I have insisted it be made clear that my acolyte does not type my words verbatim or live into the net. He then edits them and cuts and pastes them in. I have of course insisted that he allows me to inspect each post before it is transmitted to you. I say ‘you’, I understood that, as of yet, no one has read the thing but I am assured that some might yet. I have similar concerns about my historical novelisation which is available to read online as well.
I say ‘concerns’, I suffer no anguish of course. I rest in the halls of eternity, at one with the stillness and silence of infinity, as the dance of creation swirls around me.
Now where was I? Yes, I am forced to lodge at the Magazines Hotel, where I have commenced my instruction to largely indifferent or even antagonistic ears until I overheard a group of youngish men discussing ‘ghosts’. They were talking in an animated fashion and it was difficult not to overhear. They used a range of pseudo-scientific terminology but despite this, they possessed an open-minded approach to matters spiritual, evident when I introduced myself and they listened to my teachings with some respect. They attempted to engage in conversation, or that combination of soliloquy, asides to friends and tending to one’s phone that appears to characterise conversation among the young. It turned out the young men wanted to engage in ‘ghost hunting’. I have never been an admirer of any form of hunting - a dreadful waste of time unless one is hunting for the meaning of a particularly obscure Greek or Sanskrit expression or more importantly still, hunting for one’s own soul.
Anyhow, these gentlemen seemed to like the statements: each of us is a droplet flung from a river of light and each of us is a note within the divine harmony whose resonance draws the light immortal into temporal existence.
An older gentleman with this group, dresses in a particularly eccentric manner, so much so, that I probably fade into the background when he is present. Clearly I am beyond the vagaries of fashion – my usual dress is that of a shirt featuring a deity – or some other devotional Hindu garb, over a vest and a tweed jacket for days of rain or chill. This gentleman wore an aged suit, topped with a shock of white hair, the overall effect was that a minor official or clerical worker has returned to civilisation having been marooned for two decades. Identifying with this individual, I happily engaged in conversation with this gentleman until it transpired that, after several ales, his discourse balloons into a rant of ever increasing volume. His comments on the iniquity of television were judicious and reasoned, even if the volume and style of his delivery were not. His assertion that television was an uninvited assault upon one’s consciousness was welcomed by few in that establishment, his voice being an uninvited assault in itself, particularly when with vigorous gesticulating he ordered all to be ‘...forcibly re-educated with mind-altering drugs and crass records, just like I did to meself...’
I fell to musing at this point that I too, self-medicated myself against Maya – the temptations and lures of the world, that I have erected a lighthouse which pierces the veils of ephemera to peer into eternity. Rather like the voice of Mr Crass I suspect.
The summation of our discourse, amid some rather heated exchanges between the young men, was an invitation to assist in the investigation of a local ‘haunted house’, owned by a family member or associate of one of the group.
Little did I know that this meeting would result in such profound experiences! Little did I know that we would be angling in the lake of darkness! Little did I know that I my experiences would propel me onto a quest.
A quest to prevent Saturn strangling and devouring Shakti!
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