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April 25, 1998


I had all this equipment for a long time. I had used it to a certain degree but I knew that its capabilities far exceeded my knowledge and the uses that I gave to it. I always figured someday (in some vague future time) I would go through the work necessary in order to arrive at the full potential of the equipment before me.

Specifically, I was aware that there was a way to record a whole musical piece into digital tape and then send it into the computer, save it on a hard disk and apply digital effects to it using certain applications. The music would become pure form, pure data, that could be transported in any medium that would accept information. I knew I could do this, I knew I had the instructions to do it and all the necessary equipment. I figured it would be a cool thing to do... hey kinda really post modern cyberpunk mind-blowing stuff but... I also figured it would take at least a month, maybe more, of studying, testing, running into walls, making mistakes, feeling frustrated... hmmm, better do that later, there's always time anyway.

Then I got a job creating music for a pretty big multimedia company. In order to get it I had to present myself as knowing just a little bit more than I actually did and as more secure and professional than I actually was.

"What would you do if we gave you a digital recording of a voice over and you found that there was a hissing problem on it?", to which I respond in a calm and slightly scientific voice: "Well, there are many ways around any such problem but  the first thing that I would try would be to process the whole thing through alchemy, create a graph of the spectrum of frequencies in the recording and search for the frequencies of the offending hiss"... yeah sure, theoretically true, but I had never actually done anything like that!)

Everything was going fine right until the end of the project when they were finally satisfied with the music I was composing (which I was bringing in to them on regular cassette tapes).

"Great, I think you have it, bring us the recording on hard disk tomorrow so we can plug it into the animation and see how it all fits together. Maybe apply some digital noise reduction before you bring it."

I smiled with assurance outside and turned into a pillar of cold and frightened ice inside.


I arrived home. It was about noon. I had about twenty hours total to figure out that cool thing that I had been putting off for the last two years. I didn't even have time to worry about it. I just went to work. Pulled out all the manuals, started hooking up cables, started running into walls, getting frustrated, retreating, retesting, hooking up the cables a different way... doesn't work one way, try it another, try this, try that. The thing was going to work and I would make it work, there was no choice in the matter.

By 10 am the next morning I arrived at their office with a hard disk full of clean digital sound, which they took and used. No special thank yous, no award for all the work of the last 20 hours. It was simply my little job, my small contribution to the bigger project and it was to be expected that I should be able to fulfill it. I did fulfill it, and in the process I learned all that I wasn't able to learn when the only need for the knowledge was my own vanity or curiosity.

Hmmm, waking up would be a pretty cool, kinda multidimensional higher consciousness kinda thing, no?

April 23, 1998


It whispers to me in the dark its seductive promise as
It’s cold chilling breath runs it’s fingers down my spine.
And when it’s sure I’m securely in its clutches
It does its best to keep me in its intoxicating trance.
Yet a glint of the reality behind this dilution calls
And touches me beyond the fleshy confines of my soul.
With a start of recognition I begin to question the reality
Of my fleshy entity and find the being dormant
Within the walls of the warm pulsating cells.
The beating of my heart grows, becoming thunderous
The flesh making itself the center of attention
Once more hides yet again the entity within
Helping along with the illusions I created
The seductive trance begins as it has many times before
It has me in its clutches
My soul drowning returns to its fleshy confines
The flesh is in its dream state
I am asleep once more.

April 22, 1998


Mazes are great! Not only are they fun, but very instructive. Amongst the important lessons one can learn about mazes, is the reconciliation of intuition and organization. For example, picture yourself in the middle of a hall which breaks into 3 different doors. On your right hand side there is another smaller passage way, and to your back a bigger door leads to another place. How does one make a good decision? Here you are at a point where everything you know is through the door you came from. You can only make progress when you go to uncharted territories. So going back to the door you came from will not help your current situation. The answer is intuition. There is no other way to steer when you face the unknown. After you have made your move, you are confronted with this same situation over and over,  again and again. Now what? Organization is the other secret to help you achieve your goal.

Making a map is the most effective way to organize the knowledge you gather after making a decision with intuition. A map is an organized collection of knowledge that will help you determine exactly what you know and what you don’t know. Whenever you need to go back to a previous room, because you just discovered you need the key that you found there, you look at your map, and will get there without any problems, as well as coming back to where you left off to continue the journey.

