Today early morning, I run through the village my regular route to the Nile. People cry, “Very good, sport!” with a thumb’s up. A boy on a donkey runs beside me for a bit. Past the awakening shops to a place in the shade where sweet Turkish coffee awaits me, along with a breakfast of eggs and mashed peanuts with butter, made fresh in the village, bread, cilantro and flafel. The boiled eggs come from one man and are taken to the man who sells peanuts from a small cart, where he mixes the eggs with the crushed peanuts. This man has been selling peanuts from the cart since forever. This is life.
The sights, sounds and colors of this intimate city of Luxor, built on the east bank of the Nile. Why go over there, except to the supermarket to buy the things you need, or maybe to see some museums, okay, of course, you should see the museums, the people on the west bank say. These people have been born beneath the golden mountain where rests the kings and queens of ancient Egypt. I am living on the west bank for two months amongst interconnecting villages built on canals, interspersed with wheat fields and banana groves. I awaken to the cacophony of birds, braying donkeys and children’s laughter, call of the muezzin–and loudspeakers of people selling wares who drive by all day, various farm machines, motorcycles–everyone rides a motorcycle…but mostly birds.
I’m sorry to say I can’t recommend where I stayed, at Irie BnB, Al Bairat, West Bank. It’s a beautiful building and great location, however the woman who managed the place was a nightmare and most unprofessional. I paid two months in advance and when her behavior became so erratic and aggressive, I had no alternative but to leave. She promised to refund me for my second month but never did. I have nothing against smoking pot, however this woman smokes it constantly, even had many pot plants growing in full view on the terrace, a public space where tourists are invited to sit. This made me very uncomfortable, considering it’s illegal to grow pot in Egypt. The washing machine is on the terrace and guests are invited to use it–except when she decided I shouldn’t use it anymore. She threw my laundry on the ground and when I asked where I should hang them to dry, she responded that I should find a rope and string them up in my room. When I asked if this was how she treated all her paying guests, she laughed, used some foul language I won’t repeat and told me if I didn’t get out of the apartment immediately, she would throw my clothes out on the street. Needless to say, I left, and to this day she has not reimbursed me for my money. I’ve never had an experience like this anywhere in the world in my travels. It verged on scary and could be termed most bizarre.. She started out nice, although somewhat brusque, but it seemed once she got the money, she just didn’t care anymore how she acted. Her behavior was unethical. to say the least. I didn’t report her because I happened to fall in love in love with her brother-in-law, the man who owns the building that she and her husband manage and we got married. (He husband is very nice and seems to find himself in an awkward position). Perhaps that was her problem, she didn’t want me marrying her brother-in-law. At any rate, it’s impossible to know what goes through someone’s mind when they are so bitter and angry and I can only imagine it has more to do with her own problems within herself than anything else. Case in point, the next person who came to stay lasted about three days before she packed up her bags and left. I don’t think anyone has stayed there since.
So my advice would be stay somewhere else! There are many, many wonderful places to stay on the West Bank. After my initial fiasco, I stayed for ten days on the sandal, Amira Sudan, the most romantic of sail boats. It is where my husband and I got married. I am now moving to Luxor permanently, it has captured my heart–in more ways than one!
In a few weeks I will be taking off for two months in Egypt. It’s time to start up the blogging again in preparation….
I was last in Egypt at age ten. I can imagine much has changed since then. Of course, the monuments of Luxor, where I will be staying, will not have changed. I look forward to walking among the queens and kings and breathing in their spirits, as well as the slaves who suffered in order for those in power to gain immortality. This is the dilemma that drives me, the juxtaposition of yin and yang. Is it evil and good, or is that just how we have tried to explain it? Perhaps it is really something else that we don’t understand.
Luxor is my next stop in gaining inspiration to write Throne of Desire, book 5 in the NIGHT ANGELS CHRONICLES series. Writing six books is a lesson in endurance. It is also a spiritually uplifting experience. I found that while writing Land of Talismans, book 4, the characters truly took over the story. They are leading me on their own mysterious journey. I am learning much as I travel along.
Writing this series has taken me from Los Angeles to Istanbul, Turkey; the Sahara Desert, Morocco; Martha’s Vineyard; Lausanne, Switzerland; Sucre, Bolivia; Lake Arenal, Costa Rica; and now Luxor, Egypt. My characters represent many cultures and ethnicities, the stories are steeped in history. The themes of free will (does such a thing exist?), spirituality vs materialism, the corruption of power; the sedation of the masses, well…let’s just say it’s all in there. What would you, as an ordinary human being, do if you had the opportunity to become a god?
