Seeing is Not Always Believing.

My sister saw my grandmother leave her body when she died. This experience has not made my sister into a believer of anything much. When asked she says things like, 'well, I could have imagined it', or 'well, I don't really know what it was'.

As Diane Duane says in her book 'The Book of Night with Moon', "almost no-one is willing to see the impossible, even right under their noses and shortly find all kinds of explanations for the strange thing seen."

I, on the other hand, have never had any trouble believing the unbelievable, without ever having really 'seen' anything.

I believe that life is extraordinary beyond our imagining. I believe that what we think we 'know' barely scratches the surface of reality. This belief has been the guiding light and driving force of my life. It has brought me through cults, mystery schools, alternative healing, shamanism, sun-dances, to name some.

About 15 years ago I was having a conversation with a Professor of Sociology from a British University. She is the acknowledged academic authority in Britain on alternative religions, better known as cults. I joined one of these notorious cults at the age of 19 and left 14 years later. We had been talking about the mental and emotional process of leaving. Then she asked me what I was going to do now.

I launched into 'well, I've just finished massage school. I am going to do an aromatherapy course; I am going to do yoga teacher training. I'm also following a Native American shamanic path, doing sweat lodges, shamanic healings......' I broke off. As clear as hearing it out loud I heard her think .....'hasn't this woman had enough of this sort of thing, yet?' I chuckled an said, 'Oh, you're thinking 'hasn't this woman had enough of this sort of thing yet?' The look of astonishment and guilt on her face was a picture, before we both dissolved into laughter. I had read her mind exactly.

So to describe me as driven would hardly be an exaggeration Somewhere deep inside me I had the knowing that the bliss of mystic union was not only real but something I wanted. I wanted it more than family, children, lover, material possessions, anything. Because, you see, I had had it as a teenager and then past a certain age it was as though the door had slammed in my face and I could no longer reach it.

Like Adam and Eve banished from the garden, I wandered in the wilderness, an inner wilderness of the mind and spirit. I didn't understand it then. Now I am getting on for 60, and the journey I took, looking for the way back into the inner garden has taught me much. From these things I have fashioned a belief system of my own.

I believe there is a vast difference between spirituality and religiosity. Spirituality is real, religiosity is merely outward form and far too often is used as control dogma.

I believe that the pursuit of spirituality is the one thing that gives life true and enduring meaning. Without it we walk around as empty shells, strangers to ourselves and others, posturing egos whistling in the dark.

I did find my way back to that inner garden. I found that many cultures carried technologies of the spirit, ways that when practiced have predictable results. They could, therefore, be called a science of spirit. There is nothing chance or random about it. The cultures that house these treasures our culture has labeled primitive, even savage, and done their best to undermine, assimilate, or outright destroy them, often with unparalleled brutality. (And we call ourselves civilized.)

For those who are willing to open their minds and look, these technologies of spirit have been preserved, often in secret, and can be found. I looked and found and took them to heart and practiced them. I discovered that it is not what I believe that matters. It is what I do and what I am that matters. I could go around believing that the sky is green, would that make it so? If I believe Jesus is God or that Mohammed is his prophet does that make me a better person? Am I 'saved'? I think there is more than enough evidence on the table to say a resounding no to both of those propositions.

But when I get down on my yoga mat and actually apply the science of spirituality, I get a result that has nothing to do with any belief system I might have. If I still believed Jesus is God, or that the sky is green, I would still get the same results as long as I do it. I experience something that is real. The energy of spirit literally moves through my body, my cells and atoms, and I experience the oneness of mystic union again. I can tell you, as one who has experienced full body orgasms with a tantric master, that sex is a pale imitation in comparison.

So what I truly believe is that belief is not it. Doing and being are it.

Caroline Aqualastar.

The 87th Problem

Eight or so years ago, I found myself in quite a situation. My darling Hubster had been offered not one but two jobs. The first offer came with a salary high enough to let me quit my day job right then and there, plus it came with benefits galore. It was in a line of work that Hubster was good at, though not in his first choice of specialty. It would also require us to pull up stakes and move. The company would help us find a new house, sell our old one, and offer a moving bonus to boot. The second job did not offer nearly as much money, though it offered more than Hubster was currenly making, and the benefits were okay. It wouldn't require us to move, and it was Hubster's dream job.

I think you know where this is headed.

At the time Hubster had these two job offers, I was wallowing in abject misery. I worked for the Man, putting in 80 hours a week and getting paid for only 40. I was under constant threat of being fired or replaced, in spite of the fact that I was very good at my job and worked so many unpaid extra hours. I absolutely loathed some of the people I worked with, especially the ones who had say over whether or not I kept my job, and they seemed to loathe me right back. It was a pretty abysmal situation to be in. I was so stressed over work that I had started seeing a therapist because seriously, it was either pay someone to listen to me rant and rave about my job or else end up on the evening news when the cops started finding dead bodies in my backyard.

