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Sirius Chronicles

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  • Mathew Morrell
    The last she remembered was the prayerful Amen before losing consciousness only to regain it again inside a dream that seemed to have always existed, and the
    Message 1 of 10 , Oct 5, 2002
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      The last she remembered was the prayerful Amen before losing
      consciousness only to regain it again inside a dream that seemed to
      have always existed, and the next moment she was there, immersed in
      an empryean heaven, Sirius, which was devoid of a state of beginning
      or a state of end, floated rather, un-touched and virginal, in the
      psychic ether. Through the trees --- tall, long-legged and limber ---
      her light willowy body moved gaseously, protean in fluidity, through
      a mystical dream forest, in one instantaneous transition from flesh
      to spirit.
      The transition into Sirius spiraled like a revolving
      geometry. With each revolution time-space curled into a finer and
      finer point yet in the microbial smallness there was a blissful sense
      of expansion. Elizabeth felt at that infinitely small aperture
      leading into the Sirius as if her soul had become so hardly nothing
      at all --- a speck of dust, a suspended cell, a floating atom ---
      meekness opened her soul to the tides and tides of beingness washing
      over her as if from an infinite source of knowledge; etheric,
      mystical colors spiraled round about her sphere of consciousness,
      making wild, beautiful, pulsating sounds, spectacular blasts,
      explosions of glitter, gold, musical mountains ranges before her
      eyes, forests of crystal trees. What kept Sirius from dissolving
      back into the formless, primordial foam of Chaos, was the same self-
      illuminating power which buoyed her running footsteps: an undulating
      inter-dimensional physics where everything seemed to emanate a
      distinct musical vibration.
      Ed MacIntosh was in a forest clearing, cross legged among
      wavering yellow daisies, fox gloves, lilacs, blue bells pricking
      through the grass, and a heavenly wind blowing through the dream
      field like glowing, pulsating, musical threads of colored light. A
      brook that was nearby looked so beautiful that it seemed partially
      non-existent, half-substantial, impressionistic, its flowing,
      splashing, babbling waters glistening over rounded stones, the
      underwater grasses swaying beneath the current, and the brook
      floating there as if in infinity, emitting a poetical orchestration
      of sublime, supernatural harmonies. For the same reason Elizabeth
      excelled at dancing, her passage through the field towards Ed
      MacIntosh moved with lucid, un-earthly speed. Her mind and body were
      one in Sirius, propelled by thought through the intense, musical
      vibrations streaming from the sun of Sirius, Ra, whose triple-haloed
      sphere shined above the field. As soon as they saw each other Ed, in
      his long flowing garment, un-crossed his legs and levitated to his
      feet.
      `Ed! Ed! I'm so happy I found you!' she said, harmonic, half-
      tone colors consuming her face in radiant emotional waves. `You must
      come back!' she added, and now stood before him clutching both his
      hands, saying: `Me, Mark and Nicholas are in grave danger. We're at
      the cathedral. You must come and save us. Please, please,' she
      said, `Thomas Sinclair is setting fire to the cathedral and we're in
      the basement, bound and taped.'
      `I love you, Elizabeth,' he said.
      `I love you, to.'
      `And I will come for you. And I will not let you down.
      Then, I will return here, to this place.'
      `The you here is the genius I see hidden in your art.'
      Their lucid forms shone in electric, five-dimensional space.
      There was a great depth to the sky, and this depth started to fade.
      The air dimmed. Black clouds mounted overhead. A solar wind swept
      over the field, and in the darkness the cloud racks converged from
      all four directions. Sirius was dissolving. Their images faded into
      a widening abyss closing in upon the field and swallowing them into a
      primordial, evolutionary stream of consciousness that is always
      moving away from the First Cause, a stream all sentient and non-
      sentient beings follow when falling from heaven. In their re-
      entrance into the earth's soul their bodies hardened, their light
      faded, their blood surged, and their identities re-emerged into their
      flesh bodies.

