Welcome to another exciting publishing house spotlight tour from Novel Publicity. Join us as three new titles from Luminis Books–we’re calling them the Luminis Triplex–tour the blogosphere in a way that just can’t be ignored. And, hey, we’ve got prizes!
Luminis Books was launched in January, 2010 by husband and wife team Tracy Richardson and Chris Katsaropoulos with a mission to publish thought-provoking literary fiction for children and adults. We publish what we love: Meaningful Books That Entertain. Our award-winning books engage and inform readers and explore a wide range of topics from love and relationships, teen sexual assault and homelessness to string theory, consciousness, and the Universal Energy Field. Luminis Books is a proudly independent publisher located in Carmel, IN. Learn more at: www.luminisbooks.com
About the Books
Genre: Young Adult
Three friends, thirty-three days, and five hundred miles walking the Camino de Santiago add up to one journey they’ll never forget.
Piper Rose, Dani Shapiro, and Alexandra ‘Tessa’ Louise De Mille Morrow share a history that goes back to their pre-school years in Chicago when their families were still intact. Now Piper lives in Evanston with her divorced dad, her estranged, unstable mother popping in and out of her life at random moments. Meanwhile, Dani’s been living in Santa Fe with a psychologist mom pregnant with her fiance’s IVF babies. The blueblood Tessa resides on prominent street in Boston and dreams of a romantic and well-heeled love story like that of her great-grandmother who went to France during World War II. Now that it’s the summer before college, these radically different friends decide to celebrate their history and their future by walking the legendary pilgrimage along the “Way of St. James,” from the French Pyrenees to the Spanish city of Santiago, not quite expecting their feet to feel like they’ve been put through a meat tenderizer or that cyclists racing the road will nearly run them over, then claim all the beds (and the hot showers) at the pilgrimage’s auberges. But there are plenty of highpoints too, like the beauty of the Pyrenees Mountains, the spree at a posh hotel in Pamplona, and the numerous ways in which each young woman must learn to believe in herself as well as in her friends. And who could forget or explain the miracles—or milagros—that have been happening on the Way of St. James for centuries? And yes, there is the promise of falling in love which, like the word for pilgrim in Spanish (peregrino which translates into ‘curious, strange’) introduces a dizzying, at times marvelous chaos into each young woman’s story, transforming their collective journey, one that takes them across the north of Spain, into the experience of a lifetime.
Genre: Literary Fiction
An engaging, lyrical, and, at times, disturbing novel, The Possibility of Snow tells the story of a once-promising friendship that dissolves into antagonism. Steve and Neil room together at a small college in New England and soon become fast friends, until things go strangely wrong. Steve is eccentric, slightly paranoid, and too perceptive for his own good. He knows the difference between what people say and what they do. Neil is reflective, sincere, and not as together as he seems. There’s not much he’s sure of anymore. They know each other very well and understand each other not at all.
Genre: Literary Fiction
The unveiling of a new work of art by Jacob Marsteller is typically one of the most highly anticipated events in the international art scene—but not this time. Jacob’s new piece is a labyrinth of gossamer fabric perched on the peak of a mountain called Entrevoir in a remote corner of the south of France. It looks as if nobody except Jacob’s teenage children and a few neighbors from the village will bother to show up at the gallery. As Jacob finishes dressing for the party, he and his wife Marya begin to argue. She warned him that moving from the vibrant art scene of New York to a tiny village in the middle of nowhere would be a fatal mistake for his career. As she turns her back to him and walks down the stairs, Jacob tells her there was a reason he had to come here to create this piece—and that’s when Jacob’s whole world begins to unravel. Without realizing what is happening, he is lifted out of his body and taken to another dimension, where he becomes the watcher, the witness, and experiencer of lives he lived six decades ago and thousands of years ago, on other planets and as the highest forms of life. In the span of one instant and over the course of millions of years, Jacob comes to understand that he is not his body, he is not his mind, and he is not even his soul. By the end of the amazing unveiling of Jacob’s true self, he will experience the greatest transfiguration any human being has ever known: the realization of the ultimate nature of human life, and of spirit itself.