And what, really, does that mean–to be a god? What does it mean to be human? What is life and what is death?
We don’t know the answers to these questions, no matter how much we fool ourselves into thinking we do. To know these answers means to have the knowledge and power of what many call God…or the universe… or whatever words one wishes to use. As finite beings in an infinite universe (a concept impossible to comprehend) we theorize, speculate, believe we know, kill each other over theological technicalities, but the fact is, we are tiny ants climbing up onto blades of grass, thinking we have scaled the highest mountain when we haven’t even made it out of the backyard.
That said, it’s a lot of fun speculating and I am putting it all into NIGHT ANGELS CHRONICLES. We’ve each been allotted a certain amount of energy to put back into the universe. So, this is how I use mine. Telling stories, creating my own little worlds. And along the way, traveling where my spirit takes me to absorb all I can of the wonders of the world I live in.
What a life! We should make our lives worth living–to ourselves, which is why I have such a hard time writing in this blog. It’s all in NIGHT ANGELS CHRONICLES, it’s all in my other writings. I want people to read what I write. I want to share my little worlds and hope that others will get lost in them, too. It’s a way to find connection in the void of infinity.
Life shouldn’t just happen to us. We should give our all to creating our best adventure.
This is my best effort. And I’m loving every minute of it.
While I await the arrival of my grandson, I write Land of Talismans, #4 in the Night Angels Chronicles. These books have been inspired by my travels all over the world. This excerpt tells us more about the rebel Dante, a Yazidi by human birth. He takes Sera to Potosi in Bolivia to show her how he became a rebel.
I found we had landed on a high mountain plateau. It felt like early morning. I had lost track of time, of days. I was living outside of normal constraints, moving where I wished, on whims. On instincts, perhaps.
Wind moaned, dust swirled. This was a desolate yet beautiful place. Below us lay a red-roofed city, stretching far across a valley. At its center rose glorious colonial Spanish churches and administrative buildings. From there, the city spread and the further it went, the more tumbled-down and neglected it became. It was as if the creators of the central beauty had used the outskirts to casually toss their trash in heaps, which had then been gathered by the poor into makeshift homesteads.
Dante seated himself on a nearby rock and I did the same.
“Welcome to Potosi, Bolivia,” he said.
“Why here?” I said. I had expected him to take me to where he had been raised, in the northern mountains of Iraq somewhere.
The devil of the mountain
“Because this is the first place I came on my own, after I left the one who turned me. This is where I first practiced the ways of the rebels. It is a place of such contrasting beauty and suffering. It is a place where the piety of the church and the worship of the devil coexist, almost in harmony. What I saw here decided my path. This city was once the largest and richest in the world.”
He gestured toward the mountains behind us. “Silver mines. The Spanish got their hands on the mines. Millions of people have died, children, feeding the greed of the Spaniards. The streets down there were once paved in silver. Eventually, it ran out, but then, there were other minerals to be dug out of the earth. Humans have insatiable appetites, as do vampires.”
He stopped for a moment, gathering his thoughts. Then, he began to speak, telling me his story.
“”I am relatively young, compared to your denizen friends. I was born a human in the year 1798, in the mountainous region of northwestern Iraq. I was–I am–a Yazidi. Perhaps the most misunderstood and persecuted people in the world. Muslims and Christians hate us as devil worshipers. Most recently, the Islamic State has swallowed up our territory, forcing us to flee, convert, or be killed. Ours is the oldest religion in the world. We believe in one god, but we also believe in an angel Tawusi Melek, who defied god and served as an intermediary between man and the divine. The way we describe or refer to Tawusi Melek, Muslims somehow have decided we are talking about the Quranic description of Shaytan–the devil–even though Tawusi Melek is a force for good in our religion.”
“So, this angel is interpreted also by Christians as the devil–Lucifer?” I said.
Dante nodded. “It’s all stupid talk, you understand. All these words that divide us. Different interpretations. Lucifer is the father of us all. But where, I wonder, is our mother? Perhaps she is the ultimate god above us all?”
“That’s something I never thought of before,” I said.
“And perhaps Lucifer is just another soul like the rest of us, seeking redemption.”
I nodded. “I wonder about these things. I’ve asked Strejan, but he has few answers.”