      Chapter thirteen, 'Sirius Chronicles,' by Mathew Morrell. Copyright
      2002. All rights reserved.
    • Mathew Morrell
      Ed sat slumped-over in a wheel chair and if not for the leather belt strapped around his torso he would have doubled over onto the floor and not realized it.
      Message 2 of 10 , Nov 4, 2002
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        Ed sat slumped-over in a wheel chair and if not for the leather belt
        strapped around his torso he would have doubled over onto the floor
        and not realized it. His body seemed un-occupied, yet was breathing;
        his eyes were closed and his arms dangled over both sides of the
        wheel chair. Every now and then his plastic, immobile facial
        features would show vague signs of life: his eyes brows and eye lids
        would shutter; his finger would bend and un-bend; his chin elevate
        then fall to his chest. Nothing seemed to connect, all he saw was a
        blur, and he would sink back into a mute, catatonic trance that is at
        peace with death and insanity.
        It wasn't until he returned from Sirius that his
        consciousness begun to re-coil into the five senses. Little by
        little forms coalesced into his field of vision. A splotch of
        brightness formed in front of him; a TV set. The lesser brightness,
        behind the TV, was a barred window. He struggled with his eyes but
        visibility was reduced and voices seemed to arise from a gray
        unconscious fog that made everything appear hazy around the edges.
        Barely visible was a man in a Panama hat sitting on a couch and
        eating an apple. Several patients were watching TV; others drew
        pictures at an art table in the corner; then there were those
        incapable of engaging in any activity requiring prolonged
        concentration; these were the ones who stared as if into emptiness.
        Ed was among them, staring into the etheric-astral plane when
        suddenly he made a loud, involuntary spasm of anguish that drew the
        attention of the nursing staff. A nurse behind a wire-glass window
        looked up from her clipboard, and saw Ed rubbing his eyes as if
        awakening from a deep slumber. The nurse immediately set aside her
        clipboard, clothed all white, a nursing cap and a dress that swelled
        around her protruding belly.
        `How are you feeling?' she asked him. `Are you all right,
        Mr. MacIntosh?'
        All he did was mumble in return. After Sirius, it was a
        struggle to communicate by normal means. This was because his mind
        was accustomed to working telepathically, on a non-linear basis; all
        he managed to say at that moment was one word: `Cathedral.'
        `Yes?' the nurse asked, a line of drool forming on Ed's
        chin. `What about the cathedral?'
        `Elizabeth. . . . Fire.'
        `Huh? You need your medication.'
        Ed shook his head, but the drool did not sever its link from
        his chin, and slunk down to his waist, swinging from side to side as
        he shook his head. His hand with which he thrust out and tried
        clutching her skirt with was left clasping empty air after she walked
        away. Then his hand grew limp. Returning to the body after having
        been out-of-body for so long, in a spiritual state, was a
        disorientating experience that frustrated him mentally. The physical
        and spiritual seemed completely odds with each other, un-unified and
        infusible. He rose from the wheel chair and gagged from the
        nausea. By then the nurse was in the observation room, behind the
        wire-glass window; apparently she did not notice Ed and the
        staggering foot steps he was making as he crossed the room. He was
        walking towards the staircase which fluctuated before his eyes like a
        bad acid trip, going from a normal, three-dimensional form to a hyper-
        dimensional abstraction having no beginning or end. The solidity of
        the hand rail kept him from falling.
        Outside, city workers were repairing the broken water main.
        It was night. The backhoe had its headlights on, and its segmented
        arm extended like the leg of a praying mantis down into the ditch.
        The loud, smoke belching, metal armored machines conveyed themselves
        to his senses as if they were giant, apocalyptic insects. Ed ran
        barefoot down the street while spiritually he moved through vague
        regions of the astral realm, on the brink of madness, seeing, from
        out of the corner of his eyes, a detached swath of fabric. Upon
        closer examination he saw that it was a spirit swathed in tattered,
        gray, gossamer cloth, its yellow, molded hands extending beyond the
        frayed sleeve cuffs, and whose noseless decomposed face leered down
        at him from yellow eyes. The spirit was a minute extra-sensory
        vibration floating above the street lamps arched over 22nd Street.
        The cathedral was three blocks from the sanitarium. A nun
        was standing at the threshold, apparently welcoming visitors late for
        Mass, when Ed arrived. He approached the cathedral from down the
        street, his hair sticking straight up, his face blushed and his chest