Hubster knew all of this, and he knew I relished the idea of pulling up stakes and moving to another state. In addition to my work stress, I was also embroiled in a protracted disagreement with some friends, one of those high drama painful things where everyone is fighting over something so stupid it's ridiculous. And it was ridiculous, although at the time that argument seemed like a matter of life and death to everyone involved. I was desperate to get out of my current situation. I wanted to quit my job, leave my friends, and move to someplace where I could start all over. If Hubster took job #1, I knew that would happen. At least back then I believed that's what would have happened. Now, I'm not so sure.

Obviously, Hubster did not take job #1. After two weeks of deliberating and considering, he came home one night and said, "I know you want things to be otherwise, but I'm taking job #2. It doesn't pay as well, and I know it means you'll be stuck in a job situation you hate, but this is what I went to college for. This is the job I've always dreamed of having. If I don't take this job now, I may never get another chance." And I nodded my head, and said "I'm glad you've made your choice. I know it wasn't easy, but I love you and don't worry." Then I went upstairs and cried.

And after that... I got on with my life.

In both the long and short run, Hubster made the right choice. The firm that offered the higher paying job started laying people off a year later. Friends of the Hubster who had taken similar job offers suddenly found themselves out of work and worried that they might not be able to make their next house payment. Meanwhile, my job situation did not improve, but Hubster and I came to an agreement about when I could leave my job. I would put in one more year at the hell-hole I called work, giving him time to save up money and take over all the bills, and then I would be free to do whatever I wanted. Until then, I found ways to alleviate the misery I labored under. I threw myself into my hobbies, devoured books, took some nice vacations with the Hubster, and just stopped caring about the argument with my friends (because it really didn't matter). Oh, and I joined a Zen meditation group, where I slowly learned how to just let things be and accept the present moment for what it is.

There's a story about a farmer who visited the Buddha. The man was probably as miserable as I was during that time of my life, and he wanted to know how to solve all the problems he struggled with. He sat down with the Buddha and listed everything that made him miserable. He came up with 86 problems, total. The Buddha listened, nodded, and said, "I'm sorry, but I cannot help you with any of those 86 problems."

"What?" the farmer cried. "What kind of wise man are you?"

"I am the wise man who can help you with the 87th problem," the Buddha said.

"The 87th problem? What problem is that?" the farmer demanded.

"The problem of not wanting to have any problems," the Buddha said.

And there it is, the most basic truth I know and the lesson I carry from that difficult period in my life. We all have problems. We all have our periods of abject misery where we look around and desperately wish we could flee from our current situation. And maybe we do flee and succeed in getting away from those problems, but it doesn't matter because even if we manage to leave behind one set of problems, there are always others waiting for us ahead. The best way to deal with all 86 problems is to accept that they are there; to live in the present moment and say, "Yes, this is how it is," then get on with life. Eventually, things will change. The situation will pass. I know it did for me.

Namaste.

Santa Claus

By Ashley Lister

I believe in Santa Claus. It’s not a popular belief in my age demographic. Now I’m past 40, I’m in a group who don’t ordinarily hold this unorthodox belief. Usually, those of us who do have this belief, are considered lunatics by the rest of society. Non-believers regularly claim ‘he doesn’t exist’ or ‘Santa Claus is just a fabrication to please tiny minds.’

And yet, I still believe in Santa Claus.

Admittedly, you might tell me that Santa Claus is a fictitious creation and my belief is misplaced. Well, I’ve heard the same argument lodged against religious believers and their faiths, and none of those people appear to be troubled by this type of argument. Christians are told by atheists that God doesn’t exist: and Christians shrug this off as the atheists’ misguided opinions.

God exists for Christians and proof of his existence is visible everyday in the miracle of life.

Santa Claus exists for me and proof of his existence is visible every Christmas in the miracle of presents.

Every year, specifically at Christmas, people get presents. I’m not willing to accept that this happens just because everyone decides to buy someone else a present. As a race, we humans aren’t that organised. Currently I’m struggling to find someone as a guest blogger for next week’s column, and I’m a writer and blogger with a wide circle of friends. If I can’t manage that much (and I’m usually a pretty efficient specimen of humanity) then how can we expect so many people throughout the world to remember to buy and wrap gifts en masse to celebrate December 25^th?

After all, which is more likely: everyone in the world remembers to buy presents for each other? Or there really is a Santa Claus? I think we all know the answer to that one.

You can tell me, “We just do that,” but, personally, I think Santa deserves his fair share of the credit.

You might also point out that not everyone in the world gets presents.

Some people have argued that this is proof that Santa doesn’t exist. However, I have to remind those people, Santa has two lists: one labelled nice and the other labelled naughty. Please bear in mind, I’m not saying that everyone who doesn’t get a present is naughty. I’m just suggesting that their name might have found its way onto the less favoured of Santa’s lists.

