The Journey is hot, the way, an assault to the senses. It is supposed to be this way, not simply because IT IS this way and is happening at us, ousting us from our comfort zones, but because the at-stake-ness of it all is the game we play– The Journey! We put it into motion the moment we chose this life to be born into. It’s the game of realization. We realize beyond our doubt, soul-journey beyond our suffering, and all the varied dark and bright contrasting lines to realize that we simply adventure in the bosom of the divine.
By the way, “Chapter 20 The Journey” is nearly ready with a brand spanking new soundtrack from Epidemic Sounds artists, which is the reason why wax on about it. I think this months Nadthsade Dragon comic page from “The Dawn of Ectasy’s Dreaming,” plays on certain related notes as well.
“Chapter 20 The Journey,” along with the slick new music will be streaming on YouTube in the fall but more immediately, on August 15th, the revised “Chapter 12 Love’s Ever Strong Heartbeat,” featuring the below striking image from Francis Salipande and colorist Patrick Hernandez drops!
Check it out.
Artwork by: Francis Salipande and Patrick Hernandez
Hey! I did an audiobook. Wanna hear it, hear it go…
YouTube Audiobook and Podcast: The Last Khoorlrhani Warrior-https://www.youtube.com/@dharmicSci-fifantasy The audiobook/podcast is being relaunched. Scroll down to play each episode here and for the release schedule. Conversely you can go to the youTube channel directly: https://www.youtube.com/@dharmicSci-fifantasy My good friend Eric Naylor, whom I’ve known since grade school, and[…]↓ Read the rest of this entry...
Tangerine Dream Melts My Face Off-September 20, 6:10 PM, almost two hours before the concert, I try to nap, but am too amped for the show! I lay down for a bit and then write into my phone for awhile before heading down to the[…]↓ Read the rest of this entry...
Gwen: Part III-From the journal of Queen Gwendolyn Edgewood Year 4188, Tel-Allal, Planet Bain A Dream Blossoms I recall how in those early years how one day I had ridden Trickhorn all day and was worn out from the hours of our[…]↓ Read the rest of this entry...
Gwen: Part II-From the journal of Queen Gwendolyn Edgewood Year 4188, Tell-Allal | Planet Bain Memories of Harland The outside sunlight reflected from off the heavy mahogany doors still ajar. I could see the leathery beige shape of a heel preventing the[…]↓ Read the rest of this entry...
Gwen: Part I-From the journals of Queen Gwendolyn Edgewood Year 4188, Tel-Allal | Planet Bain An Introduction All medium serves the primordial essence and space of the deepest heart. That service pulls us deeper into reality as we are able to accept[…]↓ Read the rest of this entry...
Dalle3 Images for Diamond Eyes-I’ve been creating tons of imagery with A.I, and using them to promote Diamond Eyes: Last Khoorlrhani Warrior. Rendering these is something that I didn’t think I’d get into. I’m realizing that it’s a ‘thing,’ but smirk at the term[…]↓ Read the rest of this entry...
Follow me on Instagram!-Man o’ man, years of avoiding social platforms. Oh well, better late than never. I’ve been having a blast making flyers of the TON of content produced for this site and things to come.
The Master Returns-Dharmic Sci-Fi Fantasy: The Master Returns Paen was like no other man of his time. He was the last of his kind, a man sensitive to the land, to the beings that dwelled within Ashuta’s jungles. Paen drew no distinction[…]↓ Read the rest of this entry...
Donate to Diamond Eyes-Any donations would be appreciated to finance my hiring artists and to pay for publishing services. Thanks for your support! Neil Britto
September 20, 6:10 PM, almost two hours before the concert, I try to nap, but am too amped for the show! I lay down for a bit and then write into my phone for awhile before heading down to the lobby for a coffee and a cookie.
Some editing, sipping, and dipping and two hours magically become thirty minutes till showtime, and so I walk the two cold, clad-in-twilight blocks down to the venue. I’m about to see Tangerine Dream! I brighten.
Sitting in the dimness of the ballroom , I recalled the last time I was here at the Regency Ballroom to see a concert. It was for SWANS in 1995. A screen displaying rain fall is behind the bands sleek setup of keyboards and modules. A rainbow pattern of lights streak down Thorsten Quaeschning’s keyboard setup.
The sampled sound of rain gets louder progressively as I engage with a young man, Sebastian, who is excited about seeing the band, “I mean aren’t they the strangest band, ever, none of the original members remaining, but still putting out such amazing music,” he says as a mercurial wave pulls us into excited conversation.
“What would you say your favorite album was?” He asked, genuinely curious. I mention two, Poland is one. I learn that the young Sebastian even read Force Majeure, Edgar Froese’s biography (and the title of my other favorite album) and we burn the remaining wait time till the lights go down, finally, and after a few false starts, one in which Thorsten becomes embarrassed that he shouted out to San Diego—We were a forgiving audience, no boos—Thorsten comes back on stage blushing, laughing at himself “cut, take two” he signs, the audience chuckles, and then the band plays.
Thorsten seems a nice man, something goofy and intense about him, wrapped in a tall, darkly suited burrito. I saw him earlier in the day crossing Van Ness St, taking in the city as I hunted down my hotel, the holiday Inn. I waved to him and called out. No good, he crosses the street not noticing.
TD start their set softly, with Hoshiko Yamane’s violin parting the sonic rainclouds of the others synths then segueing to a version of Betrayal (Sorcerer) that completely melts my face off. Honestly, I always disliked this piece, and had always found it basic. This version, however was a reeducation to me, as the wall of electronic texture coupled with the controlled chaos of sheer ecstatic volume pinned me to my seat! I felt there was an edgier almost industrial vibe to their approach (a much less mean skinny puppy?) .
They tamed a flying dragon here, and I only wanted its roar louder, and with it spitting more fire into my face! It was fantastic. It quite literally reminded me what electronic music was— not a trip to guitar center to play with the drum machines or looping 16 bit sounds in my Korg sampler at home, but only what the grandparents of electronic wizardry (their well learned grandchildren) reveal in the competent joy in their true art.
Sure, some bits were uneven, (Love on a Real Train) mainly the bass either being too dominant or a misplayed bass note actually introduced to the loop, but nevertheless it was an absolute joy to again be seeing high stakes live Tangerine Dream, as Thorston’s hands wore many hats. Behind him, a huge Moog-like module and sequencer kicked off rhythms by the twist of a knob, as he played chords and leads on the four keyboards in front of him. To not diminish their roles both Hoshiko Yamane and Paul Frick were great to watch. Yamane’s violin approach, her rhythms and loop additions, her poised subtlety and cleverness was fun, and Paul Frick’s Jupiter8-esque synth leads, and all his knob twiddling was fantastic as he bent over his own console and rocked to the rhythms.
In my opinion, all songs from the Raum album were flawless, Portico and Para Guy being my favorite and their live renditions obvious and enjoyable. Nothing about this performance seemed canned, only elegantly and creatively performed with care.
Coronzon from the Exit album was probably my favorite Virgin years song, and had Mr Frick enthusiastically killing it with the leads. The bass here was so perfect as the keyboard stabs and sequences dovetailed nicely. White Eagle was angelic, and the improvisation over the rhythms quite good. There were other crowd pleasers such as Dolphin Dance, and a few more authoritative moody pieces worthy of mention such as Los Santos City Map where the digital textures were un-effing believable and where Yamane’s melodies reigned.
Oh Phaedra, you ask? Another face melter! They then did a 30 minute jam which I liked for the most part. It contained a sample from the movie Risky Business, where Joel (the main character) recounts his sex/shower dream, “The Dream is Always the Same,” the sample repeats, repeats, repeats, until the rain imagery and sound from the pre-show tape returned.
An excellent show, equal if not better than when I saw them at center stage in Atlanta in 1988!
Outside the venue, as we descended the stairs, I say “I think TD maybe spent some early years wishing they had better tech,” their equipment in the 70s and 80s were always breaking down on tour,” I offered to Sebastian, when he asked why the 90s catalogue was so different, maybe uninspiring in his opinion.
“Then they got their wish granted and maybe it killed the risk taking element, maybe it distracted from composition and made it hard to not just press play on a laptop?” Now looping tech is all the rage and is better, and actually that’s really what TD were doing from the beginning, looping sequences, paying close attention and praying nothing went south.
I mused as I walked back to my room, on how Edgar Froese put together the ‘quantum phase,’ of the band (back to the 3 member configuration) a group of younger players, a group that has that essential TD dynamic (now) beyond his own lifetime, reestablished with Thorsten his protégé, and what a lovely thing how everything came wonderfully back to full circle, as a younger, goofier, intense, and darkly suited version of Herr Froese grinned on the stage last night, carrying the torch.
Please come again Tangerine Dream!
... Uno momento...
Please Support Independent Publishers!
Donate to Diamond Eyes and Tantric Series to help pay for artists and collaborations!
Also, buy one of my Tee-Shirts!! Use the below to browse around. If you want to buy click here to go to my store. Teespring will only allow transactions directly on their site.
Finally, listen to my narrated production of The Last Khoorlrhani Warrior, which is currently re-launching this summer/fall with a new soundtrack featuring artists from Epidemic sound, as well as new art and new visuals from both commissioned artists and from AI
The audiobook/podcast is being relaunched. Scroll down to play each episode here and for the release schedule. Conversely you can go to the youTube channel directly: https://www.youtube.com/@dharmicSci-fifantasy
My good friend Eric Naylor, whom I’ve known since grade school, and who actually created the character Red Carridean when we used to merge our fictional worlds like a stack of old worn out comic books, said to me this winter, “Man we were so influenced by Chris Clairmont era X-men and New Mutants huh!? Hey….you should make D.E. into an audio book.”