|ALONG THE WAY|
|Monday||29-Jun||Elizabeth Light’s Blog|
|Tuesday||30-Jun||The Wandering Writer|
|Tuesday||30-Jun||A Book Lover’s Corner|
|Tuesday||30-Jun||Cali Book Reviews|
|Wednesday||1-Jul||The World as I See It|
|Wednesday||1-Jul||The Boundless Book List|
|Wednesday||1-Jul||Deal Sharing Aunt|
|Thursday||2-Jul||Book Bug’s World|
|Thursday||2-Jul||Quirky Book Review|
|Friday||3-Jul||Rachel Rennie’s Blog|
|Saturday||4-Jul||Live to Read ~ Krystal|
|Saturday||4-Jul||Lisa’s Research & Reviews|
|THE POSSIBILITY OF SNOW|
|Tuesday||7-Jul||Cali Book Reviews|
|Wednesday||8-Jul||Deal Sharing Aunt|
|Friday||10-Jul||Rachel Rennie’s Blog|
|Saturday||11-Jul||Lisa’s Research & Reviews|
|Sunday||12-Jul||KM Hodge’s Blog|
|Tuesday||14-Jul||Cali Book Reviews|
|Wednesday||15-Jul||Deal Sharing Aunt|
|Thursday||16-Jul||Quirky Book Review|
|Friday||17-Jul||Rachel Rennie’s Blog|
|Saturday||18-Jul||Lisa’s Research & Reviews|
|Sunday||19-Jul||Granny Loves to Read|
About the Authors
Jacqueline Kolosov walked the Way of St. James/Camino of Santiago in the summer of 1999 and had her own share of miracles (including a pony who stepped onto the path) as well as bed bugs and cyclists. Next to giving birth to her daughter, the pilgrimage is hands down the most exhilarating event of her life. Jacqueline has published several novels for teens including THE RED QUEEN’S DAUGHTER and GRACE FROM CHINA. She also writes short stories, essays and poetry. Her third collection of poems is MEMORY OF BLUE, and she has a short story collection, LOVE, THE BITTERSWEET forthcoming. A passionate animal lover, she lives with her family including 3 dogs, 2 guinea pigs and a 1/2 Andalusian mare in West Texas. Jacqueline teaches creative writing and literature at Texas Tech university. She loves to run, swim, and practice yoga. And like the friends in Along The Way, she is a bookworm, a clothes horse, and an avid (amateur) artist.
Connect with Jacqueline on her website.
Al Riske grew up in the Pacific Northwest and has worked as a newspaper reporter, magazine editor, and ghostwriter. His short stories have appeared in Beloit Fiction Journal, Pindledyboz, Switchback, and Blue Mesa Review, where his story “Pray for Rain” won the review’s 2008 fiction prize. His first novel, Sabrina’s Window and his short story collection Precarious – Stories of Love, Sex and Misunderstanding were published by Luminis Books. He now lives in California with his wife, Joanne, and their dog, Bodie.
Chris Katsaropoulos is the author of more than a dozen titles, including the novels, FRAGILE and ANTIPHONY and UNILATERAL and the poetry collection, COMPLEX KNOWING. He has traveled extensively in Europe and North America, and enjoys collecting books and music.
Check out These Excerpts
At O’Hare I breathed in the citrusy smell of Dad’s cologne, and bent down for one more slobbery kiss from Dexter, wishing I could bottle his cinnamon-wet dog smell for the trip. “Come on, it’s time to get you checked in,” Dad said, hefting my nineteen pound rucksack out of the back seat.
I lingered in the front, my fingers deep in Dexter’s thick chow fur. “Just one more minute,” I said. Yes, I’d been training for this pilgrimage since March, but right now I couldn’t help second-guessing the decision to fly across the ocean to a country whose language I barely spoke (I’d studied German all through high school), then walk across Spain with Tessa and Dani.
“Piper—” Dad called again, depositing my rucksack at the curb.
I stepped out of the Volvo, met his blue-gray eyes.
“You know you want to do this,” he said. “How many miles have you logged walking?”
“At least two hundred,” I said.
“I’d say it’s time you put all that training to the test.”
Dexter stuck his lion’s head out the window, barked.
“Come on, Piper Girl,” Dad said, touching my shoulder, “you’ve been talking about this for months, and you’ve worked hard. Now, just relax.”
Dad’s horn-rimmed glasses were typically spotless as was his neatly ironed white shirt. “You think either one of us knows how?”
“Well, we certainly know how to have a good time,” he said.