(If you’re reading this, and you didn’t receive a present from Santa last Christmas, you have to ask yourself if your conscience is clear. If you really believe you were nice rather naughty, perhaps you should get in touch with his administrative quarter at the North Pole. I expect there might have been an admin cock-up. Santa’s not infallible – he’s Santa Claus, not the Pope).

So I believe in Santa. He’s a larger than life figure and, if you’re going to believe in someone, it ought to be someone who is larger than life. He dresses in the traditional Coca-Cola colours, which I think make him look debonair. And he’s got the cool facial hair thing going on. Admittedly, Mrs Santa might suffer from ‘Velcro effect.’ But I’ve never heard her complain on any of the shows where she’s seen with Santa.

Most important of all though, and the reason why I truly believe in Santa, is because he bestows gifts on those who’ve been nice and he steadfastly ignores those who have been naughty.

It’s the main reason I like him. He rewards good behaviour but he doesn’t punish miscreants. Instead he simply ignores them – as though he knows that all bad behaviour is nothing more than attention seeking.

I’m a firm believer in rewarding good behaviour. Good behaviour should be encouraged in humans but it’s rarely rewarded and seldom even acknowledged. Society (in general) seems to treat good behaviour as the minimum-expected norm. Work hard all day; treat your fellow workers with respect; and you can guarantee that some bastard will give you more work to do, complain that you didn’t do the last lot fast enough, and your co-workers will spread rumours that you’re ‘too nice to be trusted.’

Only Santa gives out annual rewards to the good and the virtuous. He’s rewarded me every year for the past 40+ years, and I expect he will continue to reward me as long as I remain a good boy. This is why I believe in him, and why I will always believe him.

(Next Week: Why I think the Easter Bunny steals all the f***ing eggs and eats them himself).

The Dying Light

“Stop calling me that! Scheise! Stop calling me that – god damn you!” When she brought out her hands, they were tensed into claws. “Arschloch! Verpiss dich!” For the first time he began to feel something like fear. She took a step towards him.

“Now hold on there, you. This was your idea too.”

Holding out her arms, she fell on her knees, those weird pink tears trailing down her face. “Sir! Sir – look you. You must pay attention to me, please Vater, please listen and pay attention to me. I am feeling it. I’m feeling it inside and you must run. You must run and get away from me as fast as you can, please sir, I am on my very knees, you must see me. Run away from me... please...”

She began crawling towards him on her knees, her arms out. “Lieber Gott! Look you, God, I’m telling him to run. Do you see me? Are you watching at all, do You see I don’t want to hurt anybody anymore, do You see? Oh Gott! Make it stop!” She crumpled into a ball.

Father Delmar left the bed and came over to her. “Cut the drama, young lady. That’s enough.” He put his hand on her shoulder.

She screamed and jumped away, kicking her feet against him. “Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me!”

He dropped to his knees and took her by the shoulders. “Cut out the hysterics and listen to me – “

“Don’t touch - ME!” She shoved him away with such startling strength he fell on his back. “My soul will rot in hell! And you – may you rot in hell too. Nasty man! Wicked, nasty sonovabitch man, you! I came to you because you are a man of God, you should help me, not tempt me to more sin. Fuck you! I trusted you with my soul! You should have mercy on me. I came to you with all my hope and on my knees like a beggar. I’m not a beggar! Ich bin nosferatu! I’m Nixie the vampire!”

He leaped up and swung. There was a sound like a gunshot as he slapped her face hard with the back of his hand. She put her head between her knees and he held her, speaking into her ear. “Now you listen to me, Nixie the fucking vampire. Listen.“

Her shoulders writhed and she tried to twist away from him.

“Listen. Nixie – God is dead.”

Her mouth fell open. “No! Don’t you say such a thing.”

“God is dead, Nixie. There is no God. God is a fairy tale, like this vampire act you’re pulling. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry Nixie, but I have to tell you. No one is going to save you or forgive you. You’re waiting for a savior, but no one’s coming. I wish there were. God, how I wish there were because I need Him as much as you do.”

“That’s not true.” She sat up straight and pointed an accusing finger in his face. “That’s not true.”

“There is no God. No one to forgive you. You’re a whack job, honey. You’re just as crazy as a mud bug. We’re all damned, no matter what. I love you. I’m sorry as hell for you and me both.”

“You don’t believe in God. That’s why you have no hope.” She shook her head. “Vater, vater, there is really a God; yes there is, and He hates me and I need His forgiveness because I’m an evil thing. Please. I just know there is, I’m proof there is.”

“Because you think you’re a vampire?!” Father Delmar seized her in one hand by the back of her neck and shoved her face down hard into the bedroom carpet.

“Smell that, kid. That’s bullshit down there. Bullshit and mud. That’s what the world’s made out of, Nixie - bullshit and mud. You need to take this Vampirella crap and all your comic books and all your supermarket novels, whoever’s feeding you all this little goth girl crap you’re living and bury them or shove them up your ass or something and get involved in the world.” His voice was choking. “It’s bullshit and mud down there but it’s all there is.”