So… I hung up the phone on my way up the hill as I drove, the mountains decaying the cellular signal. I went into my cottage and pulled out the mics and have since had a blast banging my head creatively to finish.
I’ve known another Eric for almost as long. Eric K Stevens did the amazing cover for this audiobook as well as several for the Nadthsade Dragon comics. Thank you my dear friends!
Program:
Come back here to watch, or get the schedule as I complete each tape, and plan it’s release!
Update (June 14 2024) – I’ve since made efforts to redo the soundtrack for the audiobook in an effort to monetize the channel. I don’t know if it’s actually going to work out, since I had so much music posted that I did not have permission to use. Also… sigh…. I may have jumped the gun on advertising, etc, and ruined my chances. Nevertheless, a learning experience, and I’m just going to keep going as I really love how it’s developing.
I am officially using music from Epidemic Sound, and really doing my best to add more visual elements. On that note, it seems I’ll be always revising with art from artists who I have hired, such as Francis Salipande, along with my own AI additions.
So here’s to the relaunch!
Tape 1 – Revised and Posted
Chapter 1 – I am Jeshibian: Jeshibian declares himself his namesake– the light– but then begins to weave his tale of explanation and adventure, diminishing into story.
Chapter 2 – Warriors and Warlords: Jeshibian is cautioned by the master Paen to take less pride in the feudal state of Arkaya, and it’s hierarchy of Lords that the One Great Land has become.
Chapter 3 – The Master: Of the master, much is told about the prowess and grace of the supreme warrior, the auspicious master Paen, whom Jeshbian has know since he was a child.
Tape 2 – Revised and Posted
Chapter 4 – Khoorlrhani Tah: a profile of Jeshibian’s father who is the tyrannical ruler (The Tah) of the Khoorlrhani nation. Jeshibian, our young protagonist was born in the phase of Khoorlrhani-Tah’s history where his dark side has been less active as Paen, the Master has been working to teach the tyrant what it actually means to be the Tah.
Chapter 7 – Khoorlrhani Tas: The story of things according to the Tas, Jeshibian’s mother.
Chapter 6 – The Terrible Six: We meet ‘Jeshibian’s brothers, learn of their antics and the dynamic of power between them. Paen explains to the troubled Jeshibian the root of their infighting by way of a fairy tale.
Tape 3 – Revised and Posted
Chapter 7 – Warfare and Brotherhood: Adolescence brings the “Terrible Six,” to the edge of choosing sides amongst them after a fatefull day at “The Nook,”
Chapter 8 – The Threat of Mandee: Awful events and Master Paen further test and foster Jeshibian’s understanding.
Tape 4 – Revised and Posted
Chapter 9 – The True Reflection: Jeshbian is given a great gift, a sweet glimpse of the power of Master Paen’s understanding, as the honorable great Master, tricks him, pranks him, and weaves a lesson into a lovingly given gift of recognition.
Tape 5 – Revised and Posted
Chapter 10 – The Old Conflict – Jeshibian, may have made the wrong choice in the end, but as Paen instructs him to follow the lines of his own attraction, Jeshbian grows as he squarely enters the field of his life and struggles with his ego, creating the gems of his experience.
Tape 6 – Revised and Posted
Chapter 11 – Ursya: Confused, and horrified by his experience in the war, Jeshibian flees and intends to start anew. He makes a good friend.
Tape 7 – Coming Soon
Chapter 12 – Loves Ever Strong Heartbeat: Jeshibian learns the true basis of bravery, and how to dig deeper.
Chapter 13 – The Master’s Discovery: Jeshibian is finally reunited with a dear friend.
Tape 8 – Coming Soon
Chapter 14 – Turn of the Tides: Jeshibian begins to see the actual scope and depth of Paen’s work, and to see the exacting criticism of his father’s empire as the very lifeline for his own growth, yielding the flower of his gratitude.
Chapter 15 – The Seed: Things become even more strange with the sudden appearance of weary travelers, seeded into the firmament of Jeshibian’s psyche, and with the blooming of strange dreams indicating big, BIG change, well beyond Jeshibian’s ability to understand in the first attention of his awareness.
Tape 9 – Coming Soon
Chapter 16 – The Devotee: Jeshibian is rattled by the child who fell from the sky– the child who only has eyes for Master Paen. To console himself, and as ordered by Master Paen, he makes friends with the strange man who delivered the child into Paen’s company.
Chapter 17 – Seven hundred Pounds of Gold: Brenn Edgewood, the agent from another world, cleverly bargains with the Khoorlrhani-Tah in a trade that will help get him and the child off to her home-world of Banx.
Tape 10 – Coming Soon
Chapter 18 – Minot Wears the Crown: Jeshibian learns the awful results of Minot’s stratagem.
Chapter 19 – A Glimpse with Infinity’s Eyes: Jeshibian, both terrified and attracted, sit’s with Mediha to learn on a more intimate basis, who she is, and how their destiny’s are interwoven in a beautiful play. His dreams begin to reveal more of what awaits him, and is beckoned to participate, to climb up!
Tape 11 – Coming Soon
Chapter 20 – The Journey: Jeshibian, his dear brother Darlian, Master Paen and his devotees, take the weeks long journey southwest to the plains in order to deliver Mediha and Brenn to Bergnest, to reconcile their pasts, love their present moment in travel, and reset for the future as beloved Master Paen imparts onto Jeshibian his final lessons before sending the young man off on a great mission to care for Mediha, the “child of his sadhana.”
Tape 12 – Coming Soon
Chapter 21 – Rebirth: After our hero stows away aboard Edgewood’s shuttle and is discovered, he learns a few hard lessons and a makes an awful discovery.
Chapter 22 – Tel Allal and House Edgewood: Reborn into the world of Bain and the war climate of the second planetary war of the Banxisithine star system, Jeshibian travels to house Edgewood to reassess his options.
Chapter 23 – The Reeducation of Josha Korani: Without much to do as Tel Allal is decimated by the Trikes, Jeshibian and his new companions shelter in the old Norman great house. Jeshibian turns to the house library to bide his time.
Tape 13 – Coming Soon
Chapter 24 – The Countess Gwendolyn: Finally the lady of the house– The Countess Gwendolyn– arrives, greets her servants and nephew, and meets our hero.
Chapter 25 – Red Carridian: A lavish dinner introduces interesting guests and starts up talk of a coup as Jeshibian is made aware of Bainish political intrigue and as the war effort moves ahead.
I’m very excited to announce that The Master Returns is fast becoming a graphic novel. The work is already under way and you can come back to this page to get a sense for how the project is moving along. I am in my second round of collaboration with illustrators as such.
I am working with artists to adapt these chapters, into 10 to 12 comic book pages per chapter. Thus far, I’ve had the opportunity to work with expressive artists, such as Geoffrey Mosse, and interesting personalities such as Jerry Decaire, who both enjoy mythological themes and know the craft. In the spirit of collaboration, the intent for this graphic novel and project is to have a different style for each or several chapters. Pieces and sections are to be featured in future Tantric Series Creative Magazine issues. Eventually it will be compiled as a standalone book made available for print on demand
Here is the work the far:
Chapter 1 – The Goddess of the Land (Illustrated by Jerry DeCaire, colors by Emmanuelle Mariategue)
Jerry’s traditional style lent a certain weight to the visuals for chapter one for sure. A good start.
... Uno momento...
Please Support Independent Publishers!
Donate to Diamond Eyes and Tantric Series to help pay for artists and collaborations!
Also, buy one of my Tee-Shirts!! Use the below to browse around. If you want to buy click here to go to my store. Teespring will only allow transactions directly on their site.
Finally, listen to my narrated production of The Last Khoorlrhani Warrior, which is currently re-launching this summer/fall with a new soundtrack featuring artists from Epidemic sound, as well as new art and new visuals from both commissioned artists and from AI
... Ok back to the content!
Chapter 2 – The Lord of Ketique (by Geoffrey Mosse)
I found Geoffrey’s black and white imagery to be a great feel and so decided to make it available in its entirety in black and white. The coloring by Patrick Hdz will be available in the printed edition of Tantric series this, December. Reach out to me if you would like a copy.
... Uno momento...
Please Support Independent Publishers!
Donate to Diamond Eyes and Tantric Series to help pay for artists and collaborations!
Also, buy one of my Tee-Shirts!! Use the below to browse around. If you want to buy click here to go to my store. Teespring will only allow transactions directly on their site.
Finally, listen to my narrated production of The Last Khoorlrhani Warrior, which is currently re-launching this summer/fall with a new soundtrack featuring artists from Epidemic sound, as well as new art and new visuals from both commissioned artists and from AI
... Ok back to the content!
... Uno momento...
Please Support Independent Publishers!
Donate to Diamond Eyes and Tantric Series to help pay for artists and collaborations!
Also, buy one of my Tee-Shirts!! Use the below to browse around. If you want to buy click here to go to my store. Teespring will only allow transactions directly on their site.
Finally, listen to my narrated production of The Last Khoorlrhani Warrior, which is currently re-launching this summer/fall with a new soundtrack featuring artists from Epidemic sound, as well as new art and new visuals from both commissioned artists and from AI
I recall how in those early years how one day I had ridden Trickhorn all day and was worn out from the hours of our playtime under the rich autumnal sun.
I could not escape the sense that there was something being communicated to me by my new friend, something deep and lovely, woven into her panting, and deep whinny, something whispered across bandwidths of our love. I fed her apples. She was gentle, so very aware of my small adolescent fingers as Trickhorn scooped the apples from out of my palm. While I fed her, I focused on the shine of her eyes, those deep dark orbs, and the rhythms of her breath. We were alone in the orchards, beneath my favorite tree, a prominent one seemingly in a perfect circle of other ones. Time stood relentlessly still that day. My troubles evaporated in Trickhorn’s presence.