“Strejan is a wise and learned denizen. I know you question whether you can trust the Night Angels. I believe you can trust them as much as you can trust anyone who truly does their best to live a good life under impossible circumstances. But whatever happens in the end, Sera, even if they betray you, it doesn’t mean they are any less good than you or I. Remember, they have the same trust issues about you that you have about them.”
I had never thought of it quite like this before. “It’d be nice if there was an obvious way to tell what was good and what was evil.”
“Those who look for absolutes, who claim to have found them, are the most dangerous of all.”
“It was Blanca who turned me.” He said this so suddenly, so unexpectedly, it took me a moment to even realize he had changed the subject.
Some of the heaviness fell away from Dante and he grinned. “Yeah, that little firecracker. My people have faced genocide many times over. There are only some 800,000 of us left. It was like this when I was growing up. Fear. Persecution. Hatred. When I was twenty, I made a pilgrimage with my mother and father and my betrothed to the sacred city of Lalish, as all Yazidi should do. There, on the night we arrived, I left my family at an inn and went to meet some of the men of our group. But I never got to the meeting place. In a narrow street I came upon some bandits who were attacking a group of pilgrims. I went to help them but someone pushed me aside so forcefully I was flung hard against a wall. I must have passed out for a brief moment because when I came to, I saw this hooded figure with a sword, cutting down the bandits. The figure was so small, so insignificant in stature, and yet it radiated power, like a young, vibrant star, pulsing in the cold, dead universe surrounding it. When the battle was finished and the bandits lay dead or mortally wounded, the figure turned, without even a word to the stunned pilgrims, and walked away, right past me, as if I, too, did not exist.
“I never gave a thought to my next action. I simply stood up to follow. I kept my distance, but of course I didn’t fool the warrior who disappeared around a corner and when I went to turn the corner, jumped out and grabbed me by the throat, pinning me against the wall.
“I saw with shock that it was a woman holding me with such strength that I was powerless to fight against her. Yet her features were delicate, she had such a small pointed chin that looked somehow so vulnerable. Her lips were parted and much to my amazement I saw two sharp fangs. Her eyes were black, the white surrounding them tinged with blood. From the core of her being rage and torment radiated outward like a living thing. In that moment of facing her for the first time, I felt that if she killed me, I would gladly go into eternity. To have my life taken by such a one would surely send me to a higher plane in my next existence.
“But she did not kill me. She let go and I dropped to the ground. Understand that I was a strong young man, filled with the arrogance that goes with it, yet I had been humbled to the point of obeisance. I could not comprehend what had happened to me. She walked away, still without a word. I got up and went after her.
She turned and growled like an animal–the first sound I’d heard from her lips. But she didn’t attack me again. She walked away. And again I followed her. She ignored me, pretended I wasn’t there, but I was beginning to hope that perhaps she was testing me, and that perhaps she wasn’t as adverse to me being there as she tried to appear.
I smiled. “You were already beginning to know her. That sounds just like Blanca.”
Dante smiled back. “Yes, always hiding her true feelings. I followed her out of the city to her camp, hidden between some rocks with a narrow opening. I stayed my distance, at the entrance, but I wouldn’t leave. She continued to ignore me. This went on for days, maybe weeks. I don’t remember. I followed her. She ignored me.
“What about your family, your betrothed?” I asked.
Dante shook his head. “I never went back to them. Never gave them another thought. I don’t know what they must have thought of my disappearance. It didn’t matter. This thing that had happened to me, this encounter, how could I not pursue it? One moment in time had completely altered my perspective, my reasoning, my very reason for living. All that mattered was following this otherworldly creature, wherever it led me.
“And then on night, as I lay in a kind of stupor, exhausted almost to the point of death for I hadn’t eaten in I don’t know how long, I looked up to find her standing over me. I thought it must be an hallucination. Above her dark head the stars shone like jewels. I could not see her face, only the glint of her fangs when she opened her mouth.
“She had not spoken to me, not once, but now, for the fist time since I had followed after her, she did.
“You know Blanca’s voice, her mocking tone. It was like that then, but with an underlying sweetness. ‘I think I have grown used to you. I think I must keep you.'”
Dante stopped speaking, overcome by the intimacy of what he was telling me. When he spoke again, it was almost imperceptible.
“In the moment of hearing her voice, I lost all of myself into her. To say I fell in love. What does that mean? I fell into infinity.”
“She turned you,” I offered.
“Yes. You know how it is, there is no adequate description. Except for all of us, depending on our circumstances, our need, our connection to the one who turns us, the experience is unique.”
