" And what is eternity? ...doing? It is questioning me......thoroughly. Me? I've sussed the score. I'm being given a choice. LIVE inside the question...or decay on the flotsam and jetsam of the whirld:-- all the statements which make up the whirld. The statements which shrink from the presence of the question." And Simon could see clearly...that he'd been involved in the fictitious whirld of interconnecting statements…through his own self-betrayal...his own projections. The living fresh current on which the statement-scum floats...is the dimension of THE QUESTION.

Simon began to think he would have to abandon the whirld of fiction if he intended to stay and really live inside this astonishing...........question. This question is a mysterious zone of aloneness. Absolutely unique. Indescribable ...in fact there is no way of knowing if anyone else had ever entered into such a living moment. Such considerations lead one to EXIT the living miracle.

"I can see you Judas...on the outside of this benevolence...not yearning to come in...but scheming to get me out! On the other hand, Judas, you're welcome to come in...and share this grace...but see, he thinks he's already inside...and if I act out his thoughts...which he's holding up to me outside the window... I'll be outside again!

WEIRD. It's like I'm inside this grace-capsule...with windows onto the whirld...and Judas definitely doesn't want to get in...but definitely wants me to get out...and join him in HELL!!!! Poor bastard demon! If only he knew what it was like to be INSIDE!!! Jesus...I REALLY AM...INSIDE...GOD. Is this really.…..GOD?"

How long had he been holding those soul-sapping strings? Those strings which performed no other function......than to hold his soul inside a conceptual captivity. Holding onto unnecessary strings was Judas's idea, like:-- `Floating off is dangerous'.

Judas speaks...inside me...as if he's been here already...and found out the score...but it's all lies. Cynics are crystal-liesd lumps of shit! The channels for Harry Manic's virus. Poisonous add-vice! Advice about the sacred?!? Forget it. They will never...ever...encounter the real sacred. ETERNITY. The cynic who surrenders to eternity...is no longer a cynic.

It dawned on Simon that he hadn't moved an inch since he'd been inside eternity...and he could see why. He had no real motivation to move...inside him. No, "the motivator of my life has been YOU!.......JUDAS!" he exclaimed...in a strange rasping unfamiliar voice.

"God, did that poor ghoul quake." It was the first time Simon had ever addressed Judas...directly. "What a cunning bugger. He ruled me whilst pretending he didn't. Pretending he was giving impartial advice. Sod! He's got my legs. Judas! I command you NOW...enter this moment of truth!"

"The ghoul's gone! Judas no longer exists. I was Judas. I never ever actually allowed TRUTH to be my Master. I always kept Truth outside. I never let it move me. THAT was madness...a position considered normal in the whirld. Now I can see I spent my life avoiding this ECSTASY. What total insanity."

Suddenly Simon is gripped by COLDNESS. "Death! Of course.......I'd forgotten. Is this my death?...NOW? Is this what's really been happening? I'm actually dying...I'm in the middle of a STROKE? I must have smoked too much at Luke's!"

"No way! I'm staying inside...you stay outside...and soon you'll calm down as I surrender...inside... because...because this surrendering inside...this blending inside with the living golden peace...is so totally exquisite. I am being bathed in the radiations of an inner fusion...which is the signature of LIFE. THE ANSWER.

Yes, I've come across the living answer to the question of eternal life. SURRENDER! From here I can see it all so clear. No one can surrender unless they are first inside the living question. How does one discover the meaning of eternity? By Surrendering to it's reality. This is the real alchemy. The truly Royal Road. Cesar...my dear...dear friend. Enjoy my cash...and bracelet...and consider it all...a gift from my past...and I sincerely hope with all my SOUL-LIGHT that you can transform your dark base-metal into golden ecstasy!"

Simon laughed and laughed and laughed and cracked up completely......real-I-sing he could move...around the room without losing the reality of this moment of...?... bliss! Yes, it was a moment of total bliss...overshadowed by death! "How weird that I can laugh in the midst of this great darkness. The terrible darkness of the phoney human whirld."