“That’s debatable.” Dad’s idea of a good time was an hour in front of his favorite trio of Monet haystacks at the Art Institute, the latest biography of T.S. Eliot or Piet Mondrian, or a sweaty game of squash; and mine? Quick sex didn’t count, nor did double espresso, but running was high up on the list, and so was photography—I’d packed my Nikon and two lenses for the trip despite the weight it added to my pack.
I had to admit Dad was being stellar, not just about all of this pilgrimage stuff, but about re-bonding with the friends I’d met on Sally’s Playhouse when I was four, especially since the idea to get me onto the show had been another one of Rebecca’s spur-of-the-moment ideas, and thankfully not one that cost Dad financially or in terms of self-respect. As Rebecca, my delinquent mother, told it, on the day of the audition Dad had been buried in the stacks at the Regenstein Library when she saw an ad seeking ‘bright, cute children for a local TV program’ in the Chicago Tribune. She dressed me up in some Little House on the Prairie gingham, then took me into the city, determined to land me on Sally’s Playhouse and get a head start on my college fund.
That drizzly afternoon nearly fourteen years ago, Tessa and Dani were there for the audition too. For god knows how long, the three of us compared toes and talked about Sally’s ginger poodle Roxy who growled at Max, the clown, and wound up biting a kid during the next season. Supposedly, the three of us fell asleep in a heap inside the playhouse right after the producer shouted, “Action!” Everyone laughed, except Sally who, despite her kid-friendly pigtails and sunny t-shirt, was actually a major bitch. Only blonde, blue-eyed Tessa got the part; Dani turned out to be camera shy and allergic to Sally’s perfume, and my buck teeth gave me an unfortunate overbite on TV. Even so, our mothers found us so adorable tumbling across the plush carpet and leaping over bean bags twice our size that they decided we had to stay in touch forever.
The story of our friendship started there. We’ve seen each other only once every year or so since we were six when Dani’s parents and then Tessa’s left Chicago. To this day, Tessa’s very proper mum and Dani’s intellectual one stayed in the picture. My own did not. Rebecca was the kind of mother who’d let me have Kool-Aid and Cocoa Puffs for breakfast and liked to fill the bathtub with candles, (once causing the terry cloth shower curtain to catch fire).
Then, nine years ago, she was caught skinny-dipping in the dean’s pool with one of Dad’s graduate students. Gossip on campus soared when she took off for the Ritz Carlton and checked into the Gold Coast Suite where she lived on Mimosas and raw oysters for a week and maxed out the credit card. Within the year, Rebecca and Dad divorced, and there wasn’t any question of who I was going to live with.
“You better get going, or you’ll have to sit in row forty,” Dad said, wrapping his arms around me.
“I’ll miss you.” I buried my face in his shirt, both of us aware this goodbye was the prelude to the bigger one in September when I left for NYU.
“Me, too. Now,” he said, hugging me close before letting me go, “you’ve got a plane to catch.”
After Dad’s battered red Volvo merged into traffic, Dexter’s lion face was the last thing I saw before a Mercedes SUV cut them off, I hoisted the rucksack onto my back and let the weight settle around my hips where I’d packed my extra lenses and enough shampoo to see my mane of hair through the month. From pretty much this moment forwards, the rucksack and I were going to be constant companions.
Inside I checked in, then stopped for a bagel and jam and a grande tea with extra honey, and did a little people watching. Pretty soon I was fiddling with various settings and photographing the scene beyond the café’s glass, intrigued by the way the travelers’ faces and bodies became a blur of color and movement.
Once I felt sure I’d gotten at least one good shot, I put away my Nikon and drained my cup. From the far end of the counter, a rangy guy with a morning after shadow (at four o’clock in the afternoon) tipped his latte in my direction and smiled.
After smiling back, I checked my watch, shrugged. It was time to go.
At the row of sinks in the Ladies Room, I stared at my face in the mirror. Sure, I’d inherited Rebecca’s ski slope straight nose and her good skin; I had Dad’s eyes, his wide smile, and all six feet of his height. Trouble was on me the combination just didn’t add up. Big surprise there, given the disaster that had been their marriage. Like my dirty blonde hair, which remained poker straight even in serious humidity, and the smattering of freckles along my nose, I was plain. Only my long legs and my name, which had its own story attached to it—I was actually named for the Pied Piper—set me apart.