It is the combination of both these tools that gives a voyager a powerful means of traveling in the most complex arrangements of mazes. And ultimately what is extraordinary about this is that what you can learn about intuition and organization from playing in mazes, applies to your life in this bigger maze we call world. So hey, start mazing around and pay a bit more attention to the relationship between intuition and organization as a means of achieving your goal. It works!

April 21, 1998

Writer In The Bardos

Well, today was supposed to be my hero day. I was going to sit down in front of the computer and write one of the most impressive papers in my life. I was going to give in to one of the most dramatic rushes of free expression of thoughts and ideas, producing perhaps the most important piece of literature that I could ever write. With that paper, I was going to impress the world.

I would finally have enough material to complete all of my writing projects and more. I would have enough text for at least five "Daily News" items and enough literature for at least two months’ worth of "Bardo Training Center Newsletter" articles. I was going to write something that could easily invoke the necessity for the creation of a totally new and unique E.S.P. project. Hell, I could have created the beginnings of my first book!

There where many things to write about, but I had nothing in particular in mind. I could have written about that whole experience with the little "alien" that I ate while driving my car through dangerous curbs on a mountain road at night. There was also the time when, as a result of the manifestation of yet another little alien, a friend and I embarked on a mystical journey to what seemed to be her place of birth, Redwood City, but turned out to be her place of death – Deadwood City. Or I could have written about the transparent, blue-lined UFO that came through a crack in the sky to hover over the San Mateo hills. There appeared to be an endless amount of experiences to write about, but I just wasn’t in the mood to mess around with my brain, wasting time trying to decide which one of them to write about. I was just going to let the words flow out from a place deep within myself, from a place where thought is pure and unique, where every idea is new and original, fresh and oh, so juicy.

I might have written about how to access such a magical place, about the process of eating little aliens to tap into that free flow of new thoughts and ideas with the purpose of bringing something of value into the physical universe.

Today was supposed to be my hero day. But when I sat down in front of my computer, I realized that, although it seemed as though I had successfully accessed that place of increased sensitivity and original thought, I had no control over my biological machine at all – i.e., I couldn’t keep my mind still and concentrate, and I couldn’t make my body write at the speed of thought. Instead, I found myself staring at the screen for hours, immerged within a pool of higher ideas, thinking how great it would be to write some of them down. With my fingers set over the keyboard, ready for electrical signals to pulse down to them, ordering them to strike the keys, I waited, frozen in front of the computer screen...

Now they’re all gone, and I’m back in the world of ordinary existence. I remain identified with my ego, classifying memories of my experience with the little alien as "a cool trip". I guess the only conclusion I can come up with is that there is a lot of work to be done – work on "self". It is not enough to be able to access the bardos intentionally by this means or that – we need to work. When we go into the bardos, we carry with us, like dead weight, the habits of the machine, and we are unable to move through them fluently. When in the bardos, lack of experience and training make you think like, feel like, and move like your machine does – very clumsy.

What good is reading and knowing about the bardos, the altered states or whatever, if when it comes down to it, all you have is dead weight and no real experience and training? You can access work that can provide you with the necessary, special kind of training that you can only get during your lifetime, but act quickly, for your time is running out. Remember you must work on your self during this lifetime, and you might be dying already!

The same goes for me, of course.

And as for my kick-ass, hero material literature, I guess I’ll just have to wait – take it easy. I suppose it will come to me at the right time, someday. Or maybe it is happening already. Maybe I am writing that paper, only taking longer than a moment – perhaps my whole lifetime.

April 20, 1998

The stillness of the ages

In the dark, there is a nightmare at my back, a knife an inch away from my throat (I am afraid to die, even though I already have). As the knife closes in the decisions must be quick and precise. Do I leave this room or do I stay? There is no time for hesitation. Not now.

As my brain begins to explode its contents throughout the chamber I continue hesitating. What if I choose wrong? Or worse, what if I continue not to choose?

Forever I am straddling the line between the ordinary and the unknown, the safe and the fiery doorway leading to. . .

. . . a small shack in the middle of the desert. Only reachable by helicopter. Protected by a radiation field the shack stands unnoticed in the middle of downtown San Francisco. The electric camouflage makes it look to outsiders like a small office space. There are voices coming from the shack, a meeting is taking place. A song is being written, a melody, chords and electronic accents are adding themselves into the mix. The crunching electricity is spiraling upwards, sympathetic vibrations seeping into the sleeping minds of those in the city (some absent mindedly begin to hum the tune).