"The suppressed sorrow of millions and millions of souls is threaded through this room...by the needle point of this moment of truth! My God! Now I can see why I didn't want to enter this healing bliss. I didn't want to encounter this horror. How totally selfish I'd become. No wonder I'd felt so stale. This moment has been calling me throughout my life. Calling me to heal the whirld. This whirld which I helped to weave together...and which I denied was part of me...the whirld represented by that old fear which was tapping at the window of my soul. Yes, because I denied my own complicity...I was sick...and then I even denied I was sick ...and so, I denied my soul access to this wondrous...timeless...healing...moment...through which I must allow the whirld to pass.

Before Simon had entered this unexpected dimension, he had imagined such a condition could only be maintained through stoicism. And such stoicism he had immediately doubted he'd ever be able to master. "How totally wrong I've been. Absolute honesty is the first requirement...which immediately leads to the question of SERVICE. And the first act of service...is to be healed...before attempting to heal. "

After a longish wait.…..from deep within his self he realised the true answer. "All my self-importance has to go. How impossible this would have seemed an hour or so ago...before I entered this eternal moment. It is this very moment which heals...because I know without any doubt that its presence is in no way the product of my effort. It is a pure gift. Not a gift I'd earned...or deserved...and so in no way does this miraculous moment support the illusion that I'm special. The irony is that in the mirror of this special moment I realise my normal human nature. This moment...is a moment of balance. Up to this point, my existence has been totally unbalanced. I've been trapped for yonks inside my own trip. Inside my own head!! Inside thoughts. And inside thought...I constructed duplicates of feeling...duplicates of spirit and body!!

Yes, I've not been inhabiting my body...but manipulating it...like voodoo...by jerking about the image of my body in the mind. The same with feeling. I haven't really felt anything...directly. What I've called `my feelings' are really my thoughts...which I've charged up with emotional significance.

Evil is not just the promotion of imbalance...but the insistence that the imbalance is balance!!! Western `culture' is an un-balanced head trip. The superior view-point-trip. Within this imbalance...it tries to achieve balance...by balancing viewpoints. It's like within a red sphere there are tones which are named `blue'....`yellow'....`green'....`white'....`black'...etc...And the game is to find a balance between these tones...based on each tone having been given a numerical value.

It is easy to real-Ise that it is only by stepping out of the red sphere would one understand how unbalanced one had been. The only culture in recent times which exhibited a real balance was the North American Indians...or better, some of the North American Indians...like the Cree for instance. And look at the state of the Cree culture today. It was of course smashed to pieces by ugly unbalanced mad white men. KILLERS. LIARS. VIRUS.

Yes, this moment is the meaning of a real gift...arriving from a place totally uninfluenced by the opinions of the recipient. It is up to the recipient to accept or reject the gift. A question of life or death. Death is coming anyway...but if one meets it from within a moment of true life...then it can be seen as an opportunity for service. That is, no sooner one enters the realm of the real...the realm of the now...than one encounters the demands of the whirld. The decaying whirld demanding deliverance from it's own corruption.

By accepting the gift of real life...one is choosing `the perfect place' to encounter the suffering of the whirld. One can then relate to the maelstrom from the sanctuary of a living peace. Having been re-connected to eternity...I lack nothing which the whirld could give...except......friendship. Yes, friendship is the true pulse of reality.

That is the difference between the Red Indian way and the ways of the Eastern Gurus. Most of the great Indian Gurus are loners. Heroes. In the Indian myths there are a few exceptions to this. Shiva and Shakti......Krisna and Radha...but very seldom is there any indication of co-operation between Gurus in the recent past. There's hero worship...but that belongs to the whirld of viewpoints. The whirld projected by unconscious desires. Real friendship can only exist between equals."