        heaving. Between gulps of air he managed to ask the nun where Father
        Nicholas lived and that he needed to see the priest as soon as
        possible, because he received a troubling "call" that the church was
        on fire. The problem he was having with ordering his thoughts into
        coherent sentences had diminished to the extent that he now spoke in
        a semi-intelligible manner. The tradeoff was a momentary, much
        welcomed, pause from the powerful-violent visions; the nausea and
        disorientation also subsided; and now, the very worried, panic-
        stricken nun directed him towards a hallway which he was told to
        follow until he reached a black doorway. Afterwards, the nun ran off
        in her own direction, supposedly to call the fire department.
        The door opened into a basement stairwell walled-in in
        brick. On his way down the stairwell he made an attempt to recall
        certain details contained within his three-day experience in Sirius,
        yet found himself un-able to do so with the acuity he desired. Even
        ten minutes ago the memory seemed vividly alive in his psyche.
        Elizabeth's message had seemed un-mistakable; now it was a blurred
        memory, Sirius a distant, fantastic dream-kingdom smothered by the
        light of waking consciousness.
        The worn, wooden stairs creaked under his feet, and this in
        turn caused him stop midway down. He clutched the hand railing, not
        all together certain if he should be sneaking into the basement, un-
        heard and un-seen, or rushing in. Quickly, he decided that he should
        be sneaking and continued more quietly than before.
        The basement was a maze of narrow corridors and musty, un-lit
        chambers, most of which were used for utility purposes, to store un-
        needed, out-dated furniture, cardboard boxes and wood crates, hand
        and power tools, and religious articles: cheap, plastic crucifixes,
        rosary beads, statues and statuettes filled one box. Ed accidentally
        knocked into a life-size statue of the Virgin Mary. He could not find
        a light switch, and was groping through the dark relying on his sense
        of feel to find a way out. While doing so he remembered Elizabeth in
        Sirius and her lucid, spiritual presence lit up like a gaseous
        hologram. Her words had been pure harmony. He recalled her
        mentioning, in a strange but sublime voice that Thomas Sinclair held
        her captive at gun point in Father Nicholas's home.
        MacIntosh looked but he saw no evidence of an apartment; a
        bat-winged gargoyle was crouched on the cement floor; strained,
        moaning sounds came from the exposed metal pipes. The basement
        seemed huge. To his reckoning it had as much floor space as the
        nave, but was divided into chambers and sub-chambers that often led
        to dead ends. After several minutes he encountered a narrow
        passageway wide enough for one man. He walked down the passageway,
        recalling the harmonic, half-tone colors consuming Elizabeth face in
        radiant emotional waves. `You must come back!' she had said in her
        strange, chiming voice, adding: `Me, Mark and Nicholas are in grave
        danger. We're at the cathedral. Thomas Sinclair is setting fire to
        the cathedral and we're in the basement, bound and taped. . .'
        Again he remembered how the transition from flesh to spirit
        spiraled like a revolving geometry. With each revolution time-space
        curled into a finer and finer point yet in the microbial smallness
        there was a blissful sense of expansion. Ed had felt at that
        infinitely small aperture as if his soul had become so hardly nothing
        at all --- a speck of dust, a suspended cell, a floating atom ---
        that tides and tides of beingness washed over him as if from an
        infinite source of knowledge; etheric, mystical colors spiraled round
        his sphere of consciousness, making wild, beautiful, pulsating
        sounds; spectacular blasts lit the void; explosions of gold; musical
        mountains ranges had appeared before his eyes; cities of light and
        sound, forests of crystal trees, all composed entirely from
        vibrational waves. What kept Sirius from dissolving back into the
        formless, primordial foam was the same self-illuminating power which
        buoyed his consciousness: a refined, undulating inter-dimensional
        physics where everything seemed to emanate a distinct musical
        vibration.
        The memory had no beginning or end. The last he remembered
        was ingesting the Red Lion minutes before losing consciousness only
        to regain it again inside a dream that seemed to have always existed,
        for Ed never once `begun' a journey to Sirius. The next moment he
        was there, immersed in an empryean heaven, Sirius, which was devoid
        of a state of beginning or a state of end, floated rather, un-touched
        and virginal, in the psychic ether. MacIntosh remembered himself
        sitting in a forest clearing, cross legged among wavering yellow
        daisies, fox gloves, lilacs, blue bells pricking through the grass;