The lyrics are coming forward now as the static begins to clear, the singer is ripping these words from his very soul (listen closely now), "Take a walk to the other side, where the flicker of a shadow breaks the stillness of the ages." The words explode rapid-fire staccato. The fire pierces the coffee cups of every Starbucks latte drinker in the city. A flash goes through a thousand minds, "was that an earthquake?" The song continues to reverberate the walls of the shack, this enclave of sonic disturbance. The echoes are increasing rapidly and soon there will be no disguising this shack in the middle of the city anymore. Soon there will be nowhere safe to hide.

April 19, 1998

The Walk

I take a walk on the beach. It is dawn. The sea-breeze chills my body. I concentrate on the warmth of my breath. I stop for a moment. I look at the ocean. I remember the walks by the ocean I used to take in my country of origin, El Salvador. I miss the hot sand, the warm water, the strong, distinctive smell of that coast. I notice that my desire to repeat a past experience doesn’t let me experience the new experience; because my mind revolves around the memory, and the present loses intensity.

I realize, then, how my mind clings to the past. But that realization belongs to the present. I feel the cold air penetrating my clothes; I hear the waves crashing against the rocks; I see the immensity of the ocean. Now I see the ocean, the real, present one. I also see, with intense clarity, my desire for the past, my nostalgia, my emptiness.

I sit quietly in front of the ocean, with my back straight. The blood flow to the brain increases thanks to the sitting position. The immobility of the body induces a sense of tranquillity to the mind. But the mind is not completely quiet. Now that my desire for a past experience doesn’t prevent the experience of the present, the mind begins chattering. It jumps from one thought to another, incoherently. Once again, I veer off from being open to the present. I try to silence the mind. But the more I try, the more it jumps from one though to another, as if it were afraid of being quiet. Why is it afraid of being quiet? Which means: why am I afraid? I go deeply into that question, with intensity. I discover how empty I am. I see how the mind hides from the emptiness by making noise, by thinking and classifying. I’m aware of the mind’s noise as one can be aware of the sound of the ocean. I listen to it. I accept it. The memories, the thoughts, the loneliness, and the fear come to the surface of my conscience, clashing and rumbling like the waves of the sea. I’m there, simply watching. Suddenly, there is quiet. The mind ceases to struggle; it is peaceful. There is no clinging to the past, no desire, no expectation for the future, no thoughts—nothing of consequence, nothing that matters. Now there is no purpose. There is not even an "I" to put a purpose into the present.

April 18, 1998


It was many years and much wasted effort before I came to a beginning  understanding of  the concept of Aim. Up to that point, my aim was large and grand. Union with all, understanding of all, being all. I was not too familiar with the basics. Fate, as in life’s humiliations and frustrations, provided the lessons for me that people did not.

In this lifetime, I was born to a family in which the father was quite mad and committed suicide when I was very young and I didn't have any great attachment to him. My stepfather was concerned only with our material well being and, while quite exemplary at that, was not much inclined to my emotional or intellectual needs. My mother was an emotional wreck, alcoholic and dependent on prescription medication to merely exist.

Discipline and direction was lacking at home. I did as I wanted, went where I would. In school, I had the ability to grasp the content of lessons without putting out much effort at study, write themes seemingly from thin air, and pass written and oral tests with little worry. In life, I had the innate ability to charm and beguile, to have that which I desired with little or no payment. In church, I had a grasp of the ceremony, the grandeur, the emotional state invoked: though I could discuss and debate at length with the priest, I had little understanding of the meaning of the blood and the body.I had no use and little respect for brother and sisters, and the only ones who mattered to me were my grandparents, far removed in time and space, and soon to be dead to this life.

Days were spent wandering the hills, in imagination of leading armies and explorations: climbing up to survey the land below; hiding in dales and caves to chant magic verse of silly clouds. Nights were spent reading the Bible, science fiction, fantasy, and old philosophical tomes. When reading and listening to music became boring, I would set out maps on the bedroom floor and plot military, political, and financial empires. How many cat’s eyes were vanquished by the clearies and the steelies in those carpeted campaigns of conquest?

As it was time to put aside childish things, there came a journey, foretold in a moment of intense reality, that led me to something that was not easily accessed as life had been to that time. A truth, as I knew there should be, was hinted at. It was something that would bend all my intentions, lay root to all my endeavors, and consume my efforts and thoughts. I came in contact with a system that explained in pervasive detail and commanding logic something that was new, and yet known to me somewhere inside, from long, long ago.