He looked at me gravely. “Yours is the most unique of us all. To be turned by the five Night Angels. To have drunk of all their blood. To have survived.” His gaze held deep respect. “Oh how you must worry Lucifer with the potential of your power!”
His words frightened me. “Stop. It terrifies me when people insinuate such things. Just continue with your story. Please.”
He nodded. “After that, we were inseparable for perhaps one year. The battle against vampires raged. Vampires were being captured and imprisoned in crypts all over the world by denizens families. The Night Angels had not yet given themselves that name, but they were a family and I was supposed to be one of them.”
“What happened?” I asked.
Dante gathered a handful of small stones and we both watched as he let them fall slowly through his fingers back to the ground.
“I was a Yazidi, remember. I could not believe that Lucifer was evil–or anyone else for that matter. For me it was more complex. We had our arguments. In the end, Blanca and I parted ways, as I did with all denizens. But Blanca and I never lost our love for one another. And although most denizens despise and disapprove of rebels, it is different with the Night Angels, as you have seen for yourself.
“But now things are more serious. Because we have chosen different paths and because of the tensions within the denizen world, the factions, the growing distrust, the possibility of the queen escaping. Well, we find ourselves increasingly at odds with one another. Denizens have never fought against one another. Not until that night above the Gore research Institute, when we tried to free Ruben. Rebels and denizens have maintained an uneasy truce, a mutual respect. But now, sides will have to be chosen. Darker days will bring tougher choices. Denizens are impeded by their traditions, their need to assuage their guilt. Oh, it is their traditions that have given them purpose as well. It is a fine balance.”
“This path you chose that is different from denizens’, what is it?” I said.
Dante got up. “It’s why I brought you here.”
Check out the link to my essay on how I freed myself of extra baggage and took off traveling two years ago to find inspiration for my writing. Thank you Amy Oestreicher!
“It doesn’t matter if I am in a café in Phoenix, wrapped in blankets on a freezing night in the Sahara Desert, or writing with a view of Arenal volcano, four fans on full blast to keep the sweat from landing on my computer. I could be in a penthouse suite overlooking the Bosporus, or on a ferry to Martha’s Vineyard, or maybe a train across India (a goal of mine). Each space has an atmosphere that speaks to my spirit and sparks my imagination. Each view, whether dark or light, colorful or noisy, joins together to become an added layer in my life.
The shrinking of my possessions has meant the growing of my freedom. The giving up of a static living space has opened a door to the universe. I am not bound by one location, one thought or one experience. My feet move in any direction I point them, light and free. ”
I have never, quite honestly, cared much about money or possessions or having a permanent home. My books, however, have been with me for over thirty years, a few more than fifty.
These Eskrima sticks have been with me close to twenty years. Other sticks have come and gone. But these I have wrapped and re-wrapped. They are ordinary, sturdy Japanese bamboo, but they have served me well, having clashed in many battles, enduring with me and helping me stand firm.
Over the years, I have found myself whittling down my earthly possessions, although I have never been one to collect many things. I am more apt to get rid of stuff, I don’t like clutter. Traveling light suits me best.
My books, though, are irreplaceable. There is not price tag that can be put on them. For two years I kept them in storage while I traveled. Taking them out again and placing them on the bookshelf was a spiritual journey in itself. Touching each one again, leafing through the pages, transported me to so many places. Rushdie, Vonnegut, Musashi, Wilkie Collins, Asimov, Jack Vance, Du Maurier, these are some of my favorites.
Some of my favorite books going all the way back to my childhood Bible, for which I have many mixed emotions.
In my room, I have a small gathering of select books. When I travel I take one or two with me. I never go anywhere without Casey Cohen’s journal which he gave me when he died, filled with his favorite sayings, written by his closest friends. Sister Janet Harris contributed to the journal and he made sure to show me what she had written. She is the one who introduced me to Casey, considered by many to be the foremost authority at that time on the death penalty phase. I used to joke when I walked through Central Juvenile Hall with Janet, the Catholic nun, on one side of me and Casey, the Jewish atheist, on the other, that I was perfectly balanced. That balanced was gone when Casey died. He was her moral compass. This is something I have written about in Letters from Purgatory.
From Casey’s journal, Sister Janet Harris’s contribution
What Casey chose to put on the inside cover of his journal. It tells everything about who he was and why I loved him.
One of my favorite scenes in a movie is from Only Lovers Left Alive when she leaves Tangiers and all she takes on her journey is a small case with a careful selection of books. I know exactly that feeling of choosing, it is so important.