He let go of her neck and lifted her gently, his hands cupping her face. He looked into her hard strange eyes. “I don’t like this world anymore than you do. But you can’t run away from it. It’s your world as long as you’re in it. I got a gut ache from wishing, Nixie, you don’t know. I wish I’d met you thirty years ago. I’m tired, I’m even crazier than you. Can you see that in me? I’m not as bad as you think. I paid a price for my faith, I really did, but God didn’t keep His end of the deal. There’s no God out there, I’m sorry.”

His throat tightened and he began to cry. “I wish for both of us there was, but there isn’t. There just isn’t.” He melted into braying sobs. She wrapped her arms around him and held him as he fell apart. He put his arms around her. They leaned on each other and wept together.

Nixie and Father Delmar from “The Dying Light” C. Sanchez-Garcia



Back in the day, Albert Einstein used to spend a lot of his best working time loafing around in a little sail boat with a notebook handy. During these moments he was performing what he called “thought experiments”. These were experiments every bit as serious as anything a physicist would do in a laboratory. Eyes closed, hands behind his head, a floppy hat shading his face, he would dream. Imagine a man on a train. The train is moving at the speed of light. The man is bouncing a rubber ball in the aisle. He sees the ball bouncing up and down in a straight line .Another man is standing on the side of the track as the train passes. What does the rubber ball look like to the man on the ground? With day dreams like this he revolutionized the way we look at time and space. The earth does not revolve around the sun. It only appears to. A man bouncing the ball on the train traveling at the speed of light ages more slowly than the man watching the train go by. He knew these things before he wrote the equations. So much of modern science resembles mysticism that someday they are destined to meet.

Everybody has their own reasons I guess. People write fiction for different reasons. In my case, when I’m putting my heart in it – and I believe you should always put your heart in it – fiction is where I go to explore my obsessions. They are my thought experiments. What would it be like to wake up as a woman one morning? What would I do with myself? What does a vampire think about God? What if a vampire wanted to repent and seek out atonement and redemption? How would she do it? Why would she do it? Why would anybody believe her?

In the above scene, I'm exploring two sides of the great question of my life. Both Nixie and Father Delmar represent me. One is older me, the person of great faith and earnestness. The other is current me, a spiritually tired but undefeated soul. The one is a creature of the supernatural and consequently a believer in a God who loves and hates, and holds out hope in miracles of redemption and atonement. The other side, spiritually exhausted and disillusioned is saying there is no evidence that the world is being controlled by any moral force outside of Man. Both entities exist in a balance of tension within me.

I am above all a man who has had a more than average exposure to bull shit over the course of his life. I have become more than wary of it, I have become paranoid of it. I am fascinated by language and the nefarious uses to which it is put in the information age. The art of the spin, the lie that is not quite a lie, or as Macbeth would say "the fiend that lies like truth." I tend to be suspicious of what people say, trying to understand why they say it. This eventually became one of the roots of my fiction writing, my thought experiments to know why people do what they do. In my case what does the man bouncing the ball on the train at the speed of light do if a woman comes up to him and takes off her clothes? Does he stop bouncing the ball and look?

I want to believe that I'm doing some high minded thing, helping people to find themselves or some eternal truth. But I know I'm not. My audience is too tiny, my voice too weak, and my insight too limited. Its just following the bouncing ball to see what kind of rabbit hole it drops down.

What I know for sure is that faith can bend reality. But faith is not associated with reality. You can believe an idea with all your heart - and I have - and it can be completely wrong, like believing the earth is flat or believing that human beings were created 6000 years ago in the Garden of Eden.

I believed in my God with all my heart and believed I was following God. At no time did God tell me otherwise. But I was wrong. I started out as the guy on the train, bouncing a ball at the speed of light, and now I'm the guy watching the train go by. But I also know that if you believe in something fiercely enough, there are special times when the Universe will step out of your way and allow you to pass. The human mind has to ability work magic that an animal mind does not because human beings have imagination.


I’m much clearer about what I don’t believe than what I do believe. I believe God exists. At least there’s no evidence God does not exist. I’m not convinced at this time that God exists in a way that matters. A casual reader of these words will have no idea what they mean, what a gigantic fall these words represent. I am a man who has come into a Wisconsin town in the dead of winter with only a sleeping bag and set up a mission to bring the word of God to people. I have preached on street corners. On separate I have had two guns and one knife pulled on me. I have been hunted in the dark, one humid night near Houma Louisiana in April of 1981 by three men who intended to kill me if they could find me. All these things I did for God and much more. You must understand this – when you hear me say I’m not sure God exists in any way that matters, this is coming from a man who once had the faith to build the ark even when all the world was laughing at him. I built my ark for God. The problem is, the world turned out to be right.