I followed that path, and soon the difficulties began. Each defeat was kept as a victory of knowledge. Each insurmountable problem set my effort anew. I tried to obtain the state of awareness that I had previously, and each time it became more difficult to reach. Crystals,  exercises, dances, sounds, postures, herbs, Tarot, numerology, astrology, and channeling all took on the trite, insubstantial feel of the nightly game show on television.

One thing worked. Each moment I tried to remove myself from the myriad of voices and desires clamoring within. At first, and for a long time, it was for very small periods of time that I could hold my attention to the moment. I would fail and fall back into the oblivion of that ordinary state of life humans lead. And yet, step by step, tripping and falling, I would stay the course. Step by step, each moment by moment, my awareness would hold.

It was only yesterday, and yet it has been a long time. The aim is to stay awake. Not to dream. Dreams are for the dead. Our bodies wish to sleep. Our minds wish to dream. Our heart to emote. If we use all of this energy our bodies so freely waste, we can reach a place of sight that has no barrier, and slips not into illusion.

It can only be reached and held by a small aim of being awake and quiet each and every moment. Each moment, no matter where we are, is when we must meditate. Each small moment, in each small place. A small aim.

April 17, 1998

A night of illusion

I slowly opened my eyes, making an effort to keep them open. In between eye blinks I discovered the heavy blackness of the night that was already invading the room. I felt, for a moment, disoriented and a little dizzy, but I tried to fit in. The roof and the walls seemed to expand and contract. When at last my eyes were able to focus, I started then, like I usually do, to reconstruct the scenes of my recent dream voyage. Like a jigsaw puzzle, the fragments of information were all mixed up with each other, and it seemed that some of them were banishing from my memory.

I remembered observing the green brightness of a lawn. Then I saw myself standing on a hill, talking with a blurry spot of colors that, somehow, gave me the sensation of being Jennifer, the girl that I work with at the restaurant and that I detest… just a little. Once again looking from within, I saw a stony road that went down from the hill and into an empty space. I told "Jenny" that we should go down. There was no sound; the communication was mute and passive. Suddenly I found myself with half of my body sinking into a river. I couldn't feel it, but I knew I was in the water. I was observing some strange green flowers that extended over the surface. The presence of some one else that was walking behind me came to me. I advanced in slowness, while I watched how the river introduced me little by little into a cave. On both sides of the cave I distinguished more vegetation, and on the inner part of the cave walls trees were growing. The sensation that there could be snakes in that place frightened me. I looked towards the roof of the cave, and to my surprise, an enormous snake was rolled up on one of the trees. I was not scared of it, but I felt as if maybe I did run the risk of being attacked. At that moment the snake started to slide off the tree, and when it was about to fall into the water, I woke up.

When I remembered it all again, I noticed how I was producing that dream myself. I remembered that at the very beginning, all that I had seen was a series of blurry spots and colors. But the sensations that remained strongly impregnated during the day within the subtle memory of my unconscious adjusted everything in such a way that I saw what I have previously described. Then I remembered how I had awakened. How, also, the first thing that came into my senses upon waking up were sensations, colors and sounds -- all in a disordered manner. I remembered how, little by little, I made the effort to adjust my sight, until I could see, distinguish and locate the objects in my room, just the way I had seen them before going to sleep.

April 16, 1998

Writers Bardo

The words are not flowing. The thoughts are not coming. Where are the brilliant ideas that light up a little light bulb over your head?   I can’t think of a thing to write. Time passes by, drifting off into daydreams and thoughts of no consequence. What was I just daydreaming about? I could have written about that but what in the world was it?

Fingers are positioned on the keyboard awaiting electric messages from my brain. Eyes squinting, straining to see the thread to weave a tale. Uhhh! Nothing is coming to me!  Dry eyes are stinging, pupils dilating to adjust to the brightness of the screen at one in the morning. It’s too bright. Hands impatiently fiddle with the knobs. That’s better, now I can get to some serious writing.

Well? Think! What are you going to write about? This is so frustrating, a universe of things to write about and I can’t think of one blasted thing. Just start; something will come to you. Fingers key a few strokes. I look at the screen. I register the symbols on the screen. There upon the screen are the digits indicating today’s date. I can’t believe I can’t go farther than writing the date.

Objects don’t spark one single thought. Pictures of once loved favorite objects and moments are looked at but not recognized. Only the thoughts of not getting enough sleep and of not having anything to write about are coming in.