In the east parlor of the great house, I recovered from my day, sunk deeply into one of the many black leather couches, and stared now into the rich orange and white glow of the fireplace. That something about Trickhorn stayed with me, until I fell into the oblivion of the sweetest early evening nap.
In dream, my favorite tree, Vo-Ma’s tree, our tree was before me, like a watermark shape, hollowed out at the center. The light speckled tree, a happy almost bouncing being, the edges around it swirling colorful energies of possibilities, our tree was a door, a dark one as if one were stepping into the starlit sky of another world. Our tree was our being.
I could hear nighttime creatures, the sound of locusts, crickets, their chimes, “Come child, come child, come child,” they beckoned, in their symphony which was joined by the deep sounds of wing flutter, the sparks of fireflies, a dense play of the deepest forest ever imagined as stars twinkled within the tree, our being.
Come child, come child, I heard, and could not resist such attractiveness, such innocence in these voices, like fairies and children, and with that, emerged a long-lost memory of the deepest sense of being home.
A foot, my foot, entered the tree shaped passageway, and placed itself in thick, dense grass, sacred grass — I somehow knew–hallowed ground, and now fully in, I was beneath a glittering dome of stars which shone over the thick purple and blue clusters of jungle land beneath the moonlight of two moons.
The cacophony of nature’s song enveloped me, and the song changed; ‘welcome child, welcome child, welcome child,’ and now I saw them, winged fairies, barely detectable to the eye, flying around me. Time shifted, and a story of days, weeks, and months played out as an adventure, beginning with Trickhorn, my trusty mehra appearing and joining me, and leading to fairies tending to me and preparing me for a long journey, an introduction, an initiation.
“Stick to the moss lanes, dear!” Red nosed Quinly warned, her hair curled, fuzzy, orange, her wings a wild tapestry of blues.
“Be safe, girl!” Sweet eyed Narndanay, gushed, her smile just like the day I saved her from the fairy eating Groutberger fox from the dark lands of the nothing.
“Come back to us soon, love!” Old Percy Moon cried, her eyes sad and telling the story of an old fairy lady who found me lost in the deep green Onelands, and new me “Since you were but a thimble’s size”
“She’s never been thimble sized!” Laughed Narndany.
All their names, their stories their qualities somehow were vivid strands of memory as I felt myself to have grown in their company.
As Quinly instructed, Trickhorn kept to the moss lanes and took us through deep rocky pathways, past curtains of vines, and into the deepest green of a land I doubted anyone had the talent to imagine, least of all myself. Trickhorn then brought me to a lake. The moons reflected off the silvery surface. Then we saw Her!
At first, I mistook the mountains as Her shoulders, the treeline and clouds for her hair, the stars for skin, but soon saw that she just stood right before my very eyes.
“Aja?” I asked impulsively, referencing another strange history I couldn’t possibly recall now, but knew to the marrow in the dream.
“Hmmm!” She seemed shocked, this perfectly natural form that was so beautiful, charming, inviting. She raised a single eyebrow over a deep green eye, and smiled.
“Well… somewhere else, some other time ago, I would have said yes, that’s me. Wow…Aja, of the Orija!? Such a good guess, my sweet one, but no, I am Ashuta. Still though, you are not wrong… but you are… but not really!” Ashuta laughed.
“Ha ha! How did you pick than name out of your hat?” She asked.
“Well… I don’t know. I… I really don’t know much about where I am, not even who I am really.” I began to sense I was dreaming. The memories all conflicted, creating a fog of story. What was real?
“Ahh… yes, that’s what walking my corridor is like. All the things you picked up lifetimes ago can get dropped off or picked back up in weird ways. It can be confusing. Ashuta, the lovely woman, walked over to the lake, her form a strong silhouette. Her hair and body had the strangest quality of taking on the shapes of the land. She bent over the water, nearly became it, and said;
“Having a drink of the Keminik should settle your nerves, and bring you in deeper.” She handed me a silver cup full of the water of the lake.
The moons caught the water and turned it into brilliant starlight.
Drink child, drink child, drink child
I took a deep long drag from the cup. The cup had a name – Nartuwande, it told me, and it was ever-yielding, more water that ever could be held by a cup, really. I heart felt ablaze! I then could see more clearly. Then I saw the lovely woman, as if my eyes were made of diamonds.
“You are Goddess Ashuta!”
Her smile was delightful. Her skin was brown, her eyes deep, dark, and full of the cosmos.
“Yes. What else can you remember?”
“This! This is the Great One Land!?” I squealed.
“Yup. Now you’re onto it. Anything else you can tell me?” She asked, almost testing.
With the question came a flood of lifetimes, some of which were being lived simultaneously. I was all of them, and in many of them I was frustrated by the limitation suffered by forgetting this land, our land. In this place, those other stories had no meaning, whatsoever. I laughed at who I thought I was, sleeping on the couch ‘back home,’ on the absurd planet Bain, while simultaneously I laughed at who I though I was sleeping under a giant mushroom in Oneland! So many simultaneous lives, lived, seen and known to be simple, tiny little dreams. I giggled.
“Ashuta, I’m… I’m actually from a world called Bain? How do I know, you, and the Great One Land so well?”
“You know me because you are one of mine, and I am yours. Only your deepest, truest self can hold us here. I just had to send my agent to you to help bring you here, where all of it is obvious to you.”
I sat in the grass and pondered as the water of the river Keminik coursed through me. Soon, my own hair seemed to become sky. An absurd notion arose that my shoulders were mountains, the nape of my neck a deep valley. Our tree, our land, our self.
I became drunk on it, and eternities shattered along the grey ranges that were my legs. I saw Ashuta. I was her, of sorts.
My sister, I thought.
whimsey
delight
Together we played hide and seek, condensed and evaporated in the high adventures of clouds. Then I caught her!
I was on the top bunk, she on the bottom, two young girls somewhere, trying not to be overheard by adults held the yellow light beams of a kitchen.
“Ahh!!!! Trickhorn? You sent a mehra to get me to remember?” I shouted down to her as I twisted a pig-tail and chewed gum before sticking it on the ceiling.
“Shh!!!! Duh!” She hissed and struck the bottom of my mattress.
“Well, I couldn’t send one of my sons! They would never get near you in that culture of yours! What a droll little planet, Bain. Besides, all you ever wanted from my land, was a mehra, and Trickhorn is the only kind of creature that can bring you as deeply in as you are with me now. Believe me, sister, Trickhorn covers incredible ground in dream. Ha. Yep, good ole Trickhorn.”
The light scape shifted again, and were no longer children, but in truer form, our form. Ashuta was again elemental.
“Whoa… I feel…” I couldn’t finish. I glanced around.
“Feel what?” Ashuta asked, her grin infectious. The Keminik again wove her silvery path through thick jungle lands. The trees swayed in the wind.
” Like ever being a child wasn’t ever… real.”
“Ha ha!! You are indeed an old… old soul my dear.”
“One of yours?”
“Yes, one of mine.”
“Well… what can I do for you m’lady?”
“M’lady?!” Ashuta’s laughter kicked up a soft summer evening breeze, and the trees swayed to its rhythms. “Ok… you’re already starting to forget.” She said.
“You’ve already done it. Just remember this depth, and be with me… my crumb,”
And in that moment, the way she spoke I heard the voice of my grandmother, Edowina. This place, or at least the gateway to it—the difference between either a hard argument to make– was the tree we planted! It was the depth of all that we are.
“Just stay with me for a while, child. I’ve missed you. Things have changed here, in the worlds that I’ve manifested.”
Things again shifted, and It occurred to me upon her stating that, that the planet Sten, our colony world that lay hidden beyond the cosmic rift was where She, the goddess Ashuta, was located… in a way. With that, my sense of time and space warped and bent around the gravity of Ashuta’s actual presence– timeless, space-less, just reality as it was already. All had been done already! It happened ages ago.
My Gwenness began to return.
“The Empire of Bain, is like… an ant colony who merely found the honey.”
I saw how insignificant my father’s problems were.
“As with them all my Gwendolyn. It’s time to move the honey.”
I sat with the Goddess in the field of swaying grasses. It seemed another lovely eternity. This was the language, Edowina spoke—pure, decoded. I was speaking it with a Goddess, by being with her. Then the sun began to rise in the skies of my dream.
“Halllooooo! My Goddess!” A voice called in the distance. Ashuta chuckled, but did not answer. She almost burst out laughing, holding a slender back of her hand to her mouth. There was a wry mischievous quality to her demeanor rising, as I saw her glancing for a hiding place. Dawn’s early light reflected from off of her green eyes.
I rose, feeling I might be discovered. The goddess glanced at me and nodded that it was time for me to go back. She winked at me.
“Ohhhh… tcha! He’s found me again. Always finding me at dawns early light, that one.”
“Goddess, who is it?”
“Oh… just my bright bean, … sigh… the sun to the moons, a sweet warm rascal… that’s all.” She seemed smitten in phrasing him thusly.
“I know you’re there, Goddess, for you cannot Not be there! Ha ha ha!!! Quanan and I are coming!” The voice called, nearly causing Ashuta to laugh more as her eyes darted about.
“Ohhh… well dang it. That was nice. Hem! Oh…Hey, one thing. I actually do need to send one of my sons to you. It will be hard for you to remember the specifics, but I need you to do your best for him. You will know what to do.”
I climbed on Trickhorn’s back.
“What is your son’s name?” I asked.
She looked at me disbelievingly, a frown that seem to say, Come on! You know, sis!
“Easy! He is the ray of light.”
“Well, m’lady. I will do my best for the ray of light,” I said.
The goddess Ashuta, grinned, giggled and pointed to the jungle behind me.
“Focus your attention on that tree, there.”
I did.
In a flash, there was again months of traveling on the back of Trickhorn, though deep green corridors of the heartland, all compressed into a moment.