What I know for sure to be true is that what matters in the search for God is compassion. Without compassion, religion too easily turns to the most selfish fanaticism. I’m baffled by people who are looking forward to Heaven because they have been born again, but without their children or loved ones who will be going to eternal flames because they have not accepted Jesus. What heaven is that?

Compassion doesn’t come from success. It comes from the experience of what the other guy is going through, and what most people are going through is a hard battle. It comes from suffering wisely and not selfishly. I believe humility is a necessary element of the spiritual life, and the most important defense against fanaticism and the flowering of personal evil. Humility as I see it is the ability to see yourself clearly as you are, no better and no worse. The ability to be flexible with others.

I’m at that age where the horizon has come closer and the edge of the world is in view. According to the statistics I might have twenty to twenty five years of life left in me if nothing bad happens to cut me short. I can remember where I was and what I was doing twenty years ago. When I think of that, twenty years doesn’t seem that far away. It’s a strange and scary thing to be able to see the end of the road just right over there, and not to know if there’s anything past it. I would like to believe there is. Carl Sagan, through one of his characters in the novel “Contact” observed that if there were no other intelligent beings in the Universe “then it would be such an awful waste of space.” I would say if there is no life after death, what an awful waste of experience.

I Believe In The Power Of Positive Thinking

By Devon Rhodes

Just call me Pollyanna...

Everyone does.

Many people today don't actually know where this saying came from, but almost everyone can tell you that Pollyanna = Unrelenting Optimism.

Pollyanna was a series of books beginning with the 1913 best-seller by Eleanor H. Porter about a young girl who learned to look on the bright side of things, "the glad game," by turning any situation around into a positive point of view. Punished by being locked in the attic by her aunt, Pollyanna instead appreciates the view. Even harshly tested by becoming paralyzed after an accident, she comes around to being glad she still has legs and eventually learns to walk again, ostensibly overcoming her handicap through the power of positive thinking.

Now, I'm not talking about faith healing. But I do believe in the ability to lift oneself up and find ways of making things happen, discovering new paths and alternatives to get you to your goal, by not allowing obstacles and failures mire you down.

Just think about how other people's moods affect you. Even a stranger on the street can sour your mood with a negative display or mean or thoughtless action. Now consider how you feel when witnessing a random act of kindness, receiving an unexpected compliment or acknowledgement, a little atta-boy (or girl) from someone you hold in high esteem. Goes a long way towards making you believe that anything is possible.

A new verbal coin, pay it forward.

In the instances when giving up means checking out, holding on to your positive point of view can make all the difference. I don't think there's a published writer out there that hit a homerun first time up to bat.

This brings me to another point. Being positive does not mean disregarding home truths and reality. All the positive thinking in the world will not get a trite, error-riddled manuscript published. However, taking the criticism or rejection as an opportunity to learn, change, grow, mature, develop, and so forth is a better use of time and energy than being angry or closed-minded.

Lest you think I'm all sweetness and light, I do have a very active Devil's Advocate that plays straight man to my Pollyanna.  Here is a real-life conversation they had today:

DA:  Okay, time to give it up. You still have over 6K to write AND the synopsis.
Polly:  I'm going to have some coffee and start writing!
DA:  The submission due date is TODAY! Are you crazy?
Polly:  Well, that is an awful lot. But..I'll bet I can do it. Even if I don't, at least I took a crack at it!
DA:  I'd like to take a crack at you...

Tonight, just before this post:

DA:  So are you happy now? My fingers are mush.
Polly:  We got it done, didn't we? Go us!
DA:  It's probably crap. I mean, who writes 10K in one sitting?
Polly:  It's great, and even if they don't take it, I'm sure some pub will like it.
DA:  I have callouses on my fingertips.
Polly:  Don't worry, as soon as we get done with our OGG post, you can go soak.

I've been very blessed, and so it's probably easy for me to feel positive. Most things that I have truly wanted in my life, I have been able to achieve. But which came first?

Very few things get me down for long. I always find a way to...

...discover the silver lining in the cloud...
...turn the lemons into lemonade...
...spot the rainbow through the storm.

I believe in looking on the bright side.

Yours very truly,
(Proud to be) Pollyanna

I Believe in Magic

By Lisabet Sarai



Here I am, more than halfway through my fifth decade of life. I'd like to think that I've learned a few important truths in those fifty-plus years. Yet faced with the question Garce asked this week—what are your core beliefs?—I fall back on something I've known since I was very young.

Magic exists.

No, I'm not talking spells and rituals, secret societies and occult books, dancing naked under the moon (though that might be fun...) When I say that I believe in magic, I mean that I believe the power of mind can change the physical world. Imagination and emotion shape reality.

I mean this in a literal sense. I am not simply talking about the fact that one's attitudes can change the way the world looks (although this is clearly true). Mind creates reality, crystallizes it out of the aether. An idea, held with sufficient conviction and passion, becomes concrete and has real world impacts. I see so many examples of this, in my own life and in society, that I have no doubt it's true.