        heavenly winds blew through the dream field, a wind of pulsating,
        musical threads of colored light. A brook that was nearby looked so
        beautiful that it had seemed partially non-existent, half-
        substantial, impressionistic, its flowing, splashing, babbling waters
        glistening over rounded stones; bright green underwater grasses
        swayed beneath the current. The brook floated as if in infinity,
        emitting a poetical orchestration of sublime, supernatural
        harmonies. Tall, long-legged and limber --- her light willowy body
        had moved gaseously through a mystical dream forest. For the same
        reason Elizabeth excelled at dancing her passage through the forest
        and to the field had moved with lucid, un-earthly speed. Her mind
        and body were one in Sirius, propelled by thought through intense,
        musical vibrations streaming from the sun Ra, whose triple-haloed
        sphere shined above the field. As soon as they saw each other Ed, in
        his long flowing garment, had un-crossed his legs and levitated to
        his feet.
        MacIntosh reached the room at the end of the narrow
        passageway. It was warm and a haze covered the ceiling. The air
        smelled acrid. A black, iron boiler consumed most of the room. The
        boiler made the air warm but did not account for the smoke, which was
        coming from an open door. Ed had found the apartment. When he looked
        inside he could only see the kitchenette. Lying on the linoleum
        floor was Giovanni Migliazzo. The body lay face down, motionless in
        a pool of blood, obviously dead, and a thick, red trickle of blood
        followed a seam in the linoleum. A Berretta lay on the kitchen
        countertop. In one rapid lurch inside the apartment, Ed grabbed the
        gun then spun blindly towards the interior of the apartment. In the
        living room was Elizabeth, Mark and Father Nicholas. They were
        staring wildly up at him. They were bound to the chairs, their
        mouths taped, and their eyes bulging. The heat was rising and the
        smoke was rolling along the ceiling in billowing waves. Ed ripped
        the tape from Elizabeth's mouth. . .
        The smoke was coming from the bedroom where Thomas Rose was
        destroying Red File documents numbering in the thousands; totally
        oblivious of what was transpiring now that Ed MacIntosh had arrived,
        Thomas took his time kindling the fire. Slowly, and with a remote
        look on his face, he wadded a sheet of paper and idly tossed it onto
        the pile burning in the corner. The carpet caught fire. Flames
        leapt up and threw his shadow chaotically about the room and against
        the white walls and an orange fire-light flickered upon his face.
        The crackling of the fire was loud enough to drown-out the sound of
        him wadding up another document, then another and another, before he
        threw a whole stack of papers into the air and let them fall where
        they may, some landing on the flaming pile, while most scattered onto
        the floor. Seconds later he was splashing kerosene on the bed and
        the walls, splashed it over a dresser and the chest, so that when the
        fire hit these kerosene-soaked surfaces there was a minor explosion,
        a burst of flames and gust of hot air forcing him into a corner. He
        covered his face and started coughing. The smoke was black and
        noxious and stung his eyes; and he was nearly blind as he staggered
        out of the bedroom, hacking from the smoke and his lungs burning from
        the blast of hot air.
        Because of his state of disorientation he was did not see
        Elizabeth raising the Berretta until it was too late. The next
        moment there was a rapid exchange of fire. Elizabeth was still bound
        to the chair but her hands were free and Ed was frantically un-tying
        the rope binding her ankles as the shots were fired and as Thomas
        back peddled towards the open door, firing back three times, before
        he safely ducked out of the apartment.
        `Hurry Ed!' she cried.
        `I almost got it,' he said, crouched at her feet.
        `Did anyone get shot?' she asked
        They shook their heads. But they had come close. Three
        bullet holes peppered the wall directly behind the chairs. Finally,
        Ed loosened the rope around her ankles. She jumped to her feet and
        immediately placed herself in a point where she would have the
        advantage if Thomas re-entered the apartment. This point was before
        the lime green countertop.
        `Do you have a fire-extinguisher?' Ed asked.
        `It's in the boiler room,' the priest responded. But Mark
        shook his head, saying:
        `The fire's too big. An extinguisher won't do any good.
        We've got to get out of here, quick.'
        Elizabeth cried: `Hurry up, Ed, or we'll all be cinders.'
        The smoke, by now, had engulfed the upper half of the
        apartment. Ed's fingers were working out the knots binding the
        priest's wrists. The old man was trembling from the Parkinson's.
        His head was wobbling. He seemed too terrified to speak, and yet his
        voice seemed amazingly tender when he said:
        `Darling, give the gun to Mark as soon as he's untied?'
        `Nicholas! Please!'
        `I don't want you being in the line of fire.'
        `Nicholas, this is not time to be chauvanistic.'
        Her arms formed a `V' shape. At the tip of the `V' was the
        pistol, aimed at open doorway. In her black tights it was possible
        to see the muscles and sinews strung into her spinal column. Thomas,
        she didn't think, would let them out alive. She believed he was out
        there somewhere in the basement of the cathedral just waiting for
        them to flee the apartment so he could stomp them out like tiny ants
        scurrying from a burning log. Elizabeth sustained the `V' posture
        and was trying to keep her head below the smoke where the air was
        clean enough to breath. Ed, in the meantime, worked on the knots;
        all them were coughing and hacking and now there the fire had broken
        through into the living room; yellow flames crawled along the ceiling
        above their head, mixed with red hot cinders and floating gray ashes;
        bits of papers, some un-burnt, fell on the carpet. At last they
        freed Mark's ankles.
        `Let's get out of here!' he shouted above the roar of the
        fire.
        And in one surge they evacuated the apartment, led by
        Elizabeth. She was firing and shots were being fired back at them.
        Bullets ricocheted off the concrete walls of the boiler room which
        was almost as smoky as the apartment but much darker and nobody could
        see where the shots were coming from, only the yellow flashes that
        the guns produced. The flashes cut through the haze in quick
        momentary increments, the air flashing as Mark dove behind a concrete
        beam support, flashed as Nicholas fell behind him, flashed as Ed
        shielded himself next to the cast iron boiler, flashed and strobed
        and flashed again while Elizabeth fired at the bursts flashing back
        at her. There was no point in running. Thomas had them boxed in.
        The last bullet knocked a chunk of brick from the wall; and
        now there was silence, save for their heavy breaths and the crackling
        and burning of the fire. The apartment was in flames. The hellish
        glow smothered the boiler room in a dull, soft-yellow light that
        brought out the individual characteristics in their faces. Mark
        looked at the priest. He looked ancient in the yellow glow. The
        mesh of wrinkled seemed carved by many fine-pointed strokes of an
        etching pen.
        `Are you all right?' Mark asked him.
        `Yes,' he said; then called out to Elizabeth through the
        haze: `Elizabeth?'
        `Yes.' She was hidden behind a concrete pillar.
        `Are you wounded?'
        `No' she said, `I'm okay. Ed?'
        `Yeah.'
        A loud banging sound erupted above their heads. The `bang'
        was followed by a burst of water exploding from the heat-activated
        sprinkler system, and in seconds they were drenched. Mark was on his
        stomach and gazing straight ahead, for he caught a glimpse of Thomas,
        who could be seen running away from them towards a storage room.
        Mark took the gun from Elizabeth, and pursued Thomas. Thomas shot
        back; and again they were in a gun fight, rain showering the floor,
        their cloths sticking to their skin and bullets bouncing off the
        walls like tiny billiard balls. Mark made a slow, steady, un-abated
        advance, firing back and ducking behind the pillars, firing the
        ducking, and all the while Elizabeth moved behind him and together
        they advanced in a united effort to stay in front of the flames.
        Already the boiler room caught fire, despite the sprinkler
        system. The fire behind them outlined their bodily forms in gaseous,
        yellow flames and the flames seemed to consume their bodies, and yet
        the fire was far enough behind them that they only seemed inhumanly
        impervious to the blaze.
        Thomas has no other defense other than to shower them with
        bullets, for he had been forced into the narrow, brick-lined
        corridor, in which there was no cover to shield himself from Mark's
        offensive. All he did was fire until his gun seized to respond, and
        ran out of bullets. He continued to pulled the trigger, but the
        chamber was empty and the gun clicked impudently in his hand.
        Finally, Thomas dropped the gun and threw up his hands. With no
        where to turn, gun-less, he remained frozen when Mark pointed his gun
        in Thomas's face.
        `Don't shoot him!' cried Elizabeth, followed by Ed and the
        priest.
        The fire department had arrived. Down the stairs came two ax-
        bearing firemen. They were wearing oxygen masks over their faces,
        steel hats and yellow slickers that repelled the water. In their
        presence Mark did not shoot. Doing so would have been grounds for a
        murder charge. Instead he lowered his gun, watching, with disgust
        and rage, the menacing smile spreading over Thomas's face once he
        realized his immense good fortune. Seconds later he had bolted
        through the fire exit.