I awoke
“The Ray of Light?” What kind of name is that?” Sleep released me upon saying it, and the groaning sound of my skin against the leather of the couch was deep and loud. The living room was dark except the dimming fireplace. In one of the other parlors I could see yellow light, and the sound of my mother and father’s voice.
“…been riding the mehra all day… exhausted.”
“I’ll go check on her, and have her go up…”
I had immediately forgotten the dream. It did not return to me until the moment I would meet Ashuta’s son. That was the day my nephew, Bren, in his adventures brought home Prince Joshua Korani to the palace some forty years later.
The outside sunlight reflected from off the heavy mahogany doors still ajar. I could see the leathery beige shape of a heel preventing the door from shutting, and then the attached body of that heel pulling itself inward, jerking, the arms holding two heavy bags. They were slid inward with a slight grunt as the heavy door closed with the soft deliberateness of the mechanized hinges that hummed and clanked with the brass auto-locking tumblers.
Harland, my father’s man, dressed in his splendid beige and brown fatigues, looked up as I approached and was visibly startled. With a twitch of Harland’s head, the loose locks of his bangs were tossed to one side of his forehead, away from his eyes. I grabbed the handle of one of the bags to which he protested,
“No, no, no, macheri. These are most heavy.”
“I can handle it, Harland. I’m not a little girl anymore. Besides, I want to help.”
With a tug I learned just how right he was. The bag, made of strong black leather was indeed most heavy, but I could manage and intended to. Harland always recognized the moment when it was pointless trying to talk me out of something, and so in that moment he left me to make good on my intent and suffer the consequences.
“Ooof. What’s in this thing?” I groaned “A body?”
Harland had already grabbed the remaining bag, and leaning deeply to one side, he walked, dangling the bag from a clenched fist. He disappeared beneath the deep shadows of passages, beneath our twin curved staircases to disappear. Only his voice remained.
“Candle sticks, platters!”
Two fisting my share of the load, I followed Harland down the oaken corridor that led beyond the dinning rooms, past the ballrooms, to the brick archways of the large kitchen. It was empty, the sun assaulting thick silvery panel windows. Only Harland’s silhouette could be seen contrasted by the gleaming steel of a central island cutting counter on which Harland began emptying out his bags.
I slowly dragged mine back over toward him. My arms protested! I could not lift it to the counter. I did not try, being so worn out by hauling the bag the length of the north end of the house. My shoulders burned deeply. Harland bent, and hoisted the bag with a grunt, and then there was that corrective head-twitch to replace his fallen light brown locks to their place. I noticed the rigidity of muscles in his forearms. He was a strong man, and old Ephrasian warrior for sure. Today though, Harland was a handy man, fetching candle holders from an old supply room for our head maid.
He wore his spectacles and inspected the candles, grunting.
“This one’s gotten scratched.” He sighed.
“Harland these are solid gold!” I said, lifting a candle holder off the counter.
“And not just regular old gold, girl.”
“Stenite?” I marveled. Gold from another galaxy!?
“Precisely ma cheri,” He winked.
“How long have we owned these?” I asked.
“For a generation. Cathryn, was given them as a wedding gift from the Duke.”
Taking a few steps back from the counter, I started for the back staircase. Having the attention span of a gnat, I had grown bored, and desired to run about the house. Sensing this Harland said;
“My lady. If you happen upon Thalia or any of the maids, please direct them my way, would you?”
“Of course, Harland.” I said, grinning at him.
“And Gwen, thanks for your help.”
My mother’s prized candles meant a place setting was being made for more foreign interference in our otherwise quiet lives.
“My pleasure, uncle,” I said. He was not my uncle, but I considered him one and always wanted him to know that. As I made my round to the back-winding staircase, a narrow, burgundy carpeted passageway upward, I gripped the mahogany and gold banister and yelled behind me,
“Looks like another fine dinner with nasty Rumarians is underway! I hope we impress them?”
Harland’s retort,
“Only if we are impressive, and not impudent.”
“Chess later, mon frer?” I asked.
“Of course, my dear” Harland said, yielding the affection I wished from him.
As the hustle and bustle of the maids and cooks, and of Harland’s barking orders at them could be heard from below the floorboards, I hid in my father’s study, surrounded by his many many books. I perused them. Red cherry wood shelves lined the walls, the only source of natural light was the one four paneled stained-glass window directly behind my father’s empty chair. Before the thick leather chair was his heavy desk, cleaner than usual, the brass shinier, the deep stained finish deeper, the scent of cleansers beating down the usual cigar smell that usually permeated the place.
These were the usual signs of House Edgewood preparing for another audit from Rumaria, the fatherland. Tonight’s event was the King’s usual brand of psychological torture of my father, our families being old rivals. The reason House Edgewood was here in the eastern continent of Ephrasia, was to keep us out of the way of the royal family. Now, centuries later, our slightest whim such as my father’s marriage to Cathryn, or my fathers developing strong political ties with the local Ephrasian governments, was like shaking a hornet’s nest.
Rumaria interfered with everything. They sent to us again their minister for us to host, entertain, to suffer his insults and petty demands as he measured our compliance to expectations. The case of installing another military family in Ephrasia was the latest talk. The emphases on my fathers technical title as Viceroy, enforcer was apparent on many of the documents and letters sent overseas. They were slowly stripping my father of his Rumarian heritage, rewriting the history of our name.
I recall the evening’s dinner, where the Minister, Volkalur, sat with us. My head hurt, listening to him, each phrase eschewed from his slimy mouth laced with subterfuge. He was daring us to resist him. A fight with him could see the end of our days here—or at least that’s what I feared, being only eleven.
Volkalur’s uniform was charcoal grey, and the ridiculousness of a brass monocle was attached to his face via a clinging blue eye. My father endured this, man and was getting worn down. A prominent memory of the night was how mother sighed.
To me, the dinner conversation was almost a muffled, tiring gibberish.
“There is of course the question of… eherm… peerage,” Volkalur coughed.
I had lost track of where the conversation had led to. I focused more on how pretty the candles were, and how the table was set. I then heard that sigh and my mother say.
“Only from where you sit are there any questions, but please, Herr Volkalur do enlighten us as to who you think we are.” The tone unmistakable. My mother, Catherine could be a force with her words.
“Well, yes lady Edgewood it would seem that though a many century long and celebrated tradition, the concept of House Edgewood was a creation of the crown, one eherm expected to adapt to the wishes of the King.” He nodded, patronizingly, wide-eyed. I noted the green threads in the place mats, the way they captured the candle light.
“You have an interesting, and yet flawed interpretation of the written history.” My mother hissed.
“As we all do, Catherine. Let’s not…” my father tried to prevent it.
“No, my dear, let’s not. Let us not allow these poorly veiled attacks to go unanswered! Let me remind you, Herr… Volkalur that if it were not for this House, your precious Rumaria’s capital would still be here in Tel-Allal.”
“There is no question of this, my lady.” Wide eyes.
“Then why do you imply that we are an expired product of the King’s will, since as I have been educated on history, Lord Henry Edgewood was never made one by any Dauphile? Do you think we would allow you to dismantle us, and shelve us away?”
My mother rose and left the table.
“May I leave?” I pleaded, eyes rolling, begging for mercy to my father. He ignored me.
Harland’s glance at me seemed to say, Just a little longer, it gets better…
There was silence for a good while. The color on Volkalur’s face was redder than the shells that rested centrally on the gold platters. I saw the expression I knew only so well of Rumarians who were corrected by strong women. I saw the gearing, turning in that head as he drew the stratagems tightly in that thick skull. The sweat on my father’s temple revealed that he saw it to. A few of Volkalur’s men sat wide eyed, stupefied.
I glanced at Harland, who grinned as he cheerily cut meat on his plate. He winked at me. Check, I thought.
Then Volkalur’s color subsided. He patted a wet greasy lip with his napkin and returned to a cool reptilian composure.
“Duke Edgewood.” Volkalur hissed, “It is very peculiar, how you are unable to even control your wife, never mind an entire continent of savage Goddess worshipers. How is it then, you are supposed to be the enforcer of his Majesty King Dauphile? During these… times… If you cannot control your women, how will House Edgewood ever succeed here?”
My father, to my horror, could not speak. He was paralyzed. Mother had explained the burden he carried.
Harland however rose. He still chewed his meat. He swallowed and dropped his napkin to the plate below.
“I will show you exactly how we already have succeeded.” He growled and hovered over the minister. Harland grabbed the back of Volkalur’es chair and pulled it slightly out from under the table, more than hinting to the brute strength in his thick arms.
Volkalur’s eye widened the entire slick and reflective surface of his round monocle like a distorted fisheye in a misshaped aquarium, and that shellfish redness deepened in his face. He looked about as his men did nothing. They only stared at Harland.
“I will demonstrate the Edgewood best, Herr Minister, I’ll show you how an Edgwood’s trust in his compatriots has worked for four centuries; to inspire them to do their duty and rid the house of vermin.”
Volkalur rose in shock, and standing a whole head beneath Harland’s menacing stature, he seemed naked without his Rumarian airs.
“You’ve worn out your welcome, man. We’ll be expecting you and all of them, on your shuttles, and out of here before the sun rises.”
Later I eavesdropped on my father and Harland’s discussion, an ear to my father’s unclosed study door.
“Lord, Im sorry, but a snake like that just needs the axe. Did you know, Thalia caught Volkalure’s men scanning the rooms and digitally-projecting that weasel’s own furniture and belongings into it as if our home were for sale?”
“I did not. He did seem to have a thing for my study. That… bastard.”
“He was was right only about one thing; that we have to adapt. Times are changing. The dynamic is shifting. This is a sign that the old peace between the families, Dauphile and Edgewood may be finished. Dauphile thinks you are too Ephrasian, always has. Dauphile will make his move soon.”
