“Scientists can be Atheists?” Vedanshi asks in disbelief.
We’re in the air near the great Sphinx, cloaked in The Ganga. At this range the Sphinx’s ageless eyes fill me with awe and reverence. The statue knows what I’m thinking but doesn’t care. No, that’s crazy.
“Only a third of scientists believe in God,” I tell Vedanshi. It’s not like Revelation where two-thirds stayed on board.
Vedanshi’s eyes are wide. “And they feel sure there was never a great flood?”
“They’re absolutely sure. It goes against the tradition of a stable Earth with a gradual accumulation of small changes.”
“A stable Earth?” Now she smirks. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if that were true!” She glances over at Maxwell’s glazed expression. “But they must know… The Earth’s surface is 71 percent water. You’ve got moon craters with asteroid mountains over two miles high.”
The peaks in the Tsiolkovskiy Crater come to mind…
“Which ought to tell someone the height of an asteroid tsunami,” she says.
Shoemaker-Levy could have been a clue, too. Slamming Jupiter 1994.
“And don’t you have two thousand flood stories?” she asks.
I nod. Quite a coincidence that bit of data.
“But you’re telling me science sees no evidence of a global flood?”
“None.” And the blind are well aware of twenty-seven significant asteroid events in the last 15 years, most of them explosions over an ocean.
“This is disappointing.” She closes her eyes and locks her legs like pretzels.
Her legs are longer than mine, you know. I wish I had longer legs… But there’s this part of me that lives in stats. This time the statistics involve the tenth commandment, believe it or not: “Thou shalt not covet.” Wouldn’t you know? People who make envious comparisons tend to be unhappy. It’s science. I have to accept my short legs. Otherwise I’ll wind up as another case report of perfect autobiographical memory ending in depression and suicide. If this leukemia doesn’t get me first.
“Now you have 2,001 flood myths.” Vedanshi says. “And I’m an eyewitness to your latest one.”
“To me you’re the most important scientist alive. But to modern science your life is an anecdotal report. And since you’re not a PhD, your observations and ideas won’t be taken seriously.” I hate the irony of closed-minded truth seekers. Science is fueled by wonder but fooled by pride. “Unless you landed The Ganga on the White House Lawn and overcame the deafening censorship on UFO stories, you couldn’t publish a word of your culture’s knowledge in a science journal. You’d have to write a book, self-publish it, and spend the rest of your life ignoring attacks from PhD’s and late-night comedians.”
“It’s a heart-shaped box,” James says, conjuring Kurt Cobain…
She eyes me like a Pisces when I am weak.
I’ve been locked inside your heart-shaped box for weeks.
I’ve been drawn into your magnet tar-pit trap.
I wish I could eat your cancer…
Vedanshi looks at James quizzically but speaks to me. “Science is in a rut, huh?”
Maxwell flops over on his belly and groans. Too many chicken wings, this one.
“Generous assessment,” I say to Vedanshi. “Science is allergic to unfunded realities. It hates the Christian religion above all else. If the global flood weren’t mentioned in the Bible, it would be government school dogma like the Big Bang’s myth of a reality without conscious awareness.”
Vedanshi looks out at the Great Pyramid. “This culture is more primitive that I thought. How did you manage to build a pyramid like that?”
“Frankly, I’m not sure we did.”
“It seems your scientists trust logic to understand a universe that defies logic.” She looks at James, “The observer’s retroactive influence on outcome. Nonlocality. Time dilation. Light’s behavior in slits. Quantum wave collapse. The mind’s effect on random events.”
“To name a few,” I say, wondering if the question isn’t waves versus particles, but what sort of reality creates such a weird dilemma?
“Your elite thinkers seem to trust their eyes with a universe that’s mostly invisible.” Vedanshi makes an arc in the air with her right hand. “The Earth could be spinning in an arena of dark matter, crowded with intelligent spectators, and science would be helpless to detect it.”
“Physicists readily admit that,” I say.
“Really?” She looks surprised. “So why would anyone think science could cast doubt on God?”
“It’s their circular belief that there’s no evidence of God. Circular in the sense that history has forced science to explain things in a way that deliberately excludes God. So if a data set were to prove God’s existence, science would have already denied the data’s existence or validity.”
“It sounds like, ‘no girls allowed.'” Vedanshi laughs. “But how is that possible? How do they explain DNA without God?”
“They treat DNA the way they treat the Bible. They don’t read it. They only read about it.”
“Christians don’t read the Bible either,” James says. “That’s how come they think it’s perfect.”
James and I went to a church school for a while. Mom found a Christian church that kept the Jewish Sabbath so she thought it would broaden our minds to go there. I skipped most of the grades and moved on, but James was there for several years. Not a pleasant place for a rock musician.