It was one of those absurdly romantic stories (that have no chance in this world), and one I had a hard time believing, especially given what came later. “Your mother was browsing the seminary co-op,” Dad explained. “She wore her hair in one of those tight dancer’s knots, and her feet had that perfect turnout—”
Dad had always been a ballet fan, a serious liability since Rebecca was one of the principals in the Chicago City Ballet (and liked to grand jeté and elongée around the kitchen while Dad made dinner).
“May I help you?” Dad asked, approaching my then twenty-one-year-old mother who sat on the bookstore floor, legs outstretched, toes pointed. She’d pulled out volume after volume of fairy tales, absent-mindedly creasing the pages, a bookseller’s nightmare.
“I’m looking for a retelling of the Pied Piper of Hamlin,” she explained.
“You a student? A teaching assistant?” Dad asked, though to anyone else it would have been too obvious that she was neither.
“No, we’re staging the story for the ballet, and I want some background.”
And so it began, the love story-turned-god awful marriage that exploded after ten years and led to me and my name. Rebecca was a month shy of twenty-two when she married my thirty-five-year-old father (who, she said, was forty even before his hair began to gray). And really, the Pied Piper wasn’t like Sleeping Beauty or Cinderella where the prince ferries the princess off to live Happily Ever After in an air-conditioned castle with a state-of-the-art kitchen, a Jacuzzi, and hired help. The Pied Piper lured little children away, charming them with his lute. Only later, when I learned that the Pied Piper may have been a pseudonym for the Plague that wiped out millions, did the legacy of the story and its connection to my family click into place.
Near the End
Fourth floor of a brownstone dormitory, David Morrissey, the pudgy professor with the big bald spot on the back of his head, raps on a door that is already open, pausing just long enough to say, “May we come in?”
From his desk, Steve Bourne peers over his shoulder, brushing his hair away from his face with one hand. He looks puzzled—We?—until he spots Neil, hidden at first behind Morrissey’s bulk. Then he turns, flips his book shut without marking his place, and waits for whatever is coming.
Morrissey takes a seat on the edge of the bed nearer Steve.
Hesitant, Neil Fischer slides onto the other bed, his back against the wall. He is almost directly behind Morrissey, so Steve can’t see him without craning his neck—which he does, with one eyebrow raised, asking What’s this all about?
Neil won’t look at him.
Finally Steve stares into Morrissey’s flabby face and throws up his hands. Ashes float down from the cigarette between his fingers, and that seems to irritate him because, as he sits back, he snuffs the half-smoked Winston in a jar-lid ashtray on his desk.
Breaking the silence, Morrissey says, “This may be difficult for you to accept, Steve, but I’ve been talking to Neil and I think it would be best if he moved into another dorm for the time being.”
All the muscles in Steve’s face suddenly go slack. He looks to his left, then to his right, as if he doesn’t know which way to turn. Staring incredulously at the pudgy professor, he lifts one hand and lets it fall back limply to his knee.
Very softly he says, finally, “Well, I don’t know… I think we could work things out. We’ve had a few arguments, that’s all. He doesn’t have to move out.”
He tries to look at Neil but his face is in his hands.
Morrissey, too, turns to Neil. The squeak of the bedsprings gets him to look up, just for a second, into those droopy eyes that ask if he is willing to reconsider. Faintly but vigorously he shakes his head.
Again the bedsprings squeak.
“No, Steve, at this point I think it would be better if Neil had some solitude, some time to rest and get his strength back. Maybe in time…”
“Come off it. You can’t tell me it’s all that grim. We’ve been friends since we were sophomores. We could—”
Morrissey stops him with an upraised hand, then motions him back down into his wooden captain’s chair.
“Listen, Steve, in the ten years I’ve been here, including several years as a counselor, I’ve never had a student come to me in a more agitated state than Neil.”
At this Steve tilts his head back and rolls his eyes.
“I think it would be best,” Morrissey continues, “if you both had some time apart to think things over.”
By now some of the guys on the floor have gathered around the open doorway, not sure they should be listening. One of them, Mark Woods, taps Neil and, without making a sound, mouths the words, “What’s happening?”
Neil watches him through eyes round and bloodshot, his face covered with a patchy black stubble that has been growing for three or four days.