“I know you are right Harland. I’ve lost quite a lot of sleep over it. Only the dead have seen the end of war. Cathryn. Damn her tempter.”
“Lord, it was not her that was in the wrong. You curse her for killing the snake that has bitten you.”
There was a long pause.
“Yes… yes. You are right. I was parlayed. I’m… so… embarrassed. I should not have tolerated that man as long as he stayed in our home. Gwen must be so ashamed of me.”
“No. That girl only loves you, lord. They’ve… gotten to you, have been in your head these long years. Now at least we know that the fight’s surely coming. We don’t know from what front yet, but it’s coming. We have friends here though, many many powerful friends thanks to your own work, and thanks to Catheryn’s work. That has always worried the crown.
“It’s been so long since I’ve looked to you to be my man-at-arms.”
“Don’t you worry Lord. For me defending this house, my family, is like riding a bicycle… as you saw.”
“I did see. I am grateful, Harland, really.” My father laughed.
“Glady sir. Gladly. From tonight on, we are on our own, and we will show them; We are not going anywhere.”
Harland, turned to the door of my father’s study, grasped the crystal door nob. I ran down the back stairwell quickly to avoid being discovered.
Harland later entered the kitchen where I sat eating dessert. He grabbed one of the remaining silver cups from a nearby tray.
“So, Harland.” I began, “Was that impressive, or impudent?”
He laughed.
“That, cheri, was a bit of both, and also… great fun.” Harland loved a good challenge. One certainly was coming.
He poured himself a glass of wine, and for me the usual. That was the beginning of it all, the troubles that would set our course.
First Lesson: Wandering
My Grandmother, Edowina, was a treasure. Her olive colored face, with its wrinkles at the edges of her kind and yet stern eyes were an image burned into my memory. While my father was calm, brooding, my mother fierce and direct, Edowina was both, a veritable image of balance and poise, as she struck or stroked when the moment called.
“How is it you know what to do in every moment Vo-ma?” I asked her, calling her by the Ephrasian customary name handed down for little girls to call their grandmothers. It never failed to turn the shape of her eyes into tiny grey suns over their squinted horizons as she grinned.
We would walk the orchards together in the mornings, to her favorite tree, a large birch surrounded by a circle of smaller ones. Each day as we walked toward the tree it was as if my grandmother carried on a silent conversation with it. She’d place a wrinkled and spotted hand against its firmness and patted it.
“You interested in my secrets, my girl?”
“Yes. You seem to have them all.”
“Oh… well I’d say your mother has quite a few of them too, though perhaps under lock and key.”
“All she seems to have is the trick of getting out of sorts with…”
“Ahh! Tut! None of that. No demons in my orchard, I say.”
She would say these things, things so far afield to me but deeply penetrating. In that moment, after silencing my complaining, Edowina did her mysterious and daily work with the tree.
“Vo-ma, what is this tree for?”
“Why girl, it’s for… beinga tree!”
We laughed.
“I mean, why do we come here every morning?”
“I’m teaching you all my tricks, Gwen, by planting our tree, your tree. The language I’m speaking to this one tree here seems mysterious and coded to you now, but the truth is darling, it is the purest of languages. The language I speak to you and your parent’s— the worldly languages — well, in my opinion those are the only coded languages—always stopping the flow of being, of what is, to describe. To learn the pure language my dove, you must wander for a while.
“Wander?!”
“Wander child, walk the great patterns, the branches of the great tree of the cosmos!” Old Edowina would say to me all the time. “Only then will you learn, misstep, see, and deeply locate yourself in the heart of it all. Then, child the true language is uttered in your heart, and the true actions follow” I did not fully understand what she meant.
“When you get as old, and as practiced, as me,” Edwina, or Vo-ma said, “You let go of this,” And she pointed to her head, “And rest in this,” she said and placed a wide and opened wrinkled hand against chest. “Then knowing what to do is as simple as blinking an eye. Then no demons utter words for you.”
She was referencing the start of my bad words against my mother. I was frustrated with her that day for not letting me wear what I wanted that morning.
I followed Vo Ma with urns full of water to give to the tree, and her surrounding siblings. We poured it into the moats of dirt surrounding their trunks.
“Certainly, a dry dry summer. Poor dear. We will get her through, eh?” She waved for me to pour my urn’s supply into the moat that surrounded the trunk of her tree.
After I stopped pouting, I asked her.
“How, does a demon speak my words?”
“Just like a thief will spend your money.” She muttered.
After she waited out my angst, for the very moment I stopped resenting her corrective form, she then said;
“We are all born with the treasure of life force, my dear. When you don’t look after your life force, tend to it, cultivate and clean the spaces of your mind to better serve your force, to serve ‘what you are here to do,’ that force is wasted. Demons are like scavenger birds only what they eat is the space within you.”
“Like a parasite?” I asked, grinning.
“Yes. See how smart you are? Demons are parasites, claiming access to your person, stealing your vehicle, and using it to their end. They are terrified of brightness, so they dim the minds of growing souls to maintain a status quo of survival in the lower ends of the astral planes.”
She stepped over to me and waved for me to follow her with my emptied urn. Her hand rested on my shoulder as we headed back toward the pond nestled deep in the orchard, a half a mile’s walk. I dropped my inner complaints against it as I considered what she said.
“Vo Ma, that description of demons sounds like the Empire of Rumaria, of Bain, and how they use my parents.”
My grandmother laughed with such a proud delight.
“So young! So smart! Now! Now you are on to something real there my crumb. Don’t let anyone steer you off such good insight. Walk the pattern of it with me. Tell me how you see the patterns of our culture?”
“They make my father worry, that we will lose our house, his station, and so he does what the King demands.”
“Yes, and what does the King demand?”
“He demands that my father make all those here in Ephrasia worried that they might lose their homes.”
“Yes all under the illusion of what, my dear?”
I struggled for this answer.
“It’s so obvious, but hidden, eh?” Vo-ma nodded her head. She removed her habit to reveal waves of silver hair. She waited patiently for my response as she bent over the urns and dropped them into the still pond.
“Well, a part of the illusion is that the King owns the world?”
“Yes. Now why was that difficult to zero in on?”
“Because we hope to own our own piece of ‘his world,’ like House Edgwood.
“Very good. Yes that any of this… greed and power… is a good idea!” She encouraged. “Collective greed. That is the seed of the poison tree that grows an empire such as King Dauphile’s.” Vo Ma said.
“Is greed a demon?”
“Greed, suspicion, vanity are all destructive qualities. The demon simply suggests these qualities are good in order for you to act in a manner suited for their own purposes of slowing you down, of growing trees of chaos, of contrast. If you burn too brightly, believe in yourself, love and shine all the time, well boo hoo for demons. They cannot touch you. However, if you are dim, or loveless, if you choose to say and do bad things, well you become their plaything, vexed by the riddle your life seems to become.
You might begin by complaining about your mother, and later neglect her, or worse. See now how a bad idea can lay latent within a mind and create dark dreams others suffer? A bright wanderer walks all the patterns, all the branches until they merge into the deepest place”
“Where is that?”
“Where? Well where the wanderer discovers herSelf, uniquely designed and empowered within her divine authority… already. She finds her gems and discovers herSelf!”
All medium serves the primordial essence and space of the deepest heart. That service pulls us deeper into reality as we are able to accept our place within it. I am learning that every step of the way, that that has all life has ever been about, sweet discoveries, unveiling our true depth.
Whether this was written in the private chambers in the New Capital Palace, by the Queen of the Sister Worlds herself, or by a pauper in the streets, the space of the heart opens and a new depth of reality welcomes us in. We walk our patterns, each of them seemingly different, with values and prejudices assigned and suffered, only to find that story and meaning was merely wrapping paper, obscuring the real gift— the reality that we are divine.
I’m laughing at all the jokes played on me. It took God herself, making me Queen, (such a gaudy wrapping) the last thing I ever wanted, and the path I resisted most. It was thrusted upon me in order to teach me humor, and strangely to teach humility, to focus the inner eye, steady the breath, and to catch a glimpse of my own homecoming, deep in Her bright heart! What a trick of the light.
Yesterday, a young fidgety fellow was brought to my study, a Herbert Truetell, or something like that. Apparently I had hired someone, unbeknownst to myself, to write my life’s story! Imagine that, the first Queen of the Bainish Empire, now of the Sister Worlds, the very centerpiece in a coup to make it so, and still those close to me don’t trust me to write my own damned story!
The young fidgety man, Henry, Herman, Hugo, oh… something, did not take it wrong when I sent him out. “Ha! Not in your life, buster!” I think I said. No I definitely did say that. Sigh.
So much for humility. I shall have to call for him. After being vexed, and prodded into doing exactly what my precious grandmother said needed doing decades ago, I think yesterday I might have shot the messenger sent from Vo-Ma’s grave! Upon reflection, I see it is time, but still; I’ll not have someone write and sell my story. I will account for it, entirely. I will however work with this writer, whatever his name is. I must admit, In my anger, I failed to see certain signs, of something greater than “my story.” Harland in his gentle way showed me this.
“A Queen indeed allows others to serve her, in her own time of course. I hope you’ll reconsider speaking with the man.”
After putting Harland and my staff on blast, Harland played his metaphorical paan flute, sounding the right notes to stop the bull from kicking. Notes of intrigue floated in the air, details in a soft spoken story, such as where this fellow, oh damn it, Hector, Harry, came from. As it turns, ole… Hue, yes, Hue Truetell had for a number years lived on planet Banx, and stayed on the southern Antith Islands. No one really knows which one.