Although I am most often a cynic and a pessimist, I believe there is a spiritual realm that we only glimpse rarely and through a haze. We cannot see the big picture. It seems the more we try, by gathering what we think is “information” and “knowledge,” the more lost, confused and fearful we become.
So, I take it back to simplicity, something I learned in my marital arts training. Repeating basic moves, like reciting a prayer, brings peace, assurance and humility. I have found glimpses of infinity can be found through focusing on well-worn objects that have stood the test of time, and have been infused with energies; through powerful words (although there is danger in the power of words); and through intense physical effort, which can bring with it a complete calming of the mind.
I recently wrote a post for The Fix, where I talked about how our society is inundated with drugs and what it is doing to our children–prescription drugs as well as street drugs. This got a huge backlash from some people. They called my writing harsh, even dangerous. I understand the pressure to use drugs. It is there, everywhere, we are told we must drug our “ADHD” and “ADH” children so they can fit in and succeed. I disagree, except in extreme cases.
It is tempting to take a pill and think it will make things better. And sometimes it does. But it only puts a Band-Aid on the issue and propels the person o a journey to find the perfect drug, just the right dose. Instead of a journey to find the right spiritual practice.
Training with my daughter, on the right, and her friend, on the left.
It isn’t easy to discipline oneself to train, to meditate, to face a mountain and climb it. But it is the most rewarding of journeys. Every day I could find an excuse not to train. But each day is a lesson in overcoming, each day is a lesson in perseverance, in the beauty of putting one foot in front of the other. It is beautiful, it is the best to live in that moment, because each moment is unique and will never come again. And then, the energy that we expend in those moments becomes infused into the universe around us.
A beautiful journey.
Beautiful morning, out running the streets of Phoenix, fantasizing about the Zombie Apocalypse because those wide, eerily empty and silent streets always make me imagine hordes of zombies are about to burst around a corner (I love my imagination).
Anyway, as I ended with some jump squats, two men on bicycles, decked out in bright blue helmets and tight spandex outfits that showed off their paunches, whizzed by yelling “ribbit, ribbit!” and laughing obnoxiously.
Suddenly, instead of the Zombie Apocalypse, I was someplace far worse: back on the schoolyard with all those entitled boys, and me wanting to join in the dodge ball, basketball, and handball games and them pushing me out.
“Why can’t I play?”
“Cuz you’re a girl.”
I pushed back and got in those games, and I was as good and most times better than those boys. It makes me mad to this day that I had to “prove” myself. In fact, I realize now that they were intimidated by me. I was taller than all of them. Maybe not always as strong, but a whole lot more focused and generally more coordinated. There were a couple of boys who gave me respect, but even they never gave up the distinction that I was a girl in a boy’s game. I got made fun of constantly. I was called all kinds of derogatory terms, but the one I remember is “Mommy Long Legs” which I would now consider a compliment, but they didn’t mean it that way.
The school bully was named Bill. I know it sounds cliché, but that was really his name. Even more cliché, he had a blond buzz cut, was meaty, and turned pink under the hot sun. Bill would stand at the end of the street, just beyond the school, and demand money from everyone who needed to walk home that way. In the private world of children, where real monsters are always more prolific and scarier than imagined ones, no one said anything to the clueless adults about this.
I never gave Bill a penny. It was one of those important life lessons where I learned how to get out of a sticky situation by using my brain and not giving in to fear. Bill was lazy and hid his own fear inside his big body, preying on the weak. Except that he was really weaker than everyone else. I always managed to talk my way around Bill, confusing him with language, until before he knew it, I was gone.
You learn to pick your battles.
As for the incident this morning, if I’d been a hefty guy doing those jump squats, or if a guy had been jumping with me, not a peep would have come out of those smirking, lily-white mouths.
I envisioned chasing after them, pulling them off their bikes and grounding their smirking mugs into the pavement. Making them apologize, not to me because what do I care, I’m a fighter who can well defend myself, but to all the little girls they must have intimidated on the schoolyard and then the women in the workplace and just generally in everyday life that they must somehow feel they have the right to lord it over.
Ah, the satisfaction of making them grovel.
I used to train with some British Kyokushin men who would come to Los Angeles every summer. I was the only women “allowed” to train with them. These guys were tough, seemingly oblivious to pain. The workouts were grueling, probably the hardest I’ve ever experienced. That’s why I liked them. It was freeing to train like that, to have all thought of differences in sex or ability fall away. I do remember one time when the guy who led the class, a scrappy fellow with a heavy cockney accent, tough as nails, half my height, yelled out, “Come on, don’t fucking hit like a bunch of girls!”