“The scientists who understand DNA’s language still think in terms of amino acids, random mutations and primary structure,” I say.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” she says. “Your people have been to the moon. How could they be so primitive with genetics?”
“I don’t know. I think the problem is fear. They’re afraid of the overwhelming complexity of four-dimensional anatomy and physiology, and the mind-brain-DNA enigma. It’s the same way the Egyptologists don’t dare to look at things from the perspective of modern engineering.”
“What are they afraid of?” she asks.
“Changing basic assumptions about history and intelligent influence. Losing grant money. Being influenced by what they believe is the mortal enemy of rational thought – religion.”
Vedanshi takes a moment to think, then shakes her head in amazement. “I should read this Bible. Are there other taboo documents?” She glances away and her expression changes. “The Ganga says I’m too young.”
“The Bible’s too racy?” I ask.
Her brow knits. “It’s mainly a passage in Ezekiel.”
“This carpet thinks it’s your mother,” James says.
“Could you ask The Ganga for chapter and verse,” I ask. “I promise I won’t quote it to you.”
She looks down. “It’s from chapter one, verse four through chapter two verse three.”
“Thanks.” The verses flash into my head. A few jump out…
…I saw a windstorm coming out of the north–an immense cloud with flashing lightning and surrounded by brilliant light. The center of the fire looked like glowing metal, and in the fire was what looked like four living creatures.
…their form was human, but each of them had four faces and four wings…
…Fire moved back and forth among the creatures; it was bright, and lightning flashed out of it.
The creatures sped back and forth like flashes of lightning.
…I saw a wheel on the ground beside each creature… …the wheels… sparkled like topaz, and all four looked alike.
Each appeared to be made like a wheel intersecting a wheel…
When the living creatures moved, the wheels beside them moved; and when the living creatures rose from the ground, the wheels also rose…
Spread out above the heads of the living creatures was what looked something like a vault, sparkling like crystal, and awesome.
…When the creatures moved, I heard the sound of their wings, like the roar of rushing waters, like the voice of the Almighty, like the tumult of an army…
…Above the vault over their heads was what looked like a throne of lapis lazuli, and high above on the throne was a figure like that of a man.
…from … his waist up he looked like glowing metal…
Like… a rainbow in the clouds on a rainy day, so was the radiance around him.
This was the appearance of the likeness of the glory of the LORD…
Why would The Ganga want to keep a sixteen-year-old from reading that? I can think of two possibilities. Religion and ET’s.
James wipes his greasy fingers on his pants. Vedanshi didn’t want him to eat the chicken after he told her it was genetically modified – even though I said the whole story is a myth. The birds are selectively bred, not modified. It’s the same thing humans have been doing to dogs forever.
Speaking of dogs, from where I’m sitting, you can’t help but notice that the Sphinx resembles a dog the way its front paws stick out. I wonder why the word “dog” and the word “God” are so alike. Especially if God works through coincidence.
I think a smart dog’s emotions are basically human. Maybe God’s emotions are basically human, too, just coming from the direction of higher intelligence.
Vedanshi takes The Ganga over the Sphinx’s right paw, then down through phantom bricks and sandstone to a thirty foot cubic chamber with walls that glow golden-brown in our light. Attached to the ceiling is a glass pyramid. I’d say it’s three yards per side and about that tall, pointing down at the floor with its base somehow attached to the ceiling. We move under it. Vedanshi leans out and puts her eye under the point, then motions for me to come look. I follow her example, look up into the glass and a red flower appears. Its petals seem to move like fingers, but when I look carefully the movement must be in my mind.
I tilt my head, then get up on my knees to look at it through the side of the pyramid, closer to the ceiling. To my astonishment, the flower is a tiny drawing on the tip of a long shaft of black hair, encased in the center of the glass pyramid and extending down from the base.
Vedanshi sighs. “Oh, brother. The Ganga says the library’s still functional, so I’m not allowed inside.”
“What’s the problem?” James asks. “I don’t see any books.”
“You will.” She points up. “Those green branching things.”
James moves his head under the apex and looks up. “Really? They look like frozen lightning.”
“They hold books, pictures and three-dimensional holographic videos, all in DNA. The info here would fill a warehouse the size of Easter Island if it were stored in your culture’s binary code… on plastic and magnets.”
“They look like cryptic symbols,” I say, leaning back in for another glance.
“They’re a road map of lymphatic vessels,” Vedanshi says. “From a relative of your kangaroo rat, modified to preserve non-ordering DNA in any climate. Everything was kept in DNA in my era, going back fifteen thousand years. Most of the older records had been transferred to DNA, as well.”