Consider the stock market. It's a total fantasy, a collective delusion, yet it enables some people to buy mansions and costs others their jobs. Stocks are not even pieces of paper any more. They are merely bit patterns in some computer's memory. The exotic derivatives at the heart of the recent economic meltdown were purely imaginary, some clever trader's concept that managed to blow the world economy to hell.

Think about the Internet, not the servers and the cables but the relationships. A million communities that raise money for charity, create celebrities, bring down governments.

Then there's software. One of the things I do for a living is design and write software. It never fails to amaze me how a purely mental entity like a software architecture ultimately becomes a tool that can run a factory, or monitor a patient's vital signs, or give me directions for how to drive to a new restaurant.

Stories, of course, are a clear case of magic. We writers sit down at our computer with some mental notions about setting, characters, plot, and hours or days later we have a book,or part of one, a physical object that can be shared with others. With our minds, we make readers laugh, or cry, or even come.

Magic.

When I was in elementary school I had a magic ring. I was quite convinced that it had the power to grant my wishes. Many winter nights I rubbed the faceted garnet (my birthstone) and wished for enough snow to cancel school the following day. Most of the time, I got what I wanted.

I have many personal stories in which, against all odds, I received my heart's desire. Serendipity, synchronicity, being in the right place at the right time: magic has woven itself into my existence. Sometimes I forget it's there, but then my passion will make something real, reminding me.

Perhaps I'm trivializing this truth by calling it “magic”. Actually, I believe this is a spiritual phenomenon, the same dynamic that underlies answered prayer (which is a well-documented scientific fact). I don't want to get too heavy on a romance/erotica blog, but I believe that there's a non-material power that animates us all, that lies is at the heart of the marvelous, chaotic complexity of the world. I could call it God, but that conjures images of an old guy in a white beard, a personality, and that's not what I mean at all. I'm talking about patterns of force, ever-renewing ideas, creativity that overflows and mutates, building and rebuilding the world instant by instant.

When we take our ideas and turn them into reality—a book, a Halloween costume, a piece of software—we are harnessing the same divine energy that materialized the universe.

This isn't an original notion. Hinduism and Buddhism both view the material world as Maya, an illusion created by the eternal Mind. Change your mind and the world will change as well. Even Jesus said, if you have faith even as small as a mustard seed, you can move mountains. My paraphrase of this is, imagine and believe, and you can make it so.

The flip side of this, of course, is that negative passions can create horrible realities. We've all known people who expect constant trouble and disappointment. That's what they often get. What we think, we become.

Mind your mind.

I realized, sitting down to write this post, that I haven't really explored this philosophy in any of my books. Characters in erotica rarely have the time to engage in epistemological discussions (though in fact during my lifetime that has been one of my favorite things to do with a lover). My poetry, on the other hand, frequently explores this theme. My poem, “Logos", which deals with a long-distance erotic relationship, begins:

the word made flesh.
electric whispers
trace the wires
speed of light
the dream takes shape.

And continues:

now we reinvent each other,
mage, apprentice, captive, lover,
fashion masks
from the stuff of Story,
words as lens
to focus longing,
coalesce
vision to flesh.

That's what I mean by magic: the power I believe we all have to take our heart's desire and make it real.

What Makes You Shiver in the Middle of the Night?

by Louise Bohmer
Subtle Scares and Primal Fears

For me, the subtle scare—mixed with an element of primal fear—often works best. That and a sense of weird—of all not being right with a seemingly right world—make me shiver in the middle of the night..

Horror scares me most when it shows less, and works on universal human fears. Less is often more. Not that I don’t enjoy gore, and I believe gore can be beautiful, but it’s often what the author doesn’t show me that frightens me the most. A good spooky story plants an image in my mind, a seed of dread, and refuses to leave me long after the book is finished.

If you’ve read Mister B. Gone by Clive Barker, you’ve encountered the narrative where Jakabok Botch threatens you (as the book is speaking to you) with a blade. He begs you to burn the book, and tells you to watch out behind you, because you never know when this sly demon will sneak up with a knife, maybe a pair of scissors, and slice your throat open.

Snicksnicksnick…

This image was effective enough that, when I was reading Mister B. Gone, I’m not ashamed to admit I brushed my neck, and even sheepishly looked behind me a few times, all because of the dread planted in my fertile imagination. It scared me more than the massacres Jakabok detailed from his travels across Medieval Europe. It scared me more than the warring demons and angels. All because the image planted worked on a primal fear: something sneaking up behind me, intent on doing harm.

It’s the whisper behind the character, a wind brushing their cheek that feels more like a hand, or branches clattering in a breeze that sounds like a chorus of human sighs that gets to me. Creeps me out and stays with me long after my night table lamp is shut off. Why? Because these scenes manipulate my senses, expose a vulnerability using sound, sight, touch to hit a raw chord of primal fear: being prey, the hunted, or the plaything of something unseen, or more powerful than I.