“I can’t hack it anymore,” he mutters, lowering his head again as he speaks, making it all but impossible to hear what he’s saying.
Morrissey, who has been assuring Steve that this is not the end of the world, turns to see what’s going on behind him.
“Maybe you boys could lend a hand,” he says, seeing and seizing the opportunity to get the job done quickly and smoothly. “Neil here is going to be moving across the quad and could use your help, I’m sure.”
They all shrug or nod and mumble their assent.
“And Steve, you’d feel better about it, I think, if you helped out, too,” Morrissey says. “Would you do that for your friend?”
Steve stands, nodding impatiently, and the legs of his chair grate against the gritty floor. That, too, irritates him but is quickly dismissed.
As soon as Morrissey exits, Neil pulls the covers off his bed.
“Wait a minute,” Steve says.
Neil continues wadding the blankets, then starts peeling off the sheets (which should have been laundered a week ago, if he had been able to follow his usual routine).
“Would you sit down for a minute?”
The others have edged into the room and are milling about, wondering where to begin. Mark unplugs the typewriter and lifts it from Neil’s desk.
“You got a case for this?” he asks.
“Under the desk.”
Steve once again throws up his hands—a characteristic gesture. He is not being given a chance to say anything.
Someone grabs the long, narrow skis and bamboo poles that could come in so handy when winter hit this small New England campus.
“These are yours, right?” he asks, already lifting them off their place on the wall.
Neil, hearing the clatter, doesn’t have to look up; he just nods. Someone else, without asking, scoops up a dog-eared modern-English Bible and pulls more books from the shelf built into the wall.
Giving up, Steve hoists the melon crate containing Neil’s album collection onto his shoulders and packs it down the stairs.
Outside, the sky is overcast, the air rife with the possibility of snow.
In the living room of a ranch house in the burgeoning suburbs of a Midwestern city on the solid firm ground of Earth he finds himself standing holding a tinkling tumbler of gin laced with carbonated water and garnished with a lime, wearing a pair of tight high-waisted slacks, dress shirt and collar that scrapes beneath his chin. Several other people are gathered around what appears to be a large metallic box, silver or gray, depending upon which way the late evening sunlight strikes it. They have summoned him here, it seems, to examine this box. He is having trouble getting his bearings so suddenly has he been dropped into this life on Earth by his own instantaneous desiring of it, but it feels to him that this must be a life he lived in the 1950s, though how can that be? He lived as a little girl in that era, the little girl that ran across the cornfield and watched her father die in the airplane that crashed to the ground. How can it be? He shakes his head, takes a sip of the drink to clear away the cobwebs and focus, regain awareness of who he is and what he is doing here in this moment, crystalline moment stolen away from the interstices of time.
Yes, they have called him here, to tell them what is wrong with this box.
One of them, a slender gorgeous woman with dark hair flipped out at the ends in the form of a helmet to frame her slightly angular features, approaches and takes him by the hand. Is he related to her in some way? He feels a strong attraction flowing from her, as she opens her mouth to speak.
“This box is haunted. What can we do with it?”
The look she gives him is a pleading urgent request to make this thing go away. The others stare at him as well—a family, the woman’s husband, a boy maybe ten or eleven years old. They may be his relatives, the woman a cousin of his perhaps. She lets go of his hand with a lingering expectancy that propels him towards the box. He is drawn towards it. The box appears entirely out of place in this living room, furnished as it is in mid-century modern simplicity. He has no idea how such a thing would have gotten here—it is as foreign to the scene as he himself feels, utterly incongruous. Still, he can feel the urgency of the family calling him to take some kind of action.
“It’s haunted,” the husband says. “There are ghosts in it.” And what he has left unsaid is the request to make it go away—these people are frightened.