Maybe this is what death is like, the body running out of new ideas and slowly grinding to a halt. "No more news from this piece of flesh... try another one!" The Universe saying you've run your course, time to go back to the shop, time to get a new tune up, get some fuel, change the oil. The spark that was once there retreating and finding that there is no longer any reason to hang out in that particular hunk of meat. If this is what death is, an empty tank, a retreat into the void...

What would a book of the dead do for me in this situation?

April 15, 1998

Goals & Aims

It is so easy to fall in the hands of apathy and lazy comfort, that I will not even notice that I have fallen in this black hole until much later when you look back to those moments of sleep -moments of death. Ironically, sometimes it seems so easy and natural to do what must be done when the resistance is gone.

I had a glimpse today of how my machine can manifest pains, tiredness, lack of attention, and other such negative manifestations, just to keep me in this recurring prison of non activity, or empty activity. The body just doesn’t want to change its habits and routines. Though I am able to see this, becoming unidentified with my animal host is not enough. I must put lots of effort into freeing my real self from the chains of this stronger magnetic field, the animal, by taking intentional action.

One way to work in this area is to set oneself a goal or an aim and carry it through with care, full attention, and with all sincerity and honesty to oneself. One must work to the best of one’s ability, and should complete every step of the way until it has been completely carried out. By doing this regularly, one is not only building new good habits, but one is also freeing oneself of all the life conditioning acquired since coming out of one’s mother. But this meat machine doesn’t give up the fight ever. It tries to confuse and to make one forget what one’s trying to do, in very subtle ways. It can use any idea, or action as a means to bring one back to the prison. One must remember that it’s not what one’s doing, but how one’s doing it that really counts.

April 14, 1998

The Next Step

Apparently at the top of the hierarchy of organic existence, there is a "something" that man does not achieve, though that achievement is possible. In studies of organic existence, there are types, or species, that range near other types or species of other groups or, genus. In other words, while having all of a certain set of characteristics that define a genus, these species have characteristics that place them close to another genus. Apes and orangutans are of this description, as are platypuses and kangaroos. There are minerals that have certain animated characteristics of simple viruses and bacteria; there are bacteria that have characteristics of fungi, there are fungi that have certain characteristics or plants, and plants with certain characteristics of animal, and animals with certain characteristics of man.

The question is what is the next step. We are talking about Jacob’s Ladder here.

The next step may quite possibly be contained in what we are attempting to do.

There is a veil, a division, between us and the next form of existence. This veil is to us seen as death. The normal route is out into the myriad of forms and beings and existences that constitute the expansion and flowing destiny of what is. The route we are on is a return. It is through the other veil that we wish to go. If one were to see the universe as a perpetual motion machine, then one needs to understand there needs to be a small, constant, high voltage trail of energy flowing back to the center from which  the ever-changing whirl. This is the path we are on. Back to the center.

If one were to build a perpetual energy machine that used the principle of nuclear power, then you would have to have fission and fusion. Smaller amounts of energy are needed to produce fission, and smaller amounts of energy are produced by fission. Fusion requires larger amounts of energy, very concentrated (intentional), and produces amazing amounts of energy, usually uncontrollable. To balance these two principles, most action in the machine must be fission ( division, variation) and much less fusion (unity, enlightenment). This is expressed as "narrow is the way, and few are the chosen". It is mechanical, it is material, it is practical. Beyond the veil.

April 13, 1998

Scrambled Eggs

Wandering in a strange space, far away from the "real" world, I came into contact with a large furry creature. This being was ten feet tall, had big bulging eyes and a rather disturbing sneer on his face. I approached cautiously. What could this large animal be doing in my backyard, had the neighbors been practicing gene splicing while I was away? Had the world gone topsy turvy in a single night?

"No." replied the seemingly telepathic rabbit. "I am simply here to deliver the egg. I did not make them or color them and I will definitely not eat them." In my befuddled state I knew not whether to flee or stay, the rabbit seemed oblivious to my presence. The closer he came the more jittery I was getting. He spoke again, "This egg means nothing to you, but if you don't get out of the way I'm going to hide it under you and then you wont be able to move until someone finds it."

That was when I cautiously departed this ancient space. It seemed the right time to let the colored eggs and the sneering rabbit have some privacy. As I looked over my shoulder he mouthed the words, "see you next year!"

April 12, 1998


In the city of Visalia there is a sacred chapel hidden in a corner of the Main Church, located close to the Center of the city. Inside this chapel, I met Sir Gawain. He is one of the knights sworn to keep and protect the Holy Grail.