Apparently this young-ish journalist stayed among Nadthsade cultists, in an ashram of sorts, reformed after the holocaust, and headed up by none other than the child my invasion force helped to free several years ago. A New Niehembreth! The plot thickens. I cannot overlook the links to the prince, Jeshibian Khoorlrhani, that one degree of separation between I and my nephew Bren whom I’ve not put eyes on for nearly five years. There is always more to the story than the cover, more wrapping to undo. I shall send for this Hue Truetell at once. I have so many questions.
The Ten Worlds of the Banxisithine
Within the four charted sectors of our planetary system known as the Banxisithine, reside ten planets. The Heart Sector, closest to Sol, our star, contain the Planets; Quinc, and Aros. Sector One contains the sister worlds Banx, and Bain, as well as Drajaynas. Sector Two contains the planets, Surpia, Gaya, and the gas giant Petros I. It is in the 3rd sector in which the twin gas giant Petros II, and the red water and mineral rich Arcana reside.
Trickhorn
When asked by Mr. Truetell the basic question, “What was your childhood like? Was it a good childhood?” I winced and resisted getting into the limbo of the usual autobiographical tropes. After a few hours, of chatting, off the record, and keeping it mainly about policy, and social theory, I indulged his initial question privately. I had only answered Mr. Truetell cryptically, “It was a successful childhood, as here we are.”
Privately, I recall my earliest moments as a girl, selectively bookmarked moments of distilled light, memories, where I was free, and knew somehow that it was that, perfect. What stood out the most was a memory of my love of mehras.
I always wanted one as a child. Where pictures of Mehras, in the pages of the heavy bound encyclopedias in my father’s study could be found, my fathers bellow could then be heard as he marked his discovery of the dog eared folds– my book marks– to which he’d huff, “Gwen… these are my books… not yours.”
The tribes of the main continent–Pangea– of planet Sten, had various words for these marvelous curled horned steeds. Depending on the Odan dialectic reference they were called: Miho, Mehure, and mehra. I loved everything about Sten, our most mysterious colony world, an over-big green planet of abundance from which so many of my favorite children’s story’s drew their inspiration, stories of adventure, pristine natural beauty, and the wild sharp eared and dark skinned Odan people— the Khoorlrhsni, the Mayak.
My father’s study was full of these books, those written for children as well as adults. My father, Duke Lawrence Edgewood, was a military man, descended from a great tradition of military service. His father and grandfather, and nearly all that came before them were high ranking officers in the army of our world—planet Bain.
Our histories would have one believe that Bain was the center the galaxy known as the Banxisithine as planet Bain certainly was the most dominant from a historical point of view. My father’s blood was the blood of earliest conquerors.
Still I could never imagine my father harming a fly. His blazing emblems, his red star and yellow crosses over his black uniform could not overpower the softness that I knew from that mustache beneath his fleshy nose, and the warmth in his deep brown and smoky eyes. I knew my father was a unifier, in the disguise of dictator.
I did not realize I came from wealth and privilege, not until after my eleventh birthday, my party which filled the palace with the children from great houses of Ephrasia, as well as many from Rumaria. I did not know there was a difference between these two countries, truly, and I did not know that it was my father’s softness that helped to better unify two rival nations, to unify them with a birthday party of his daughter rather than merely rule along the lines of threat my fathers post was traditionally meant to represent to the people of Ephrasia.
Our palace in Tel-Allal was vibrant with joy that summer afternoon, the lawns lined with tables with tablecloths with their perfect folds at their corners, the sky a delicious pink and orange on cool turquoise as cool breezes lifted the kites flown in contests held by all of us. I laugh now at how my greatest problem then was worrying my hand might be cut by the string as I maneuvered my red box kite high and well over the spires of our palace, our family home. I remember cursing Harland, my father’s man, for not getting me the grade of string I ‘specifically requested.’
That’s when I heard the grumbling sound of an approaching shuttle. I assumed it was a guest, late to arrive. In the distance, its red and orange beetle-like shape lowered itself onto one of the four pads that surrounded the grounds. I thought nothing of it, as my father called for us to reel our kites in, and all gather for the gift giving.
“Father! Who won though?” I kept demanding his final judgment of the kite contest.
No one cared. My father simply passed his large hand over my head, his fingers through my soft and thick brown hair, and said, “It was a victory in good fun, now come my dear.”
He said this as he shook hands with other men in uniform, and in other various costumes, multi tasking, speaking in coded jargon– no doubt settling local disputes– juggling business with pleasure and simply infuriating me for not giving me his complete attention on my birthday.
From the landing platform, I could see a large hovering carriage approaching, crossing the bridge over the deep clear water moat and passing the gates of the royal grounds. The carriage was gold, and seemed much larger as it approached along with its attendants. It had an almost obscene freak-show circus act branding to it, as if the contents were acquired by pirates. My father ran over to them to handle them. My mother meanwhile sufficiently distracted me with the piles of presents given to me by the hundreds of guests. There were so many, delightful boxes wrapped in silver and gold. The sky seemed to dim to twilight in the hours that it took to get through them all– enough time for me to forget about the strange golden carriage.
Finally, just when I forgot myself and assumed all was done, my father called out, “There’s one more!” and everyone gasped and throngs of children parted as my father reentered, holding a set of glowing silver psi- reins, behind him a large beautiful black odan steed, a mehra! Its large horns were curled almost like a rams. I could have feinted. In fact I remember feeling as if I were in a dream. How it could be that these creatures existed— in the flesh and bone— outside of my father’s encyclopedias, I wondered.
The animal, whom I later named Trickhorn, was captured, tamed, through the use of the reins, and brought to my father at his request, all by a subsidiary of the ancient East Ephrasia Corporation whose exploits had gone much beyond the continent of Ephrasia, — where my father commanded station– and delivered Trickhorn from an entirely new galaxy, the Diamond Region, where my new beloved playmate was from.
I learned to ride Trickhorn shortly after that day. It was my calling each morning to go to her in our stables and spend as much of my time as I was allowed. This was a sufficient plan made by my father, to keep my grubby little fingers away from the pages of his beloved hard bound books, and get me into riding, wetting my pallet for the hard training that a Rumarian princess, and only child, would receive at this age. Several summers we galloped in our fields and orchards. And that was the perfect painting– being a child and wrapped in the splendor that I knew the world to be, unaware of what was to come.
Vo Ma, Rumaria, and House Edgewood
Vo Ma, came from the old country, from Ephros, the southernmost city of the Ephrasian continent. My mother told me that she arrived from Ephros, to here, to Tell-Allal, to House Edgewood, the very night of my birth.
I had early impressions of it, memory perhaps, impressions. I was born in the late evening. I was held at first by arms of panic, of doubt, but then shortly after, as if rescued, held by powerful, vulnerable arms, held by wise experienced hands. Vo Ma did however often say that we always reinvent our past.
“How could I not come? I would not miss the opportunity to help raise my precious grand-daughter,” she doted, a rarity, for Vo-Ma did not often gush. I remember that day, a clear afternoon of us out on the grounds, in the sun as we reminisced, the three of us, I, my mother and Vo ma. White clouds gathered above the spires above our house. The warm colors of citrus fruit could be seen resonating beneath soft shadows, nearly hidden in the boughs of trees planted in soft beige dirt along the walkway of cobblestone.
Vo Ma then snapped back into her usual mode of deliberate and stern urgency.
“I wouldn’t allow the the Great Rumanian House to stamp their imprints on her. Never. Never,” and she glanced at my mother, with sharpened corners of her eyes.
“Mother, Gwen is better rounded than you give her credit for.”
“Is your giving her credit your way of abandoning your own responsibility to… hem… round her more?” My grandmother quipped, making round gestures with her hands. My mother sighed. I could see she was no match. Whatever fire Ephrasia lit in my mother, during her youth, was doused by years of living in our house, A Great Rumanian House, as Vo-ma put it ironically, with her emphasis on the word great weighted with tremendous sarcasm. My Grandmother did not approve of my mother marrying my father, a Rumarian, from the continent of the conquerors.
Edowina Constance Brava, my grandmother was old, even in my earliest years, ever so old. Her head shook, bobbled from side to side as she lectured from beneath the navy and gold veil of her habit. The sun glinted from off of her gold amulet strung with white prayer beads around her neck. The amulet bore the embossed image of a tree. Mother now feared the amulet, my father was offended by it. She was encouraged by my father’s staff to wear clothing more in line with Rumarian standards. She of course refused.
Edowina’s face was wrinkled and dark olive in complexion. Her eyes were a striking grey, penetrating and full of wonder. When my own eyes rested on them, unafraid, Edowina grinned her crooked smile, and nodded as if it was a kind of a reminder to herself.
Yes, she’ll be alright. This one will be alright.
“And what about that grandson of mine, Alexi. When will he ever stand still enough so that I might a get a look at him?” Vo-Ma complained.
“Alexi is doing fine.” Catherine, my mother sighed.
“Oh?! I should say not, shuttled off to be raised by tyrants, strangers!!”
“How many years at that blasted academy does one need to commit to in order to be deemed a man?”
Vo-ma did not care who heard what was on her mind. She shot straight as an arrow, which was not appreciated by the male attendants of our house, except Harland. Harland knew the kind of woman Vo-ma was, real, fiery, wise, and wonderful.
Thousands of years ago, the women of the old country of Ephrasia were the honored custodians of Bain, communing with our sister World Banx via astral travel and dreams. That was before the brutal times of the Rumarians who later stamped out all knowledge of such subtle arts.
“Mother Alexi has graduated the top of his class. He is now apart of the Fire-Wing and is stationed on the New Moon colony.” My mother defended, almost bragged.
When the Rumaria grew supremely powerful, and men developed machines, instead of their deeper selves, they gloriously proclaimed their discovery of planet Banx via space travel, ignoring what they had been told by sister Ephrasia for eons. To this day they still ignore our story of prior knowledge of our sister world. That was before I took the throne.