He steps towards it. The box doesn’t frighten him, only evokes a mild curiosity that such an unusual object could appear within this living room, as if it were deposited here from outer space, much the same way he has been. The box is about three feet on a side, perfectly square, a metallic cube that looks as if it could be a shipping container for some kind of exotic, fragile work of art. Now that he has stepped closer to it, he sees that the top face of the box is etched with a series of peculiar symbols, scimitar shapes and curling insignia that must be some kind of alien alphabet unlike anything he has ever seen. The sight of these characters sends a chill up his spine. This object is utterly foreign to this time and place—it has come from somewhere just as strange as he has. An electrical chill is making his hair stand on end. As he steps closer, the others stand back in fear. He is not afraid of it, but the sense of another being here is very strong, and that is what is making his hair stand on end, the sense of another presence—as the man said, the feeling of a ghost watching him just over his shoulder, which makes him glance behind him. There is an electrical current floating around here, a field that surrounds the box. Maybe that is what they are all sensing, an electrical charge that’s coming across as the feeling of a spirit. He has the urge to reach towards the box, puts his hand out to touch it, and as he does so he is suddenly overwhelmed by the flooding forward through his arm and up to his forehead the sensation of a dozen or more beings flowing through him, filling his forehead with their presence. As if they are reaching out to him with their forms as well. He feels them flooding forward through him and though his hand has not touched the box, cannot touch it, he is now connected to it, can feel the living presence within it flowing towards and through him, making his head jolt back. He immediately thinks of these beings as aliens, from another planet, beings so highly advanced and foreign to this place that they must be from a distant star and planet. There are no voices he can hear, no sound, but he can understand from a feeling of pure thought-form these impressions upon his conscious thinking:
“We are here with you always, though you know it not. We are watching over you, though you care not to know it. We are not from another world, we are of this planet. We have been here millions and millions of years.”
And now there are no words for what is being communicated, he is only able to see and sense what they are conveying to him within the imagery of his mind, with eyes closed, he sees what they are showing him from a time so long ago he would never have imagined that intelligent beings could have dwelled here on this Earth—as they express it, what he sees is from a time millions of years ago, when a civilization so advanced inhabited this Earth, it makes the technologies of the current era in this living room he is standing in seem like the spears and stone implements of a cave man. They are showing him human beings, not much different from his own form, inhabiting vast crystal cities that glowed with power from the light of the sun, people who lived in such a high state of harmonic resonance with their surroundings that the vibrations of their bodily etheric field enabled them to communicate with one another and with other animals and even plants in much the same way they are communicating with him at this very moment—with thought forms transmitted as energy waves in the form of high-frequency sound. A kind of transcendent music—he pictures it as a form of singing with light. These people are, or were, in that time millions of years ago, thousands of times more advanced even than the people who lived in the pyramid city by the sea. The symbols on the box are the remnants of their civilization’s language, from an even earlier time when they once used spoken words. They lived on the land and also beneath the sea. They lived in the sky, as they outgrew the need for their bodies. They shed their physical forms and left their beautiful cities behind to collapse and decay over the aeons, all remnants of the cities now crumbled to dust. Some people have experienced them as angels. They continued to inhabit the Earth and they also mastered the ability to travel from star to star. He gets a glimpse of how they do this, but it is too much for him to process, it flows through him and, he feels, out the other side without him being able to grasp it. They sometimes come together in containers such as the one in this room to correlate their experiences with one another in a more focused manner. And now he feels another type of energy flowing out from the box to him.
Now still with his eyes closed he sees a torrent of symbols such as the ones on the box streaming past him in a flood of information. The symbols are bright crimson against a black background, scimitars and curlicues and flowing lines and swirling spiral shapes going by so fast he can barely make them out. On and on it goes, a massive download of information flying past his inner eye. From left to right it flows, taking over his being and intercepting his mind. Now, just as quickly, it shifts directions and changes color, the symbols still the same kind and shape, but golden now and bronze, brightly gleaming against the field of black and flowing now from top to bottom, from high above to the depths of his soul. Streaming, streaming, flowing past and through him so fast he can barely make them out. These symbols seem absolutely alien and foreign to him yet also so familiar, an ancient language that must have served as the basis of every language that ever has been. It seems to be a combination of numerical forms and notes that could be translated into music—all these combining to form a symbolic record of thought. The symbols represent numbers which represent tones which represent colors which represent syllables which represent, at their most basic level, ideas—thought forms, which are essentially holographic transfigurations of energetic wave forms. These are being downloaded into him, transmitted in the form his mind’s eye can most readily accept. And now even as his mind is being filled with this endless streaming download of information—though he knows not what it contains—a thought about the symbols enters his head. They are from this ancient civilization and these spirits who have lived upon Earth since that time millions upon millions of years ago, and they are also from Sirius—a planet from the star system Sirius. This is just a thought that comes to him, he doesn’t know why he is getting this. Did these beings come to Earth from Sirius?