Pilgrims come to see him. He heals them, feed them, consoles them, and tells them stories about our Mother. In that chapel, I saw a three year old coming to ask about God and the afterlife, a young woman asking about how to be a mother, and a sorcerer’s apprentice observing the place. He told the child that he didn’t know about the afterlife. The sorcerer’s apprentice then intervened, and talked with the child. He asked the child some questions, and after a while announced that the little girl new more than the rest of us. With great natural authority, he warned us that none of us had any right or duty whatsoever to teach anything about God, death, or spirituality to the children because they were older than we are. Our duty is to protect them, nurture them, and instruct them in the ways of the world, and allow them to grow spiritually as they know how.

The second day, our last meeting, there were just the Knight, the Sorcerer, and me. We secured the gates, passed the sacred pipe, sang, and told stories. The Knight told stories about his travels around the world, his combats, and his meetings with the Green Knight, the Red Knight, and the most dangerous of them all, the Black Knight. He talked about the time he gave up his liberation for many lifetimes of service to the Mother. Finally, he talked about the time he had almost died in defense of the Grail.

The Sorcerer suggested that perhaps he had indeed died. He pointed to the fact that, after that moment of death, his life had become much more mythical, more intense. After a while, we all got down to business and shared readings from the American Book of the Dead. Sir Gawain enjoyed the readings immensely. He said he had heard all that before, but he couldn’t pinpoint when or where. We ended the evening with a delicious piece of cheesecake and coffee.

April 11, 1998


I walked for a couple of blocks until I came to a short alley, covered with trash and the remains of dead dreams: old newspapers, empty ripped boxes, old coats, broken bottles, half of a magazine cover and a couple of soda cans. It extended for half a block and ended with a black garage door and a little wooden stairway to its right. I walked in and found a dwarf waiting for me in the darkness.

"A dollar is all I ask... you still can't go through the main portal but you can go up the stairway. Be careful with your choices this time."

I gave him what he asked for and walked up the stairway to a gray door, assuming he had confused me with someone else and curious to discover what was on the other side of the decaying walls. I knocked and the door opened into darkness. I walked in, barely able to glimpse a feminine hand holding the doorknob. I stood then in darkness and silence, waiting for something to happen. The breathing of the woman was close to me at first, but I heard it move away slowly until it disappeared altogether. I waited some more but there was no further movement around me.

My eyes adjusted to the darkness slowly and I was then able to see a long hallway stretching into darkness before me. There was a long sequence of doors on either side, each door with a little window at eye level. I started walking slowly down the hallway, afraid to disturb yet unable to stay where I was. As I walked past the first door I noticed a soft light coming from inside. Checking around me to make sure nobody was watching, I moved my eyes close to the small window.

Inside I saw two men playing poker, on a low coffee table. One was short and stocky, the other tall and skinny. They moved their cards carefully, with the grace of experienced players. On the walls there were photographs of the two men, sometimes by themselves, sometimes with others. I was particularly mystified by a little one that showed the stocky man when he was young. He was a lot more slender then, his smile was less forced and he held a flower in his hand.

I continued walking down the hall, past a couple of doors and then turned to one where the inner light was brighter. I peeked, a little more brave now, somehow realizing that there was nobody around to be afraid of. This time there was nobody in the room, just a carefully made bed, a little night lamp and several rows of bookshelves against the walls. I opened the door to examine the books more closely, and placed one foot inside the door when I heard laughter coming from another room. I quickly closed the door and walked further down the hallway, figuring I would come back later.

The source of the laughter turned out to be a woman in a room full of red light. She had long black hair and shining eyes which fell upon me as soon as I peeked in. With her right hand she gestured, asking to come in. I turned the knob and felt some kind of warmth at my back.  I moved back and turned, and saw another stairway leading up, ending in a brightly illuminated open door. This stair was longer, older, and more fragile than the one outside. It seemed as if it would break apart as soon as I set a foot on it.

Feeling torn between the adventure of the stairway, the eyes of the woman and the mystery of the books, I decided to walk a little further down the hallway, in case there were even more choices. I walked past many doorways on both sides, each with its little window, each with another surprise behind it but I walked on. Finally I heard a voice to my left that whispered:

"Thanks for coming.Before you now there is only Death. Do come back."

Then a door opened right in front of me, a bright blinding light hit me and I found myself on a busy street, with cars honking, children crying and adults discussing important matters. My eyes took a while to adjust ( a couple of tears fell from me in the process) and then I looked around me again. I knew now which street I was on. It was late and I was hungry. I started to walk home.

Click here for the articles ending on April 10, 1998

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