“Does that boy ever take a holiday, at least long enough to reacquaint himself with his sister, with his grandmother, or must the females of his family remain as mere background figures in his life?” My grandmother complained.
She always put it all on the table, my beloved Vo-ma.
Trikes
“Well, I certainly don’t see a thing.” My father, the Duke grumbled. He squinted his eye at the end of a long brass cylinder that was his telescope. Its tripod was set before the opened double glass doors that looked out beyond the white balcony of my father’s study room and up into the clear night summer sky.
“Well you would not see a thing, Larry. That telescope is neither as powerful as the Hoctoine array, nor is our planet near enough to Arcana, in our orbit of Sol, to see any vessels let alone their radiation signatures,” My mother, Catherine parsed, lectured, becoming aggravated.
They were in heated debate as I entered the room.
“It sounds like poppy-cock, all the same. Alien invaders!” My father poked– their brand of humorous warfare playing out in the symbiotic tapestry of… them, my parents, the heat of emotions burning through the masks of grins and words of affection. This was their tension.
“I did not say, Alien invaders! I merely said, activity.” Catherine, my mother shot.
“Probably some dust on their lenses,” Lawrence prodded, dismissed.
“You are so, obtuse sometimes my dear.”
“Yes, dust. A good lint free cloth might help.” my father teased. My mother turned the shade of red that signified her taking the usual kinds of delicious bait my father held out. The kind that would have her soon leaving the room to take a break from him.
“Radiation signatures that seem, dear, seem to indicate the use of a tension drive beyond sector three,” She growled. Her well studiedness did nothing but pass by my father un-noticed.
“Yes! We have colonial ships that fly all the time. All the time. In fact commercial ships from Arcana bring supplies of water that run though the pipes of this house.” A wave of his hand, a flash of white teeth, and a mischievous grin beneath his thick mustache revealed his taunting. Seeing this, Catherine took her usual deep breath that dispelled the color. My father was winning, but I knew he would pay for it later.
“My dear sweet knuckle-head of a man, these would be ships traveling well beyond the commercial routes of our own vessels. In fact, these are ships seen by our own, and whose crews report them as un-identified.”
“Im sure. Well, wake me when the invasion begins.”
“I’m leaving. I cannot talk to you when you are being coy like this.” Catherine said, and she did leave.
As she did, she looked down at me and passed an affectionate hand through my hair. Even in her anger, my mother was brilliantly poised. I admired the depth of blond in her hair which was wrapped into bun. As I entered across the deep maroon colored carpet, took in the hues of gold reflecting off from father’s wares, I passed my mother, took in the scent of her gardenia blossom perfume.
“I’ll leave you two to your usual philosophical discussions.” As she moved passed me, I took note of the deep navy fabric of her wide legged trousers, the sweeping motion of their bell shape over her white leather shoes. She left and closed the door behind her.
I sat in one of the two mahogany chairs that were across from his heavy desk made of rich Rumarian Oak. It was handed down from the first family of Edgewood settlers. My father took his chair, the usual position, behind the desk, with his patent leather boots resting on its corner of its glass top. His wooden chair creaked, the brass casters squeaking as he pushed himself more deeply into the red cushions. He sighed with telling relief.
He glanced at me over the silver rims of his round spectacles as he brought out his silver lighter and the cigar he had hidden in his uniform coat pocket.
“So that’s why you shooed her off?” I smirked accusingly at my father, “To answerer the call of your fiendish addiction?”
“You always have your eye on me, haven’t you?” Lawrence chuckled as he lit the cigar as the lighter hissed.
“On everyone. At least that’s what Harland says of me.”
“How is old Harland, today? I haven’t seen him in weeks. I see your chess game progressing on the ole board over there.” He glanced behind me.
“Yes. Harland is as difficult to beat as ever in chess, but I guess he’s doing alright otherwise. He’s been in the hangars a bit, working on that old dart from the Academy.”
“I am trying to quit.” Lawrence said, almost grumbling, almost humiliated as a cloud of smoke passed his lips.
“I did beat Harland in chest last round, you know.” I said, ignoring his feigned penance, and charging ahead.
“You don’t mind the smell?”
“Father! You know you really must learn to focus on more than what comes into your head conversationally. That’s how conversations work. Besides, how many times have I told you, ‘the smell is fine,’ and besides this is your study.” I actually liked the smell of his cigars. They were strong, exotic, and repulsive to my mother, but to me they filled me with an odd sense of feeling protected.
“Quite.” Lawrence Edgewood, the Duke of Ephrasia said, and then relaxed. It was his study.
He took a few more tastes. “So you beat the old war horse, finally heh?”
“Yes. I got him cornered with a pawn, a rook, and a sneaky little bishop I hid deep in the background.”
We were quite for a little while. Next to his boot, I saw stacks of official work on the desk surface, orders from Rumaria, I imagined, endless directives to his post. They were a testament to the creases in his forehead, and around the eyes, the gray in his wavy dark brown hair. Glancing back at the telescope.
“What kind of invaders do you think we were?”
“Hmmm?”
“I mean we invaded the planet Banx two and a half centuries ago. I mean, alien invasion did not seem like poppy-cock to the Hoctoine, when we arrived.”
“What in the world are you going on about now?” Lawrence bit down on on the fat ember, and placed his hands behind his head. He reminded me of my elder brother, Alexi when he did that. It was how Alexi patterned himself after our father, mimicked his gestures.
“Firstly. We colonized Banx a long time ago. We did not invade them. There is a difference. Besides they’ve their independence. They are their own planet, our equal.”
“You think because I’m 11, I’m that naïve? Well, who is to say that some other species doesn’t colonize our worlds, and centuries later judge us as their equal?”
“Well first they have to get past the Black, Gold, and Red fleets, then…” My father laughed.
“Well, what if it were no problem to do so?”
“My love. You are far too young to worry about such things. Believe you me, that there has been enough interplanetary warfare among our two planets and colony worlds. Why dream of more? Why expand the imagination to include… a… Intergalactic chapter to Bain’s idiotic story?”
My father was no lover of Rumaria. That I knew.
“Because our presence in Sten makes it so. I know you don’t advocate the Rumarian dream, father. I think Catherine, knows this too.”
“Your mother.” The Duke corrected.
“I think that if what mother says is true about Arcana, and that visitations are occurring, well perhaps we’ve courted them during the course of history.”
“Manifested them into reality? Creatively visualized?” Lawrence bellowed with dramatic sarcasm.
“Exactly.”
“Well. You sound more like your grandmother now. How would we be manifesting this, my dear?”
“Vo-Ma says that our destiny could be better served by better actions, but until good actions are taken, men will only fight for scraps of bone like animals.”
“Ahhh, another Vo-Ma quote. How does it apply?” He blew out a large plume.
“Well father, if our actions as a culture have only been an animal-like thrashing about for bones, all we attract are…”
“Hmmm Yes! Other animals, yes. Perhaps a bigger animal, picking up the scent of blood, or signs of bones being fought for? I like the thrashing, bit. It calls to mind the great megalodons in the north.” More sarcasm.
Dharmic Sci-Fi Fantasy: The Last Khoorlrhani Warrior
The Last Khoorlrhani Warrior, is the second in the series of novels written for the Diamond Eyes series. It centers on the next generation of Khoorhani, whom Paen of Eastern Genia and devotee of the great Goddess Ashuta, further serves Her in his role as the Master. I’ve posted the first nine chapters out of about thirty three. Also, I’m excited to announce that the audio book of this title will be featured on Youtube Fall of 2023, so be on the look out!
YouTube Audiobook and Podcast: The Last Khoorlrhani Warrior-https://www.youtube.com/@dharmicSci-fifantasy The audiobook/podcast is being relaunched. Scroll down to play each episode here and for the release schedule. Conversely you can go to the youTube channel directly: https://www.youtube.com/@dharmicSci-fifantasy My good friend Eric Naylor, whom I’ve known since grade school, and[…]↓ Read the rest of this entry...
This is God’s story. The writer cannot claim it for he ismerely soil in which the seed is planted. The true author is eternal and moves Her instrument, inspires him, plants the seed of the play into the mind of the dramas being dreamed. The writer contemplates Her with such limited eyes and desires to understand Her mystery.
If only he could understand! He can only rely on Her, the great one who teaches him to dream better dreams—the dreams of HER alone, of no dream, but divine reality itself. He reaches into the heavens of feeling Her, to touch Her, to know Her Heart, to remember Her as his very self beyond point of view. How he yearns to hold Her, to die in Her embrace, the embrace of vanishing self.
But alas, for now attention is again captured, and like a moth to the flame, persists in sowing yet another story, the divine taking on more names for the sake of its own play…
For as She lay across the horizon of Genia, the Great One Land, Ashuta’s hip and her shoulder extend into the sky as the high mountains. Her hair is the grass and trees, and her eyes as they watch the creatures running along her body of firmament, are the stars and moons.
Ashuta, Goddess of all things, IS everything! From the furthest pink nebulae she sees her beloved worlds as herself. She laughs as breeze and smiles as sun, and she writes her plays within her tablets of lands, seas, and heavens, of objects and events, weaves her stories of characters: warriors, villains, tahs, men and children from the sky, and of masters and goddesses.
She is everything, God Herself in Her multitude of names and forms that appeared to be different and separate upon the Great One Land. There is no separate one! Only She knew! She gasped and giggled, delighted by the secret that only She was privy to; and yet She offered so many clues to mankind—the unconscious “others.” They hoped to catch a splendid glimpse of themselves beyond Ashuta’s game play of temporary forgetting, a peek into their own true nature as everything being lived. As Ashuta forgot, more others seemed to appear.
This story for my beloved guru, Santosha Ma, for God, the masters, the One—all the many names that fail to describe Her as She is. This story is dedicated to Her entirely as it is written by Her own hands, hands of one yearning to know Her secret, hands of the ONE that pretends not to know.