“How do you get the information out?” I ask.
“The glass pyramid around the Flower of Life uses a microscopic plasma wave to read the code through the walls of the lymphatics. It translates the information to the universal binary language of awareness and transmits it to a neural eye so it can enter the River of Consciousness.”
“Where’s the neural eye?” James asks. “Sounds creepy.”
“At the apex of a pyramid.”
“So the information goes to the River,” I say. “Does that mean you need an AI vehicle to access it?”
“As far as I know,” she says. “Unless you’re already inside the library. But libraries have no real doors, so you need a phase-shifted ship to get in.”
“Was education limited to pilots, then?” I ask.
“Officially, yes, but not really. Pilots and stretch heads were the only ones legally authorized to know things.”
I’m frowning, not big on self-absorbed elites holding others back.
“From what I’ve read,” she says, “our educational system was no more discriminatory than yours in the United States. But instead of devaluing knowledge by forcing it on everyone, our culture made it mysterious and difficult to get. So everyone wanted it. And most people bought as much of it as they could afford on the black market. It was my mother’s secret plot to promote education. Apparently it worked.” Vedanshi turns her head away from the inverted pyramid. “I’m seeing things I probably shouldn’t. We’d better go.”
“What if I learn the River’s language?” I ask. “Will I be allowed into your libraries? With The Ganga?”
“Of course. You said you’re over eighteen, right?”
“Yeah, I’m nineteen.”
“Perfect. I trust you completely. So does The Ganga.” Vedanshi whisks us out of the Sphinx’s underground library and up into its gaze.
You know, I think this statue does look older than the pyramid behind it. And there’s heavy water erosion on its chest and on the walls around it.
That could mean it was here before this place became a desert – supposedly 3,200 BC, if you trust ice core data. I think I do, but I don’t know any of those scientists personally, so I can’t gauge their honesty. Some branches of science are dominated by sociopaths, I’ve found. They’re a broad spectrum of personality types, but they have at least one thing in common. They pride themselves in being liars.
“I’m not feeling so good,” Maxwell says.
“Egyptian fast food zombie apocalypse?” I ask.
“No,” he says. “It’s worse.” He lies on his right side and brings his knees up toward his chin. “Addiction runs in my family. It’s a disease.”
M. Talmage Moorehead
Chapter 0 starts here.
By the way, I’ve found an editor who has that unique talent set I’ve been hoping to find, namely the understanding soul of an artist who can gently convey the brilliant corrective insights of a gifted fiction analyzer and editor. On top of that, this man has been traditionally published: nine novels, some of which are science fiction! He’s an editor, a book doctor, a ghost writer, a successful author and above all, a genuine human being.
His name is William Greenleaf. (Here’s his web address in case the link isn’t working: http://greenleafliteraryservices.com/.)
Mr. Greenleaf has evaluated my previous “traditional” version of Johanna’s story that I abandoned, the current “experimental” version that’s in-progress above, and a short story I wrote two years ago. In each case his analysis was unquestionably accurate, unbiased, hugely insightful and wise… and despite the bad news in some areas, he was able to communicate the problems to me in such a way as to avoid discouraging me.
That’s not easy. I’m not exactly thick-skinned as a writer (or as anything else), so the fact that I’m the opposite of discouraged says a lot about him as a communicator and a human being.
I’m going back now to finish the previous traditional version of Johanna’s story (past tense, 3rd person, no pictures or links) while I continue writing the above experimental story. The two stories are quite different, so it’s going to be confusing to my neurons, but it will be great sport!
Just so you know, William Greenleaf didn’t ask me to write this, and I’ve got no conflict of interest whatsoever (meaning I’m not getting a discount or any special treatment of any kind for writing this).
If you need help with your writing (we all do) however major or minor, William Greenleaf has my highest and most enthusiastically positive recommendation. The man’s work is spectacular and amazing. Here’s his website again…
If I had an image right here of a book entitled, Writing Meaningful Page-turners with a professional looking cover – let’s say of the ocean and a seagull flying over a beach – stats show that many more people would download my free e-book. They would feel as if it were somehow a valuable thing. Please remember this for your own work, whenever you’re selling anything or giving it away.
Without that picture, the book’s value is diminished. It’s not logical, but it’s true.
Anyway, my little e-book’s about 10,000 words. Someday I’ll make a “cover” for it so I can give it away better.
Anything can happen – reading it could totally change you life, but I have to say I doubt it’s going to be anything more than a decent read. If you like discovering “newish” wordsmith mechanics of “voice,” you may enjoy the second to last chapter.
You can download my e-book without the slightest concern of me spamming you or sharing your email. The fact is, I haven’t written a single email to the list yet and it’s been over a year since I started it. I should do something about that.