        Chapter Thirteen of "Sirius Chronicles," by Mathew Morrell.
        Copyright 2002. All rights reserved.


        *note: I fused Chapter thirteen and fourteen, and so this was your
        second chapter thirteen.
      • Pacbay
        Though interesting, I don t think this is the right place for such a post. Any agreement? Jeff ... From: Mathew Morrell To: steiner@yahoogroups.com Sent:
        Message 3 of 10 , Nov 4, 2002
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          Though interesting, I don't think this is the right place for such a post. Any agreement?
           
          Jeff
          ----- Original Message -----
          Sent: Monday, November 04, 2002 2:57 PM
          Subject: [steiner] Sirius Chronicles

          Ed sat slumped-over in a wheel chair and if not for the leather belt
          strapped around his torso he would have doubled over onto the floor
          and not realized it.  His body seemed un-occupied, yet was breathing;
          his eyes were closed and his arms dangled over both sides of the
          wheel chair.  Every now and then his plastic, immobile facial
          features would show vague signs of life:  his eyes brows and eye lids
          would shutter; his finger would bend and un-bend; his chin elevate
          then fall to his chest.  Nothing seemed to connect, all he saw was a
          blur, and he would sink back into a mute, catatonic trance that is at
          peace with death and insanity.
                It wasn't until he returned from Sirius that his
          consciousness begun to re-coil into the five senses.  Little by
          little forms coalesced into his field of vision.  A splotch of
          brightness formed in front of him; a TV set.  The lesser brightness,
          behind the TV, was a barred window.  He struggled with his eyes but
          visibility was reduced and voices seemed to arise from a gray
          unconscious fog that made everything appear hazy around the edges. 
          Barely visible was a man in a Panama hat sitting on a couch and
          eating an apple.  Several patients were watching TV; others drew
          pictures at an art table in the corner; then there were those
          incapable of engaging in any activity requiring prolonged
          concentration; these were the ones who stared as if into emptiness. 
        • LilOleMiss
          What is your reasoning for such an opinion and what do you feel a right place for such a post to be? Can you not understand Mr. Morrell s spiritual realism?
          Message 4 of 10 , Nov 4, 2002
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            What is your reasoning for such an opinion and what do you feel a
            "right place for such a post" to be? Can you not understand Mr.
            Morrell's spiritual realism? Any answers for us?