Simon continued reviewing his relationship to Cesar in minute detail...whilst adding boiling water to his Mu tea. There had never been any truth in their contrived arrangement. Simon admitted to himself that he had always operated within the parameters of an hidden agenda. He had hoped that Cesar would one day teach him the rudiments of Alchemy as a reward for helping him out in various ways. The relationship between them was 'grounded' in corruption from day one.

"It wasn't a human relationship but a viewpoint battle...in which probably Cesar had no interest. In fact, I probably never really contacted the man. I've just been embroiled in my own projections. That's no basis for friendship. That's why in the Cree culture, power was never invested in one person. Every time they discussed a law, for instance, there would be twenty chiefs present...and each one of those chiefs was elected to be a chief by the rest of the people. And the chiefs worked in pairs...usually a man and a woman. And they examined every issue from every possible angle...and if the people didn't think the chiefs had got it right...the twenty had to go all over it again."

Friendship. Trust. Warmth. Qualities which are essential to a balanced relationship. Simon realised that he'd been operating on the assumption that Cesar was a power-tripper... like he was! Simon had hoped that Cesar would charge up Simon's viewpoint. What a ridiculous illusion.

"I'm only here for therapeutic reasons," said Simon in a very close approximation of Annie's rasping Liverpudlian presentation. "What would you two fantasy merchants like for...breakfast?" It really sounded like Annie as Simon finished the sentence standing up on the tips of his toes. Annie on tiptoes. That's the way she trips through life.

"You're right Cesar...I haven't really been here for her. I've been totally self-centred...and because she's been so gentle with me...I've never dared prick the bubble...and...and challenge her in any way that would do her any good. We just scratched each other's backs. No real contact. No real question. No real pulse of friendship.

Watching the milk steaming...Simon began to weep. Not for himself...not for Annie...or Cesar...or Luke...or Lance...or Arnold...or Shanti...or Molly...or Jill or anyone in particular. No, he was weeping to stay inside the eternal moment. How he was glad he could still weep. Weep? No he was howling! And it became painfully clear that Cesar was another form of Judas...who Simon had thought would never re-appear. Poor Cesar...he pretends to know the eternal nature of this immaculate moment whilst doing no more than view his projected ideas of where I am.

The milk was just about to boil over when Simon realised that Annie was in fact not next door...asleep. He very carefully poured the steaming milk into a large chunky blue hand made mug. (Made by Luke's mother). Humming 'Walking Shoes' he tip- toed next door and sat in the window seat.

He thought...if I was writing this scene in a short story...would I spend much time in descriptions? The size of the room...the furniture...the gas fire...my cord trousers...my weird beard...my boots...my glasses? No. That's Cesar's whirld. I'm not here to entertain those who are dedicated to ignoring the essence of here-ness. And that's not to say that I think I would be good at it...even if I really tried! No I don't for a moment think that's true. The fact is, I just don't inhabit that position which demands an expressive description of the passing show.

Simon recalled Nietzche's notion that man would only transcend himself when he ceased to feel ripped off by the passing of time. It was only he...who had no urge for revenge...at the passing of TIME...who would embody the spirit of freedom. Surely the passing of time is the same as the passing of the show. Did Nietzche make it into the eternal? Maybe he was the first to write from that position!?! Suddenly all the pigeons took off...and disappeared!

"Annie...even when you thought I was with you...I was really doing a solo. I've always been attempting to be complete...without being OPEN...to real LOVE. My life is a record...of endless pseudo gestures aimed at keeping `the other' at bay......endlessly clinging to rigidifying realms of fear-formed conclusions. O LORD!...O LORD!...O LORD!...what a relief. What solo madness. What a stupid arrogant bastard I've been! Out to undermine the world. Get one over everyone. EGO MANIAC. Keep all the women in their places...in constant uncertainty...unsure of where I'm at...or who I am. Create mystery...longing...make denial of love and life appear to be a virtue."