I was right in the front row, in the middle. No one reacted, I didn’t think anyone but me realized he had made a faux pas. But then, maybe to them I wasn’t a “girl.” But then, what was I? Should I have taken it as a compliment that they didn’t put me in that category? Of course not. Still, I didn’t say anything. I didn’t throw a fit, demand an apology, or walk out in a huff. I just kept on training.
Again, you pick your battles. I was already doing something that most women never get the chance to experience. My actions spoke for me because afterwards, a couple of the men came up to me and apologized, explaining their fearless leader came from a rough background and wasn’t all that educated in proper etiquette.
“He didn’t mean it that way.”
I didn’t want to say, “What way?” I just left it at that.
As I did with the twerps on the bikes. I didn’t attack. I continued to jump my way home. Ribbit, ribbit….
And then, I did the same I did with Bill. I used my brain and wrote these words.
As writers and artists we have unique opportunities to change the world.
Check out my article in Night Owl Reviews about the win-win opportunities of social activism.
Book of Angels, volume two in the NIGHT ANGELS CHRONICLES, opens with Sera’s Turning. In order for her to survive, she is given the blood of the five Night Angels and she becomes one with them and sees their terrible pasts. This gives Sera her first real understanding of who they are.
Blanca is the NIGHT ANGEL who Sera feels hates her and wants her dead. In Key of Mystery, Sera thought that Blanca must be Peter’s girlfriend, but she finds out this isn’t so. Their relationship goes back hundreds of years. Sera still doesn’t find out what happened all those years ago, that will have to wait for another book. But this is what she does now know:
- As a human, Blanca was a gypsy, or a “traveler” would be a better term. She was thought to be a witch and was a victim of the Catholic Church, at a time just before the official start of the Spanish Inquisition in 1478. All of the Night Angels suffered terribly as humans before they became vampires, but for Blanca, that suffering was the worst. She was tortured and thrown in a trash heap, left for dead.
- Sera doesn’t get any insight into how Blanca ends up in the court of Sultan Mehmet II, in the Ottoman Empire. But once Blanca is there, Sera sees how Blanca meets Fabian Gore, Peter, Strejan, Malek and Marianne. Together they fight as Janissaries in the Sultan’s army. The Sultan is the one who turns Blanca and the other Night Angels into vampires.
- Sera doesn’t yet understand why Blanca hates her so much, but she struggles with her own hatred of the Night Angel. However, as she begins to get to know Blanca better, a grudging respect and even compassion unfolds. When it comes time for them to go on a mission together to find out if the Queen is still imprisoned in the Life Box in St. Catherine’s Monastery, Sera and Blanca make an uneasy pact. Sera begins to wonder if she isn’t misinterpreting Blanca’s hatred and it is really about something else.
- There is one more interesting fact about Blanca that Sera finds out in Book of Angels, but I will leave that for readers to discover for themselves! It will be interesting to see how Sera and Blanca’s difficult relationship unfolds throughout the series!
Here is an excerpt from the time when Sera, Peter and Blanca are about to embark on their journey to St. Catherine’s Monastery in the Sinai Desert. Blanca doesn’t want to take Sera and an argument ensues, during which Sera discovers some important things about Blanca’s character and the bond between the Night Angels:
Blanca groaned impatiently. “Why must we take her?”
“Be quiet,” said Peter with a growl.
I was desperate to stall for time. I didn’t care if it made Blanca angry. “What I want to know it, am I going to have to listen to you two fight the whole time? Because it’s fucking boring. How do you even keep it going for hundreds of years?”
Peter pretended surprise. “Fight? Us? Perhaps on occasion, like everyone, but never on a mission.”
“We’re on a mission and you’re fighting.” I raised my eyebrows. “Hello?”
“Shut up,” said Blanca, adjusting her sword on her back.
“Whatever,” I said.
“Whatever,” Blanca mimicked. And under her breath, she said, “Ignorant Oak Haven bimbo.”
I had literally taken off into the air to attack Blanca, but Peter grabbed me and slammed me back onto the ground.
Blanca folded her arms, chin raised triumphantly. “See that?” She walked right up to me, while Peter restrained me. “Let’s get one thing straight, baby. I don’t like you. I don’t trust you. I don’t want you here.”
“That’s three things.,” I said through gritted teeth.