Rio Youers Mama Fish includes a scene that had a similar affect on me. What I think of as ‘the under the stairs’ scene. When the narrator goes to investigate the mysterious Kelvin Fish, he decides to crawl under the patio for a peek in the basement.

I won’t tell you what he sees within—that’d give too much of the story away—but it was what pursued him that made me breathe just a bit harder, feel my heart thud just a bit quicker. As he’s peering in, a spindly man discovers him spying. All because of a simple wrong move, a noise made, on the narrator’s part. Suddenly, the basement window creaks open, hands come out, and as the narrator flees, he swears he feels fingers brush his ankle.

Both sequences work on a primal human fear level. The fear of becoming prey. The fear of being pursued for malevolent purposes. Loosing control over your life for that split second and becoming the hunted instead of the hunter. Because it’s what we don’t see in real life that often unnerves us the most, restoring us to a basic human instinct sometimes: fight or flight.

Trust your eyes, we’re told in this modern world. But what if your eyes (and often ears) play tricks? What about that coat tree by your bedroom door? Ever woken up and glimpse your housecoat in a half-asleep daze, only to have your heart jump in your throat as you wonder: Who is standing in my room? Once you become fully conscious and realize it’s just a lump of terry cloth all is well, but for that split second your body seizes up with fear, prepared to coil and spring in attack or dash for freedom and safety.

Scenes and images that work on our primal fears expose our vulnerability. And, ultimately, isn’t that what humans fear? Being vulnerable reduces our bravery. It makes us second guess ourselves. In a world where we’ve made major technological advances, extended human life expectancy, a gentle reminder we were once closer to the bottom of the food chain unsettles us.

Human against human. Human against animal, or perhaps something supernatural. The fight for survival in an ever-increasingly complex world with a burgeoning population. Things like this remind us that, for as far as we’ve come, we’re still very much an animal. For as civilized as we like to believe we are, how civilized are we, really?

Modern human fears still hold primal foundations, and to invoke fear in me, a writer must work with one of these primal fears, building it with careful pacing, use of the senses, to make the fear hit home in a realistic manner.

Both examples I gave use the senses effectively to take you into the scene and make you feel, smell, hear, see what the narrator is experiencing. The smell of wet, autumn leaves, or the sound of dry ones crunching under foot. The creak of that basement window as it opens, and the sight of a white hand slipping up over the windowsill, reaching for the young boy in Mama Fish. Or the snicksnicksnick of the blade at my ear, or perhaps, Jakkabok’s hot breath on my neck. Every one of these sensations makes the dread presented much more tangible, relatable, and therefore real to the reader.

Tonight, as you tuck yourself in bed, I hope you’ll look around the room, make sure nothing is hiding under the bed, make sure that housecoat is placed where it can’t give you a scare in the middle of the night. Maybe the child in you, after reading this article, will need that bit of extra reassurance no monsters are lurking about, waiting to eat you up. But if you see an odd creature standing in your doorway, smiling a toothy smile and whispering arcane words you can’t understand, don’t blame me! Blame your primal fear, the seed of dread I just planted in your imagination. If all else fails, pull the covers up over your head and wait. I’ve heard that makes the monsters go away.

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Now, for a taste of the lovely Louise Bohmer's latest work read on:

The Black Act
by Louise Bohmer
Paperback: 240 pages
Publisher: Library of Horror Press;
2nd edition (September 22, 2009)
ISBN-10: 1449511198
ISBN-13: 978-1449511197
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She led the girls up wide, rounded stairs that ascended to a rectangular porch. The porch was supported by massive stone pillars carved with symbols Glenna recognized as an old, higher fae language she’d learned from Rothrien. The doors were two looming panels of oak, also intricately engraved with the symbols of this old fae dialect. Below each of the silver door loops, engraved into a square, silver plate, she recognized the words:

If you can read this, you already have the key.

Glenna spoke the spell aloud in its mother tongue. She wrapped her fingers around one of the silver door loops. She squeezed the cold metal and pushed against the door with all her strength. With a long, low creak of protest the wood yielded and she slipped inside with Rebecca.

The foyer was designed to be a meeting room. Glenna discerned this from its size and design. A perfect place for all the Elders to gather at once. Off the back of the foyer, two staircases led left and right. From the map, she knew these two stairwells led to eleven rooms on the main level, twelve on the second story. All were used for teaching, or storing the Guild’s most sacred of possessions and documents. Perhaps this was where the secret histories, the truth of the curse she had inherited, lay buried?

At the front of this grand foyer there were two hallways situated opposite one another. These led to an east and west wing that housed some Elders’ private quarters. According to the map, the cryptic great room that was Glenna’s destination waited at the end of the west wing. So down this narrow corridor they went, following dim blue light that burned in stone sconces.