This uncontrolablel moment kept intensifying its demands on Simon. Of course...what he'd been calling `the moment`...was in fact the confession of his own essential being...his spirit. HIS SELF. Yes, his Self was attempting to enter every nook and cranny of his earthly existence...if it was allowed in. By the skin of his teeth he realised...in awe...the absolute precariousness of this unique benediction. The Divine's gift of true intelligent feeling:--life. GIVEN. That is the point to never be forgotten. GIVEN.

"I have been given the opportunity to be real. And is this so I can enjoy my own...solo...existence? NO! If I hadn't asked that question...I could easily have been sucked into the position of believing that my SELF...is GOD! That there is no God apart from the Self...or that the Self is not in fact one's own Self...but is an impersonal Divine dimension."

Simon understood now the plight of so many people he had met. Because the discovery of one's SELF is such a tremendous SHOCK...it is very tempting to ascribe to one's SELF an unrealistic definition. It just doesn't appear to anyone caught in this trap that they have succumbed to a seIf-centred belief structure. They fail to reaIise that they have used their awakening to spirituaI reaIity...to hide from Truth. This is a very difficult trap to escape...since the means of escape is denied by those caught in this way. The amazing joy one feeIs in being oneseIf...is used to deny the need to think what needs to be thought. And why is this?

"Because what I must think.....feeIs painfuI," he blurted out whilst noticing the latest rearrangement of the gormIess pigeons. "Yes.....I have to think what I must DO.....to save mankind from disappearing into the abyss of unthinkingness. I have no real choice but to THINK.....deeply.....regardless of whether my fellow men accept what I think. I think everyone should think. To think.....really think.....is to reach out to the Divine.....and WAIT.....until one receives THE WORD, which is given to be shared with he or she who is also hungry for spiritual nourishment. This is my true work, folks! I have to transmit THE LIVING TRUTH. Not dogma. Not viewpoints. Not beliefs. Not theories....but only that which IS GIVEN. That! Only THAT!. Yes.....my brother.....my sister.....I've been called to think for you. And what you have given me is REALITY! For without you.....I would never think.....I would do nothing but merely circulate. Circumambulate around a steadily crystallizing SELF. Yes, such crystallized selves have dominated world history."

Simon pictured Cesar. Those coId piercing eyes. Power. Yes, Cesar's personaI power seemed coIossaI.....yet his daiIy conduct seemed.....petty.....rooted in an unspoken conviction that he, Cesar, is one of the unseen administrators of worId affairs. A very high status member of the core elite. This gives Cesar the grounds to be tyrannical.

His greatest pleasure is exercising his cultivated arrogance. How he relishes the opportunity of misleading the gullible...of making it seem that his arrogance is a blessing bestowed upon him by Higher Powers. And of course he wanted me to believe that he was grounded in the essence of love. In the perfume of the true rose. But Cesar's rose is nothing but a logo publicizing his monomania. His idiotic, infantile, self-constructed "love". The ultimate form of self-intoxication. This, for sure is the soil of that overbearing deadly arrogance. `I am a complete being without the need for anyone. I have my own source of love, which sets me apart from all you starving desperate beggars.'

" My God. This part of my mind is MAD. This is ME! Not Cesar. I've been on that same road of concealed demonism. Self-sufficiency. It's like I'm travelling through an atmosphere permeated with subliminal ideals...like it's a great position to be in...to be able to say 'fuck off' to any member of humanity one feels like insulting."

"Before the arrival of this 'moment'...my True Self...I was completely vulnerable...to all those demonic temptations to be arrogant. Of course I had no protection. No light to see what I was feeding off. What was poisonous...what was life-giving? Now it's all obvious...but why do the others...like Cesar...fall into that trap and become crystallized in self-importance? They stupidly believe that what is produced by them must be nourishing...so they only exercise their light over other people's behaviour...and not over their own.