One corner of Blanca’s mouth turned up slightly. And then she laughed. Peter let me go, and I glared at him. I didn’t know which one of them made me angrier.
“An irritating little thing, isn’t she?” said Blanca.
Peter grinned. “Yes, she is.”
Blanca turned back to me. “Peter and I might have our problems. But we trust each other. And we have each other’s back. We have fought together for hundreds of years. When we’re on a mission, we put our differences aside. I’m willing to do the same with you. Think you can reciprocate?”
I just stared at her, saying nothing. I hated her so much.
Peter reached toward me. I flinched, but he put his hand on my arm gently and I calmed down. “Maybe you don’t like Blanca’s rough ways, but she’s telling you something important. When you’re in battle, there’s no one better than Blanca to have at your side. Do you understand?”
“No, I don’t!” I jerked away from him resentfully. “Why should I? This is all crazy! But still, I’m trying. And what do I get for it? I get made fun of, insulted. By everybody! You treat me like dirt, Blanca, and I’m supposed to take it?”
“Pretty much, yes,” she said. “You’re the runt of the litter. You have to pay your dues.”
“Okay,” said Peter. “Can we do this? Can we all agree to put our differences behind us while on this dangerous mission?” We nodded. “Great. Now, humans would call what we are doing teleportation. As I said, we call it the Passage. You are a denizen, Sera. This means you know yourself on a molecular level. You will easily navigate the Passage.”
I sighed. “If you say so. I’m ready, let’s get this over with.”
The next thing I knew, I had leapt into the air with the two of them, my mind on St. Catherine’s Monastery, and I found myself hurtling through the Passage, horribly aware of every atom in my body and the indomitable forces of the universe that were trying to pull me apart.
Painting by Theodor Aman
A BEAUTIFUL WORLD…AND A VIOLENT, FEARFUL HUMAN RACE
Here I am in this little Pueblo in Costa Rica, overlooking Lake Arenal. Book of Angels was just released, volume two in the Night Angels Chronicles, and I’m doing publicity. I have jumped into the infinity pool. Like Sera in the River Styx.
The cries of the suffering rise to heaven and I’m doing publicity.
Even as a child, I heard those cries. At night, I used to run to my dad’s study and plead with him to tell me why there was so much suffering in the world. But he could never give me a satisfying answer.
THE WORLD HASN’T GONE MAD, HUMANS HAVE ALWAYS BEEN MAD
The world isn’t mad. The world is just fine. Humans are mad and we always have been. Why is anyone surprised by what is happening in the world right now? Look at history! Look at the history of the human race FOREVER. It has been one act of madness after another.
The majority of people in the world! They suffer horribly and constantly, with little relief. If one child is blown up by a bomb; if one child is raped; if one child is told mercilessly, over and over for their entire childhood by a disturbed adult who also suffered horribly as a child, that they are worthless…that is one child too many and it can never be corrected.
We can’t make it better. There is no justice, only compensation.
BUT HOW ABOUT ALL THE INSPIRING STORIES OF SELFLESS ACTS OF COURAGE?
We love to hear inspiring stories of acts of courage. The problem is, in order for an act of courage to occur, something terrible needs to have happened. first We exalt people who perform courageous acts in war. But this is what I want to know: Why does a war have to happen, why does hell have to open on earth for us to start acting courageous? Why does someone have to be drowning so that someone else can save them?
Why does it have to be this way? Is it some kind of perverse spiritual law? Good and Evil, yin and yang must be balanced?
Action and reaction.
Something bad happens, therefor something good happens.
Lazarus died. Jesus took compassion and brought him back to life. How wonderful. But Lazarus died again, didn’t he? In fact, he had to go through the experience twice. Did he suffer again the second time? What was his second death like in comparison to the first?
I am most interested in how Lazarus felt about dying again. Was his fear of death worse or had it taken his fear away?
Because that’s what this is all about. The fear of death. The fear of the unknown.
FEAR OF THE APOCALYPSE
Christians talk about the apocalypse. It was a big topic in our family and in our church, one that struck hear into my heart. The elders claimed to be authorities on the apocalypse. Elaborate charts were made, based on in-depth studies of Revelations. The conclusions they reached came right from the mouth of God.
I have news for you. For the majority of people down through history, and for most people right now, they experience the apocalypse in their everyday lives.
Imagine telling someone in Dachau, “hey, no worries, the apocalypse hasn’t happened yet!”
Oh yes, it happened. It happened for the people in concentration camps; it happened in the trenches of WWI; it happened for those killed by Stalin.