In the inner vision in his head the symbols flowing past appear to be slowing. And in the top right corner of the field of his inner vision he sees now an image of a face, a large head, with a bluish tint to it, as if it is looking down on him and then—it nods once and smiles. He can see it smiling at him, for just a brief instant, and then it is gone. Was it smiling at him in confirmation of this thought that the beings originally came from Sirius? Or was it simply smiling at him in recognition that he has successfully received whatever complex download of information has been transmitted to him… through him? He cannot be sure—there is no way of knowing. But the being smiling at him he takes to be a visual representation for his benefit, in the form he might recognize, of one of the spirits from within the box, a beneficent spirit, who has come here to help. He wants to let the family know that the box is okay, it will not harm them. Still, they will probably want to be rid of it, resting as it is in the center of their living room, blocking the view of the TV. He wants to open his eyes and say these things, but in the very selfsame instant that these thoughts are battling for room in his head, another vista opens before him and he can see a windswept hillside high above an open plain spreading with green fields far and wide below him. On the top of this steep hill is a formation of giant stones—slabs of granite ten feet tall arranged in a semi-circle facing out from the hilltop, towards the west, where the sun sets in the bosom of the valley below. Here now he turns to let the wind brush his face and he feels another presence with him, stuffed alongside him within the circle of stones, closer than the future and the extinguished moment just past, here now the presence of a commanding spirit different than the one who just nodded and smiled, totally different than the ones who were gathered in that box. He closes his eyes and sees them, yes, there is more than one. He has learned by now that he must close his eyes to truly see. A light shining at the lowest edge of his inner vision, pure blue silver white, and now another one off to the upper left, this one more gleaming red and gold. These beings—spirits—are not the same as the ones in the box, he remembers them now as the same ones who were with him in that beach house on that other planet where he could put his hand through the book and through the table. These are the same ones come to visit him again—for some reason he thinks of them as the Council, though he doubts they call themselves that. Now another one appears far off to the right of his inner vision, golden yellow in color, each of them with their distinctive bandwidth, vibrating frequencies, they appear and disappear, reappearing again in different places within the glowing magenta darkness of his inner vision, his eyes still closed to feel the wind on the top of that steep hill howling past his face. He feels them intertwine with him, approach and emerge, dilate and inflate within his consciousness as long as cut down when one comes the others come beneath the tempts and times already launched and milking already how long the stars grow feeling them intertwine within him coming to the front door of his soul verified and scuttering keen with wisdom lost not found keen with anything to say that he mayhaps already knew three spirits gleaming in his vision windswept on the pinnacle these have always been here with him and guardians more than these hearing his feeling, feeling his thoughts they speak to him they always have been during his voyage saying to him speaking directly to withstand him, saying ‘As those beings used that box for a moment to appear to you and to that family, you use bodies to have presence in different timespace instants, reference points, you materialize your thoughts into physical expressions. The bodies you use are merely containers for these statements—these states—of your being. And these containers are in turn bundled up and stored within your soul—the bodies rest within the soul, not the other way round, and the soul in turn is merely the vessel that carries all of these things—stores them so to speak so that you may re-visit them when you need to, whenever you want to experience another facet of your being once again. All exist at once. There is no such thing as time. Thought creates time and time creates fear, as you have seen and felt. Time is merely a sequence of thought, and the feeling of sequence creates the sensation of lack, of fleeting things that one moment are here and the next are gone. You are not the body and you are not the mind, not the thoughts you think. You are not even the soul. The body is the container of the mind—of the thoughts you identify as you—and the soul is the container of these things, and even the soul is simply the vessel for all these facets of you.’
Eyes closed he feels them speaking, sees them hearing him think. The thought he thinks which they feel him hear is: ‘If I’m not even the soul, then what am I?’
He knows they are aware of what he has thought to them, not spoken, and yet they think through him no more. He sees one of them glimmer silver white in a corner of his inner sight shining, pause there for an instant and disappear.
Wind brings him back to this place, opens his eyes again and stings them. His eyes water and he goes over to stand behind one of the giant stone slabs, feels it resonate with the force of the wind.
He places his palms against the stone and tries to hold in place the words, the thoughts they gave him. The soul is just a vessel. I am not even the soul.