In this sea of uncertainty...every fish (of thought) has to be thoroughly examined before I swallow it. Only what is specifically meant for me will be Divine...or let us say...truly digestible...therefore nourishing to my Self...my soul...my spirit...yet I also have to allow the whirld to pass through my Self! I see. It gets cleansed as it passes through my Self...and as the current passes through...occasionally there's a tasty bit meant for me to digest. MY NEW CAREER HAS BEGUN!

I'm called upon to be a waiter. One who waits. One who serves. Learning to wait is the beginning of service. One waits on the Divine...in order to serve man. The service to man is to let the whirld pass through my consciousness. I am consciousness. Me is the whirld. I and me are totally different. I let me pass through I. That's it folks!"

Simon sat down at his desk and looked at his writing pad. He didn't know if writing would fit in with his new career? He felt that he was no longer a passive lump dying in a desert inhabited by nothing but the ghosts of his own strategies. No, he'd become a student...of active decision making. But what about the dope?

`Listen everything's working out O.K. I've come in at this point...in the story...because where Simon's got to...is exactly where I'm at...suspended in the moment. As I've said before, solitary confinement is the real business...if you want to find out who you really are...what you're really made of. I mean prison life itself is a good opportunity to find out a lot about yourself...but it's almost impossible to get into any real deep meditation if you've got two or three other fellas in your cell.

It's strange that when I was a vicar in Haworth...I never ever got into the eternal reality which Tim, (disguised as Simon), is describing. It's a state of STOP! Stop being an idiot...and listen to your real Self. Mary's told me that you're going to publish all of this stuff by Tim. How much of this came from Tim...and how much from his Master...I don't know...nor do I really know what's happening to Kate. Why don't you try writing to her? Her new name apparently is Anandama, c/o British Embassy, Delhi, India. It's worth a try. I wrote a few months ago...and got no reply...but that could be a warning. Anyway don't ask her anything about me...please...or where I am.

The winter's slowly vanishing...into torrential rain. The streams are rivers...and the rivers...lakes. It's pitch black outside...inside it's absolutely quiet...with a single candle flame...and a thin line of whispish smoke rising from an incense stick. I'm relieved that Joe's O.K., but a bit disappointed that he didn't really say very much...yet on the other hand...he did seem to say something...between the lines...like he's found a way to not feel imprisoned inside prison. That's something! To not feel resentful. He's not in the victim mode. In fact he seems grateful...yes...grateful...amazing, he actually feels grateful to have the opportunity to meditate...to be centred in his Self. His gratitude is infectious. It's like I'm ready to feel the same gratitude now. Yes I feel grateful for being able to think...and be free of depending on any belief structure. I did try to get hold of `The Power of Delusion'...but of course, it doesn't seem to exist. Look didn't Joe say at the begining of this whole saga that `LAWSON' was a pseudonym...so how could the book...if it exists...be found? Surely through the title. So why hasn't it been found?

Homeless. The sense of being homeless was the undeniable consequence of staying in the eternal question. This one indivisible moment separated Simon from the whirld...and it was now absolutely clear, the difference between the Earth and the whirld...or one could even say between the world and the whirld...between the living web of Being and the calculating mesh of the whirld. To be a responsible person...that is, one who responds to what is...the Truth...means one refrains absolutely from responding to what is NOT:---the whirld.

Simon closed his writing pad. It wasn't a question of writing...any more...but of reviewing what he'd already written. He felt an overwhelming urge to examine every poem he'd ever written. Immediately he pulled out a large cardboard box from under his writing desk. About one hundred and fifty poems...perhaps four hundred typed pages. On the outside of the box...in bold black marker...`THE HARBOUR MASTER'S RELEASE' by SIMON MATHEWS.