It is happening in Syria, in Turkey, in Nigeria, in Lebanon.
For every police officer and every black man killed in the United States; for every child that is shot up in a school…they and their families have experienced the apocalypse.
It’s happening right now as I write. In Munich, shooters killing in a McDonald’s, and they say it’s happening in other locations in the city. If they turn out to be Terrorists, they are not afraid of death. I would like to learn more about this attitude towards death. Because, we are all going to die. They obviously have a different outlook towards what that means.
I’m trying to make sense of it. But really, how can I?
“Experts” analyze the “facts” and draw conclusions, even though they are just as disturbed as everyone else and just as influenced by their personal agendas. How quickly they are called upon and they gather around like vultures, feeding off the carcasses, because this their chance to make a splash in our media-driven society. Who wouldn’t want to rise above the masses, to make their life have a little more meaning by becoming the new pundit. Put a new spin on an old thought, so that people go, wow, this must be true. Get yourself on the hottest late night talk show and expound.
It’s the Hunger Games.
It’s the Roman Colosseum.
It’s American Football.
It’s the Nightly News.
Has anyone seen the movie, The Year of Living Dangerously? I watched those shadow puppets, mesmerized. It powerfully illustrates how blind we are, how we only understand the world through a “glass darkly.”
What then must we do?
Life is suffering.
This modern-day obsession that we were born to be happy is a joke. What is that based on? Where is the proof? Show me. To believe this is an insult to every person who has grown up in pain and suffereing. It is an insult to every person who has grown up oppressed. I don’t think there are any children who when asked what they want to be when they grow up responds with: I want to be a murderer; I want to be a drug addict; I want to live in a ghetto and fear for my life; I want to be raped and tortured to death…. Every child wants the same things: a safe home; a family that loves them; food on the table; maybe even a story read to them at night. But most never know what any of that means.
I’m sorry, is that depressing?
TRAVELING INTO MOMENTS OF HAPPINESS
I don’t find it depressing. I find it to be liberating. It allows me to be honest. It means I’m not trying to fool myself out of desperation, or justify my elitist and separatists ideology.
If I can sit for a moment in peace.
If I can watch a sunset without distraction.
If I can find stillness in the storm.
That moment is everything. It lives forever when I let it be.
But the moment I start to think of that moment…it is gone. Another moment has taken its place. And then another. I can never capture a moment in time. I can only look back on it. But looking back is also another moment in my life.
MARTIAL ARTS TRAINING
I learned this in marital arts. I train to stay focused. To discipline my body and mind and to uplift my spirit. I train to feel, in each moment, that I am connected to the energy of the universe. It is my way of being. Everyone can find their own way.
I travel for the same reason. To connect with life. I am free of possessions. I live simply and without constraints. In this, I have been fortunate. Most people don’t have such an opportunity.
MOMENTS PASS LIKE CLOUDS IN THE SKY
Each moment of pain or pleasure, joy or sadness, comes and then it is gone. They cannot be brought back. If I experience one moment of peace and joy, I am fortunate. I am blessed.
Trump? Clinton? Do you really think anyone can reach that pinnacle of power without selling their souls to the highest bidder?
Imagine if we all shrugged and turned our backs on power. Imagine if everyone found beauty in small things.
When we pursue that path to the top, we are either destroyed by the journey or we slowly but surely compromise every bit of integrity we’ve ever had.
Of course, we tell ourselves that we haven’t. Humans are very good at telling ourselves stories and believing them with desperation.
At the end of the day. all the wealth and power won’t mean anything. We come into this world naked and we go out the same.
THE SECRETS TO THE ORIGINS OF LIFE
It is a mystery that I explore in the Night Angels Chronicles.
What if we could discover the Secrets to the Origins of Life? What if, by opening a book, we could gain the knowledge of God? What if we could answer the questions to the basic mysteries of life that, with all our supposed advancement, we are no closer to answering?
How Did We Get Here?
What Happens When We Die?
What IS Life??????
We see through a glass darkly, but then we shall see face to face.
Should humans, in our present state, know the answers to these questions?
How dangerous would that be?
But perhaps, knowing the answers, we would then rise to the highest level of consciousness. So, what is keeping this knowledge from us and why?
Isn’t this lack of knowledge and our obsession with knowing the root of all our fears?
What saves me in these troubled times?
Nothing, absolutely nothing, except my accpetance that I don’t have the answers.
Right now, I am going to sit on my balcony and watch the sunset. And let it be…..