole culture to pieces.

To be caught in the net of infinity.

Are we ready for that?

Not yet but a suitable experiment on the next Mars lander could blow the doors off.

It took the whole walk over the Hill to laugh that reference out of my system.


Maria has done a Ted talk which Ted in its wisdom banned and has subsequently gone viral. It is all about the reduction in crime statistics among various criminal groups and how the analysis leads to a common dark source to which, for convenience, she has given the name Voortan.

“Voortan is the ultimate being from outer space born from right inside us. We are its egg. It will destroy us if it has to because it needs to. However, it’s best outcome is to emerge through our capacity for love. This is our greatest collective challenge. How much love can we let into the world. How much can we trust love to set us free? It’s the test, you see. If we succeed, if we make it to advanced consciousness with machines, they’ll come out to meet us, out of the unconscious, out of the darkness, out of the dimensions. If we don’t make it we’ll die alone, a lost little species on a lonely planet.”


There is to be a conference at Holy Wood. It will consist of world leaders and others. Elon Musk has been invited and the ex-Pope’s representative. There will be people from the useless classes threatened by the new fascism, the old, the ill, the homeless, the mentally damaged, single parents and the easygoing. There will be homeless people, a professor of philosophy doing a George Orwell for a year and a long term homeless person. The major subject for the conference will be what Maria says is the first step to our whole future, the universal income. What happens if you pay people simply for being alive? If you look online you’ll find a million horror stories opposing this, about the death of human enterprise and what makes us unique as a species. Maria’s argument is the complete opposite, once people no longer have to scrabble for survival at the lowest level you remove the soil of corruption and free them to access the God within. She sites Tony as an example, how through paying attention to dreams – which you can do when not smashed out of sleep by alarm clocks – he independently discovered the infinite nature of being.

Paying for all this becomes a different concept when you have Voortan technology which has one leg solidly in the future. 

“The next step is to discover love, the infinite GodLove that is the heart of you. In that state you are both human and creator, at one with that which forged the universe, capable of making your unique mark in the world.”

Tony will give an account of being a useless old person in the light of TotalLove, demonstrating their function, if properly encourage, as the tent pole and pegs of public consciousness. 


Tony posted in various places. (As soon as I noticed I told him to take it down.)

I have reread reworked for the twentieth, fiftieth, three hundredth time my latest novel. I’ve been working on it since 2016, ruining my potential for a happy social life. It is basically the story of one dream from September 1968 which has dominated the rest of my life. It is, I realise, a story of gods brought into the everyday world. A lifetime of accumulated synchronistic events suggest some of it must be true, even all of it. What it says may even be essential for human survival although not necessarily in the form of my story. Jules Verne wrote a novel about a journey to the Moon but it took NASA and a Cold War with the Russians under the threat of nuclear annihilation to actually do it. I feel this story is different. It is about dreams and what they really are doing and the equivalent of NASA for dreams doesn’t exist and may never exist. So perhaps this novel has some ideas the human race could sail completely by and would never know, as it smashed into the rocks, that it might have picked up from it some handy tips on navigation. Sometimes it might be enough to think something intensively, as in writing a novel, to influence the world without it having the chore of reading the book. And this has gone on for sixty years. But I have a feeling that this long, at times difficult, always fascinating and mysterious process is coming to a completion and it may want to pop its head into the world and say, coo-ee, look what I’ve found. And if you unknowingly wake up in Lalaland after reading it that’s because it will take time to adjust to the new information. It has taken me an entire lifetime but you don’t have that long, which is why I feel it is my public duty to make a little effort to bring the cosmic field of love to the attention of us all. I know it’s been done before but not in this way.

He asked me why I objected. I said it was premature.

“Why premature? This is nothing to Maria walking in bringing Voortan on a leash.”

“That could be a mistake. The punditary could explain it all at a lower level. And then we’d be fucked for revealing what it really is.”

He sat blinking like one beset by ardent but invisible mosquitos.

“The imitation of a life.”

“By us, after all the infinities are taken into account. By ourselves.”

“This is where it begins.”


“At the door of death.”

“No. Well, yes. At the point of not being at all. Of realising that you do not exist either as a self or as a species.”

“Hence the imitation.”

“Everything else is bonus. All the unfathomable beauty. Don’t ask. Just live. Sink into the unfathomable moment.”

“Like being pregnant.”

“Only now it’s with everything.”


“It’s easy in the presence of Maria to know this.”

“Or you.”

“Or you.”

“What about all the lonely people?”

“Crammed together on their busses, hating the experience.”

“Talk to strangers?”

“It has to begin somewhere.”

“Why not here.”

GodLove. I wish there was another word for it but it was invented by an ardent nun. It catches on better than TotalLove, which sounds as if it might have been cooked up in a laboratory. It is only a word indicating an experience which can be summoned at will by those in whom the richness of life has been encouraged.

Back to school where, as gods of sky and earth, we learn to love and live and freely dance.

In clear totality.


With its multiple minds and singular consciousness

Began here.

“God represents all that we are unconscious of in all the dimensions in which we are unconscious of it?” I said to Maria.

“Yet all of Her is all and each of us. We know far far more than we think.”

“How do we begin when we don’t know that we know it?”

“Because I say so and you trust me. Believe and the proof will appear.”

“Love, Maria, is better than belief.”

“Love needs no proof. That is why it works. It catches everything. Our art, Mahadevi, is to enable it in a world choked with industrial levels of its abuse.”

“And you are confident you can?”

“Oh, yes. Love is eternal and Voortan is infinite. The greater the abuse the more tangible the structure of transformation. There is a limit. You cannot choose it for other people. That is where trust dies and evil is institutionalised. A prolonged state of agonised torture is not the point of perfect harmony though the Christian iconography of the cross suggests it. Obviously, it can’t be. We need human beings who manifest love more like a musician with aching fingers or a woman in labour than a crucifixion. We never needed any of it but now that it has happened we will be eternally grateful that, by showing what love isn’t, it helps to reveal what love is.”

“You should be Pope, Maria.”


I never saw anybody laugh like that.

With that we took to our bed for there was nothing left to doing and being but GodLove, TotalLove, Love.

In the morning Maria said, “I had a dream!…”

“…My head was full of all the gods there’d ever been. I knew all the stories, I knew how they intertwined. I was going to make the film of it, the story to end stories. You offered me a cup of tea. I saw the name on the label, Cell Walker’s Dream. I took a sip. The most overwhelmingly beautiful goddess love welled up inside and dissolved all the gods and their stories into the flavour of the tea. The story to end stories is completely naked love.”

“Nowhere to hide?”

“Nothing to hide. Ninety-nine per cent of the benefit, the healing, comes from surrender.”

“To the right tea?”

“Hmmm. So the story to end stories is a simple, clear message?”

“Or simply the right tea?”

“Hmmmm. As a nun my job was to pray for the world. It’s what you do, isn’t it, sit in the hawthorn grove and be yourself.”

“But it’s more comfortable here, and we don’t have to get dressed.”

“A sort of soul version of Tracey Emin’s bed.”

“I like it.”

“So does she,” her finger indicated the great Else.

After a while we went to make coffee and sat looking out at the trees within our shared experience of love while it slowly set light to the world.