The title referred to an idea he had formed some three years back...of publishing his poems as a type of novel. The sequence of poems told the tale of Simon's psychic history. Half-way through the story, Simon...as the Harbour Master...realises that he's completely TRAPPED! Trapped in the mould he'd made. He had aimed in his youth at being a master (of life)! A great master guru...but he suddenly wakes up to the fact that he's nothing more than an harbour master. Once he'd been a reckless drug-taking sailor...until the tropical night of the terrible typhoon...which he'd only just survived...by taking refuge in a barely used ancient harbour.

Not admitting to himself that he'd lost his nerve...he invented endless excuses as to why he'd not repaired his ketch...and gone out to sea again. He went wildly out of his way to help others get their boats out to sea...so that eventually there was nothing he could do with his old wreck...but turn it into a comfortable houseboat...and assume the position of the Harbour Master of that extremely remote haven.

When the next unexpected cyclone exploded...he truly found out that he was totally lacking in real strength. He had (insanely) hoped that the consequences of him helping others to stay afloat in life...would give him the courage to sail into the unknown...but it was all self-centred unrealistic theory.

Inside the nut house...he slowly pulls himself together...and starts writing poems...tracing his tortured life. The head doctor, who fancies himself as an `artiste of the soul' gets to hear of Simon's literary activities. Soon the head doctor is writing criticisms of Simon's work.

Simon finished off the cool chocolate and read the three lines out loud...and again...and again. The problem became very CLEAR...the lines were nothing else but Clever Dick spit. That wasn't his voice! The voice of his real soul...spirit...Self. It was a contrived...constructed...theoretical `voice'. He cringed as he saw the way he'd allowed himself to be hijacked time and time again...by his mind-tribe's attitudes...embodied in the language. The white man killer language. If it wasn't Clever Dick...it was Lord Muck...Smart Alec...Billy Liar...Flash Harry...Egg-head...Bully Boy...Judas.

"God! the fact is I'm Simple Simon...and I'm no longer ashamed of being who I am. All my life I've felt put down for being unsophisticated. I know what Clever Dick Arnold thinks...about me...hanging out in this low status flat. I know what they all think! They always 'think' that being simple means being stupid...and I've always been treated as`'fair game'. Fair game for the mob's entertainment."

Simon re-traced the path he'd followed...through the conned-senses-`mind'. The path of fear...on which he pretended to be brave...so he would be seen as a Dare Devil...but it didn't take long for Smart Alec to trip him up...and then he became Cry Baby...Tell-Tale-Tit...and worse...Cowardy Custard. There never seemed any exit from the tyranny of The Mob. Ashamed of his own `self', (in truth a stupid projection), he allowed himself to be drained of real life...and so...being completely EMPTY and full of FEAR...he became bloated Humpty Dumpty.

Yes, he'd become so pumped up with his own self important story...so tense...hard...and brittle...that one slip...and he knew he'd be finished! A total MESS! And no one...no state psychiatrist or vicar would ever be able to put him back together again.

" That's where I was at when Shanti left. In pieces...but the thing is...there probably was a moment...a pure uninfluenced insight...which was the original impulse for that poem. It's obvious that all of these poems are...?...corrupt. The essence has been hijacked in every case...I suspect. Simple Simon never gets to sing his own song. Infact, that's his Humpty Dumpty position. Scared that an original utterance will smash him to pieces. "That's the whirld. Everyone scared to be themselves. Everyone hi-jacked by the fear of being ORIGINAL!"

"It's INSANE!" he blurted out wondering what to do with this box of corrupted insights? "It? It's insane? It? Is it possible that actually it's I who is insane now? Is it possible that this endless moment through which I'm now viewing the whirld...is in fact my soul...vacating my poor Humpty Dumpty body? The bubble I'm looking through is my migrating soul?

Hey...I get it. I'm the bubble. I'm the spaceship. I'm the soul. Yes, it's the soul who is Simple Simon. And now I'm OUT!!! Yes I'm no longer encased inside that rigid Humpty Dumpty body. Yes it was true...the body was much too BIG! Huge. Bloated. Gross! Yes...this is what's happening. Now that I'm no longer imprisoned inside conned-senses `mind's phoney atmosphere...which is the Humpty Dumpty 'space'...I'm freely...spontaneously...gliding...into..?..? free time-space. Not space-time.