            Sheila

            Pacbay wrote:
            > Though interesting, I don't think this is the right place for such a
            > post. Any agreement?
            >
            > Jeff
            >
            > ----- Original Message -----
            > From: Mathew Morrell <mailto:tma4cbt@...>
            > To: steiner@yahoogroups.com <mailto:steiner@yahoogroups.com>
            > Sent: Monday, November 04, 2002 2:57 PM
            > Subject: [steiner] Sirius Chronicles
            >
            > Ed sat slumped-over in a wheel chair and if not for the leather belt
            > strapped around his torso he would have doubled over onto the floor
            > and not realized it. His body seemed un-occupied, yet was breathing;
            > his eyes were closed and his arms dangled over both sides of the
            > wheel chair. Every now and then his plastic, immobile facial
            > features would show vague signs of life: his eyes brows and eye lids
            > would shutter; his finger would bend and un-bend; his chin elevate
            > then fall to his chest. Nothing seemed to connect, all he saw was a
            > blur, and he would sink back into a mute, catatonic trance that is at
            > peace with death and insanity.
            > It wasn't until he returned from Sirius that his
            > consciousness begun to re-coil into the five senses. Little by
            > little forms coalesced into his field of vision. A splotch of
            > brightness formed in front of him; a TV set. The lesser brightness,
            > behind the TV, was a barred window. He struggled with his eyes but
            > visibility was reduced and voices seemed to arise from a gray
            > unconscious fog that made everything appear hazy around the edges.
            > Barely visible was a man in a Panama hat sitting on a couch and
            > eating an apple. Several patients were watching TV; others drew
            > pictures at an art table in the corner; then there were those
            > incapable of engaging in any activity requiring prolonged
            > concentration; these were the ones who stared as if into emptiness.
            >
          • Pacbay
            If we open any of these forums to posting popular literature and fiction sharing, we are in trouble. There are too many long posts now. This is not a creative
            Message 5 of 10 , Nov 4, 2002
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              If we open any of these forums to posting popular literature and fiction sharing, we are in trouble. There are too many long posts now.
               This is not a creative writing course.
              jeff
              ----- Original Message -----
              Sent: Monday, November 04, 2002 6:39 PM
              Subject: Re: [steiner] Sirius Chronicles

              What is your reasoning for such an opinion and what do you feel a
              "right place for such a post" to be? Can you not understand Mr.
              Morrell's spiritual realism? Any answers for us?

              Sheila

              Pacbay wrote:
              > Though interesting, I don't think this is the right place for such a
              > post. Any agreement?

              > Jeff
              >
              >     ----- Original Message -----
              >     From: Mathew Morrell <mailto:tma4cbt@...>
              >     To: steiner@yahoogroups.com <mailto:steiner@yahoogroups.com>
              >     Sent: Monday, November 04, 2002 2:57 PM
              >     Subject: [steiner] Sirius Chronicles
              >
              >     Ed sat slumped-over in a wheel chair and if not for the leather belt
              >     strapped around his torso he would have doubled over onto the floor
              >     and not realized it.  His body seemed un-occupied, yet was breathing;
              >     his eyes were closed and his arms dangled over both sides of the
              >     wheel chair.  Every now and then his plastic, immobile facial
              >     features would show vague signs of life:  his eyes brows and eye lids
              >     would shutter; his finger would bend and un-bend; his chin elevate
              >     then fall to his chest.  Nothing seemed to connect, all he saw was a
              >     blur, and he would sink back into a mute, catatonic trance that is at
              >     peace with death and insanity.
              >           It wasn't until he returned from Sirius that his
              >     consciousness begun to re-coil into the five senses.  Little by
              >     little forms coalesced into his field of vision.  A splotch of
              >     brightness formed in front of him; a TV set.  The lesser brightness,
              >     behind the TV, was a barred window.  He struggled with his eyes but
              >     visibility was reduced and voices seemed to arise from a gray
              >     unconscious fog that made everything appear hazy around the edges.
              >     Barely visible was a man in a Panama hat sitting on a couch and
              >     eating an apple.  Several patients were watching TV; others drew
              >     pictures at an art table in the corner; then there were those
              >     incapable of engaging in any activity requiring prolonged
              >     concentration; these were the ones who stared as if into emptiness.
              >