Through the murk, Glenna noticed bookshelves were carved into the walls of the corridor, and behind wire mesh set in sturdy wooden frames leather tomes were kept safe. She realized, as she scanned the spines of the books and caught snippets of esoteric titles, the hallway must encompass a part of the Elders’ voluminous library. Within these walls, vast catalogs of magical knowledge were tucked away.

She ran her hand over the wire mesh stretched across a lower shelf. A rush of powerful energy tingled up through her arm. The sensation made her gasp.

“What if we were to open it?” Rebecca said.

Glenna turned and stared at her companion. Rebecca was such a quiet child. It was obvious she followed Jessica in much her Guild sister did. These impulsive words surprised Glenna very much.

“Part of me would like to,” Glenna said. “But, this isn’t what I’ve come for.”

“Don’t you want to see what’s inside?” As if mesmerized, Rebecca continued to stare at the shelf while she spoke.
Glenna touched her shoulder and shook her. “We should keep on course with the plan. We have to leave before the others return, or we’ll not make a safe escape.”

“No,” Rebecca said. “I want to see.”

She yanked Glenna’s hand off her shoulder and growled. The voice the child spoke in sounded too much like one of those haunting Glenna’s mind. Why would they possess Rebecca? Glenna closed her eyes and quickly went within, searching her mind and third eye for traces of Goddard and Corrigan. She could feel them, but their energies were faint. What kind of game were they playing, deserting her at a time like this, when she’d brought them this far? She wouldn’t bow to their whims now. This quest had become as much a part of her as the ghosts were, and she’d finish it with or without them. There were no other alternatives left.

She grabbed Rebecca and pushed her forward. The girl rammed into her and scratched at Glenna’s face before she knocked her to the hard floor. Rebecca yanked at the wire mesh covering the lower shelf. She clawed at the wood surrounding it. Before Glenna could get to her feet, the girl managed to break the hinges from the frame. She tore one panel free from the books.

The stones beneath Glenna shuddered as a violent vibration rippled through the rock. From somewhere down the corridor behind them, a thunderous crack echoed when the floor heaved up and shattered. She held onto Rebecca, while struggling to keep her balance atop the quaking granite. Shrapnel flew by her head as the fissure grew longer and moved closer. A sharp shard sliced a deep gouge into Rebecca’s cheek. The wound didn’t stop her from reaching for the book Glenna had touched, despite the blood that flowed down her face and soaked into the grey collar of her dress.

“Rebecca.” Glenna crawled to the girl and pulled her away. “We’ve got to go, now. You must stop.”

Larger stones flew past her now, and she held Rebecca as they both ran, crouched over, forward down the hall.

“I think you woke something up,” Glenna whispered. “Perhaps the house’s protector.”

The sound of more great stones smashing, like an angry giant coming for them, seemed to break the initiate’s trance. A boulder the size of a head struck a bookshelf opposite them and wood splintered while books scattered. Rebecca looked back the way they’d come then bolted in that direction. Glenna could barely keep up with her. She had to let go of the child.

As Rebecca fled, she heard her scream:

“The ground opened up and ate the witch women whole.”

Glenna wrapped her hand around her dagger and grabbed for the young initiate. Catching the girl by the wrist, she forced her to change direction. She hoped they reached the great room before whatever pursued reached them.

They rounded a corner in the corridor. She noticed a wedge-shaped cutout in the wall opposite her, a dark resting place she might’ve missed were she not searching for some form of refuge. The alcove was hard to see, and the darkness within held no torches to give away an occupant. She willed herself to run faster with Rebecca.

As she pulled a resistant Rebecca behind her toward the nook, a great groan emitted from the quavering stones beneath their feet. Glenna heard Rebecca scream as the floor below them split. She was thrown headfirst into the crevice, and Rebecca’s hand was yanked violently from hers.

There was a small, cushioned bench in the enclosure which Glenna used to prop herself up. She leaned on it and tried to summon strength. Her breathing came hard and fast as she held her bulging belly. Twinges in her lower abdomen spiked strong and insistent as the babes beat the inner walls of her womb. She winced, squeezing her eyes shut tight just as she heard Rebecca’s shriek once more.

Crawling to the entrance of the crevice, she peered out and searched for the girl. In the dim light cast by torches located farther down the corridor, she spied Rebecca.

The ground opened up and ate the witch women whole.

The girl pummeled her fists into the earth. Teeth fashioned from shale worked in conjunction with massive arms made of bleached roots to pull her into a muddy mouth. Long earthworms became a part of the monster, blending into its patchwork body as they wrapped their plump pink flesh around Rebecca’s fingers and wrists. Dirt rose up in waves around the girl and poured soil over her feet, her waist, her face.

“Rebecca,” Glenna shouted and reached out to the girl through the niche in the wall.

The earth slug turned its filthy head and growled at her. It was a warning, but it didn’t stop from enjoying its meal to give it. The hulking, squirming creature of stone and dirt continued to suck Rebecca inside the earth. White root held the girl’s mouth open while soil poured down her throat. Her screams were efficiently smothered.

* * * *

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