This one unending moment...is time-space. Humpty Dumpty is an example of space-time. Humpty dumpty is now inside my time-space...inside my soul. Wow! I'm englobing him. Humpty Dumpty is the whirld. Agitated systems of fear...inside my soul. I can't escape this fact. I can't get away from this body. This history. This cross. O.K., so when the whirld breaks up...the whirld will obviously not be there to put itself together again...but that doesn't mean that I, Simple Simon, couldn't do it!

Of course not...but first I, the soul...the true Self...Simple Simon...must let go of Humpty Dumpty. Yes I have to let the system of the whirld...inside my soul...DISINTEGRATE...so that I can use the pieces to create a new vehicle...capable of transmitting my time-space reality. Alchemy. First the shock...yes, the necessary SHOCK...which breaks up the rigid redundant form...so that the disorganised material is made available for re-construction. Painful? Will it be painful!?"

Simon took off his slippers and socks and then slowly moved to the centre of the white-walled room...and stood still on his newly bought dark blue and maroon Afghani carpet. He crossed his arms over his heart...and spoke with a slow...thick...Armenian drawl.

"Cesar...I'm so sorry...I really am. LOOK!" Simon unfolded his crossed arms and started to spin in the celebrated style of a Mevlevi Dervish. (It had of course been Cesar who had introduced Simon to Mevlevi Dervish turning). As Simon spun...faster and faster...a curious sensation became increasingly dominant. He felt...he was getting slower...and slower...until it seemed to...Simple Simon...that he had become totally STILL...full of peace...a peace which was concentrating its presence...to the point he felt he was made of warm...?...?...marble...like he was a statue...a statue in communion with his spiritual anchor--Cesar!

As the shell of the old idea of himself...sometimes referred to as `Humpty Dumpty'...disintegrated into billions of fragments...Simple Simon remained absolutely upright...immobile...regal...and afloat. Cesar stood...radiant...beside him. They winked at one another. The increasing intensity of quietness...seemed to be a secret element...nectar from paradise...transforming every particle of his Being. A liquid...silver light. The breath of the presiding Goddess. The true spirit of our Mother Earth. Cesar acknowledged Simon's insight...by disappearing.

"I do not seek love or strength from any soul," Simon telepathised to the Divine Guardian, "For today I have learnt that all the material I need for my own growth has already been given to me by the Divine Creators. I will therefore not embarrass you with any form of worship...but instead I allow you to see that I am totally happy to meet you. My time...is all I have to offer."

"O fortunate one," replied the electric presence, "How blessed we are to be so close in Truth. In spirit. Friendship...my sacred friend...is the only creative answer to the question of how to move in the whirld...yet stay in the living Truth."

"I do not desire to become a citizen of the mad...loveless whirld," replied Simon watching the floor spinning at top speed...a mass of coloured streamers...under his levitated immobile white marble-like feet. Then he looked up at the ...SKY!?! Imposible!? Incredible. The ceiling and roof had disappeared. Instantly he felt not only overawed by his perception...but by the following astonishing insight. The reason he could see the sky...was because he was SEEING THROUGH HER SOUL!

"White...white stone walls. Dim...very small...room?...cell? No furniture...but a small wooden stool. Is it a prison? There's a person...kneeling on a beaten earth floor...his old grey head...resting on the little stool...and he's mumbling...curses? No...I'll come closer in. I can't understand. What language is it?"

Simon immediately recalled his previous `need to be pure' periods in his present life. The period when he was a practising member of an esoteric study group. And it was even true that he'd often, at that time, toyed with the possibility of becoming a monk...but he was astonished that his passionate youthful musings...had produced this poor old saintly anchorite. "So he's a product of my day dreaming?"