Before I forget, please email a friend with a link to my blog… if you know anybody who might like this odd sort of fiction. Here’s my URL: http://www.storiform.com (You can copy and paste it to an email, maybe.) Thanks for your help. I really appreciate it.
Personal note to fiction writers…
A few days ago this chapter was twice this long. I divided it in half, but it’s still twice as long as it should be for a blog post. I feel that writing short chapters is making it tough to bring out character emotion and adequate description for a sense of 3D placement.
The plot movement and conflict I promised us last time? Hey, I tried, but it’s as if my plotting fingers are stuck in the mud of ideas and my tendency to write to a topic rather than explore emotion. That’s a mistake you can learn from by noting my bad example. I love ideas too much, and I love speculative non-fiction too much, perhaps. But don’t worry. I’m going to pull this baby out of the mud. It’s not as if I can’t see what’s wrong, especially after some recent input I’ve had from the amazing editor, book doctor, ghost writer and traditionally published author of 9 novels, William Greenleaf (please see the paragraphs about him above) as well as some brilliantly insightful input from across the pond. Thanks to each one of you from the bottom of my heart.
One of the things that William Greenleaf opened my eyes to is the need to sense Johanna’s world in every detail as I write. I’m going to flesh this out for you because it’s a huge breakthrough for me…
I was writing a traditional version of Johanna’s story in my usual OCDish slow way, seeing every little thing and crying like a little girl over things that touched my heart. Things like Johanna appreciating her brother’s music, but him being unable to comprehend exactly what she does for a living.
And then I came across an article about a successful indie writer who cranks out 10,000 words per day. The article was detailed and I gave her technique a try. (I wrote a post about it here.) I was able to go fairly fast and soon doubled the word count on my story. It felt nice being faster, and I read the fast stuff and thought it was fine. But somehow I didn’t feel like I was connecting with Johanna the way I usually do. Nothing hit me with powerful emotion. The plot seemed fine, a bit improved even.
But the lack of emotional connection with Johanna made me start wondering what it would be like to write in first person. Could I get close to Johanna again? So I abandoned the traditional story and began the current first person present tense “experimental” version above. Incidentally, all the idea-oriented content is getting between me and Johanna in this version lately.
Not knowing any of this, William Greenleaf analyzed the traditional version and pinpointed the drop in quality of the story, the exact place where I started trying to write fast. He said that I was having viewpoint issues. It was so true, but not merely in the superficial way that I would usually think of viewpoint “inconsistencies” – things like describing something the VP character can’t see or know.
This was more a lack of careful, detailed experiencing of Johanna’s world, especially her feelings, her thoughts, her wants, her plans, her hopes, her insecurities, her hurts. The very things that usually make me cry over her situation when I’m writing for her.
There were many other equally brilliant things that Mr. Greenleaf uncovered in his analysis, but this one was key. I had to tell you in detail.
I can’t thank the inspired Greek Artist, Spira, enough for generously allowing me to use his breathtaking artwork and sensational photographs of Egypt. You’ll enjoy his groundbreaking artwork here: https://spirasc.wordpress.com. Take your time and really look at what he’s doing and saying. Give yourself mental space to feel it.
Stay positive about your writing. If you’re sensitive to criticism and easily discouraged like I am, admit it to yourself without making it your final destination. And be selective about whom you show your work to. Getting help is essential, but if the people helping you are not 1. A lot better at analyzing your writing than you are and 2. Capable of expressing criticism in a way that doesn’t kill your motivation to write, then you’re far better off keeping your writing strictly to yourself until its ready for a first-class professional like William Greenleaf. Actually, you don’t have to wait until you’re done with a first draft to show it to Mr. Greenleaf. I’m sure glad I didn’t wait! It’s difficult to get the feeling across as to why I’m so thankful to God and the Universe for leading me to this man’s website, but it’s about hope. There’s nothing like having solid evidence that your dream of making it as a writer is based somewhere within the realm of reality. William Greenleaf is objectively qualified to give you that hope. Equally important, he’s the kind of person who refuses to deliver any false hope. Trust me, I know.
Check out, “The How of Happiness,” by Sonja Lyubomirsky, Ph.D., Professor of Psychology at the University of California, Riverside. Originally from Russia, she received her A.B., summa cum laude, from Harvard University and her Ph.D. in Social/Personality Psychology from Stanford University. Her book is the most science-based and useful writing I’ve found so far on happiness. Most creative people would do themselves a big favor by reading it and practicing the broad range of scientifically studied techniques she describes for overcoming the emotional lows. Her book is for real. It will change the lives of many people.
Keep writing and be happy! Thanks for your patience. 🙂