She winks her eye, the light shifts, and another mythic chapter is sown from her endlessness…
In the winter of 2013, Santosha Ma gave us all — her devotees — a project which was to pick our five favorite pieces of her art, to take a picture of that image, the best job possible, and to write up the story about that image in terms of our lives in relationship to her. The cover art for this story was one of my picks.
In witnessing the Master’s art, I cannot help but remember the beautiful stories of the life shared with her. It is truly a unique kind of life in which beauty and above all else, love and regard for enlightenment is so wonderfully expressed, and demonstrated by Santosha Ma’s livingness and passion for art.
Santosha Ma is such an incredible artist. The words fail to describe it. I can only share with you how it moves me. Santosha Ma expresses the perfect story of life, the perfect reality of it as she stands awake in it.
Thusly, she has always stressed that we must notice our own lives, that we must sharpen our awareness of the beauty of it, the inherent divinity of it, to honor this life, cherish it, without need of a search for it, an assertion that we have separately mastered it, and are somehow validated as well adjusted individuals, but rather that we are already happy, already whole.
The story of the cover art for this book for me is that many years ago I was writing a series of short stories for Santosha Ma; really bad ones too. I remember her telling me that I had to just happily write really bad stories for awhile until I found out how to do it better.
Santosha Ma always encouraged creativity and she often pointed me in the direction of writing. She convinced me to risk failure, and so after writing some bad stories and some that were …meh…so so, I wanted to do one that was more ambitious, something that honored her, told a story about her with a mythical backdrop, but that expressed my love for her and the excitement of being on this journey of coming to know her.
I struggled for months with this story, and felt like it was never going to take shape, but then Santosha Ma told me;
“I want it next month!”
She set the deadline and made me take it seriously. I think the deadline was August 14, 2004.
So much was going on that final week of pulling it all together to present to her. A dear friend of mine was giving birth to her child in the next room– while in my room adjacent to that adventure, the birth of this story was nearly complete, the final lines of the story taking shape, all of this while I began a new relationship, and was looking for a new place to stay for awhile to be introduced to the next level of my sadhana by my guru.
So, despite all the sudden changes, I remember having to keep on it every day, writing page after page until finally I began to feel it come alive, crowning so to speak. I was out of the way now. Not to blame her for my poor spelling and grammar, but I began to feel that Santosha Ma was literally writing the manuscript, and laying out all the character archetypes, and it would all come together if only I promised to meet Her, and give Her all I had.
Many years later, we sat in Santosha Ma’s meditation room one evening in 2013, Santosha Ma asked me what was the difference between now and that time where my sadhana began.
“Then, I had lots of ideas about myself, and tried to will myself along. Now I’m only to be your devotee,”
“And you let Me be the Master?” She asked.
I nodded, grinning.
“It’s much better that way,” I said
We all laughed! It was true.
As it turned out, that is the central theme of The Master Returns; that is, giving the Divine Master the space to master you, to return, despite our ego assertions and constantly throwing Her out! The scope of the story seemed way beyond my actual understanding then, but she painted all the lines, trained me to see it, to fight for it, mastered me to hear and transcribe what the heart wanted to express through fiction.
Santosha Ma guided me through it, and when I made the same ego-frenzied mistakes of claiming ownership of it, wanting to go write the next great big installment, she reminded me that in truth I was not yet mastered by Her sufficiently for the task—stubborn in my assertions that “I,” could determine the best time to begin.
I called this story, “The Master Returns,” a prequel of sorts for another installment for Diamond Eyes (The Last Khoorlrhani Warrior) I had in mind, and was unable to approach, and when I gave it to Santosha Ma I was so happy that she was pleased by it. I stood next to her in her kitchen, shaking, trembling hands sweaty with anticipation. I really hoped she liked this one, because, man what a complete on the edge, joyride it was for me to write it. I hoped I hadn’t fooled myself again in unjustifiably thinking it was any good. Santosha Ma, who went by the name Freea then, put the book down on the counter, and then said to me;
“So… OK pretty fucking good. It’s about the dharma,”
and then she placed the cover art on the counter before me. She then said, “Put this on the cover.” I could have died after that moment. I was so happy. I loved that she chose this picture, because I purposely described the Master, Master Paen (Pi Yen), in the story as a man with a bald head. Santosha ma shaved her head during those times and I could not help but want Paen to look like her. I really loved that Santosha Ma creatively engaged me by being Paen as Herself, as She Is precisely that one, the Master.
In our conversations throughout my time of living with her, she sometimes joked that she should have been born a man, that it was difficult being a woman. I knew that she joked mainly to poke fun at our male egos, but still I thought I’d make a play on the joke within the story by sort of describing Paen as she appeared. I could not help also to think of Paen as Adi Da, her guru, who I love tremendously.
It just seemed to me like a yearned for collaborative desire was sweetly answered by her putting that picture of herself down to represent its main character! Santosha Ma also said,
“I particularly like what you wrote at the end,” The end read, and this is not a spoiler, but rather what should have been placed in the beginning;
“Dedicated entirely to Freea, my Master, whose presence bathed me during the writing of this and moved me through my many limitations to reach the end. I love you insanely, Santosha Ma!!”
Writing this story really showed me how the divine truly lives us and plays us in sweet collaboration, attracting us to become more sensitive to Her and to know Her so intimately, so much so, that there is no more ego. And so with that, this book is entirely dedicated to my beautiful guru, my beloved master Santosha Ma who has inspired me to write.
The Master Returns
This story is for God. It is her story, a timeless tale within timeless tales. Its ending is the beginning of the next, an endless stream of you and I as Her, pretending to be a you and an I. Her eyes, the suns and the moons, stare infinitely to worlds and the worlds beyond that are her beaded necklaces, her jeweled rings and bracelets. She, bright and pure, inhales stars and exhales our forms into the creation of her endless imagination for her entertainment, for our enlightenment within her grand and starry play. With a trick of the light, you are a reader, and I am a writer, and from the same heart of you and I, the story of her diamond eyes, revealing Herself and yet only really looking back at Herself, begins
I’ve been creating tons of imagery with A.I, and using them to promote Diamond Eyes: Last Khoorlrhani Warrior. Rendering these is something that I didn’t think I’d get into. I’m realizing that it’s a ‘thing,’ but smirk at the term A.I. artist, really. Still it gets under my skin to read others being so judgmental of those of us who use it.
I recall what Santosha Ma, enlightened realizer, and digital artist has said about the advent of the digital camera’s arrival, and about the talk the ‘filmy-folk’ went on and on, so preciously about their craft and expensive tools. Creativity is not the tool, it is the impulse and the willingness to see ‘it,’ trough and manifest it. It’s that obsessive mode that has you forgetting to pay your electric bill or clean your house because you can’t get your nose out of what you’re doing.
It’s not the pencil, the paper etc. You get it.
Five weeks of beam radiation treatment and its side effects tend to focus a man on the bright side of his creative impulses. As I endured and healed, I engaged the Dalle3 console ardently for these images and marveled at how one contraption could listen so deeply to what I was describing and if/when granted enough creative space could bring a deep smile to my face as a sliver of my world was displayed right before my eyes so vividly. It takes details; a balance of details, and a simple and well written scene. Don’t get me wrong. Sometimes it renders straight out of left field and drops out lots of important details; ‘brown skinned,’ ‘pointed ears,’ ‘no three characters not four,’ … ‘no he’s got the dread locks, not her…” etc. Still it’s just a tool, and a really powerful one to get a great quick visual fix and bring description in your world building.
The crew boards Red’s ship
I don’t think it’s practical use is good for say writing an entire comic book, and question if getting it to behave and hold onto to a consistent visual script for just a page of panels without pulling your hair out and not having fifty to sixty cutting room floor images (albeit wonderful images) could be possible (yet?). For now I’ll save up my money to hire pen and ink artists for sure. I think for it to work in a large visual story telling manner, which to me sounds like the expensive tier of a subscription plan coming, you would have to ‘sign off,’ on a phase of character designs that it always refers to otherwise, your characters will always look different. Perhaps there is a better way to do this now, but I don’t know what that is. I do see other platforms out there now like Deepgram, and AI Comic Factory. Do write me if you know what the deal is on that.
Still Dalle 3, both Copilot and PopAi’s use of it, to get my feet wet, has been fun to play with, and since end of January had me hunkered down in cancer-fighting mode where I discovered a clear use of it; my novel and audiobook Last Khoorlrhani Warrior.
Last years project was in the narration, and production, a labor of love really, and creating the framework for my new YouTube channel which is finally starting to see activity, took allot of effort. I guess I didn’t expect to be doing this at right about this point. You never know what enters your life to help hone and ground your attention, to feed the attraction and bring excitement to the story to better frame it.
Man o’ man, years of avoiding social platforms. Oh well, better late than never. I’ve been having a blast making flyers of the TON of content produced for this site and things to come.
I’ve been creating tons of imagery with A.I, and using them to promote Diamond Eyes: Last Khoorlrhani Warrior. Rendering these is something that I didn’t[…]↓ Read the rest of this entry...
September 20, 6:10 PM, almost two hours before the concert, I try to nap, but am too amped for the show! I lay down for[…]↓ Read the rest of this entry...
Man o’ man, years of avoiding social platforms. Oh well, better late than never. I’ve been having a blast making flyers of the TON of[…]↓ Read the rest of this entry...
https://www.youtube.com/@dharmicSci-fifantasy The audiobook/podcast is being relaunched. Scroll down to play each episode here and for the release schedule. Conversely you can go to the youTube[…]↓ Read the rest of this entry...
Dharmic Sci-Fi Fantasy: The Master Returns Paen was like no other man of his time. He was the last of his kind, a man sensitive[…]↓ Read the rest of this entry...