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            • LilOleMiss
              Dear Jeff, As a young med student learning psychiatry, the University required us to live in a state mental institution not only for access to various
              Message 6 of 10 , Nov 5, 2002
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                Dear Jeff,

                As a young med student learning psychiatry, the University
                required us to live in a state mental institution not only for
                access to various psychiatric conditions, often compounded with
                physical ailments, but to learn the various forms in which mental
                illness manifests. It was a great idea to interact so very closely
                with these patients, and to have access to not only the "learned
                diagnosis of the day and its treatment," but also to direct
                observation, in so far as we were able, of the individuals' inner
                experiences as well. It is very difficult to see with another's
                eyes, but by listening, observing and interacting with various
                patients, some insight was possible. I won't speak of the
                scientific literature dealing with mental conditions other than to
                say cold materialistic so-called scientific concepts imprinted
                onto a patient's profile made no sense to me. Steiner speaks quite
                a lot about mental illness, which to me, Mathew directly addresses
                not only from an observer's viewpoint, but most importantly, IMO,
                from his clear insights into actual situations as seen not only by
                the patient most clearly, but also what is overtly seen by an
                observer, and an exceedingly astute observer at that. Mathew isn't
                writing popular literature or fiction by any means in his
                wonderful *Sirius Chronicles* but is addressing very clearly what
                exists in actuality, although largely hidden from public or
                popular view. Dostoyevsky, Tolstoy and a few others have given the
                world some of our clearest insights into this realm manifesting in
                the human psyche but from a somewhat differing viewpoint, while
                Mathew's writing from his warm observations illustrates the
                spirituality coinciding so clearly from what we consider a warped
                mental state. Perhaps its my exposure to such patients which gives
                me a perhaps unfair advantage in recognition, but I can see a deep
                spirituality interpenetrating what on the surface may indeed
                appear as fiction.

                I was saving all of Mathew's "installments" as they came out, but
                lost all to yet another computer failure so was therefore happy to
                see a continuation of the *Sirrius Chronicles.* What is said,
                Jeff? Something to the effect there is so much in our world which
                goes unrecognized or is expressed clearly enough to bring to
                others a large part of mankind's inner thoughts with supreme
                clarity. Those of us having "hands-on" experience in an attempt to
                understand and allievate these other-worldly thought processes
                most never see, learn very much from such clear presentations as
                Mathew's insight reveals. These are the thoughts behind my
                treasuring his writings and compassionate understanding of
                humanity as it exists in a different milieu.

                Blessings,

                Sheila

                Pacbay wrote:
                > If we open any of these forums to posting popular literature and fiction
                > sharing, we are in trouble. There are too many long posts now.
                > This is not a creative writing course.
                > jeff
                >
                > ----- Original Message -----
                > From: LilOleMiss <mailto:lilolemiss@...>
                > To: steiner@yahoogroups.com <mailto:steiner@yahoogroups.com>
                > Sent: Monday, November 04, 2002 6:39 PM
                > Subject: Re: [steiner] Sirius Chronicles
                >
                > What is your reasoning for such an opinion and what do you feel a
                > "right place for such a post" to be? Can you not understand Mr.
                > Morrell's spiritual realism? Any answers for us?
                >
                > Sheila
                >
                > Pacbay wrote:
                > > Though interesting, I don't think this is the right place for such a
                > > post. Any agreement?
                > >
                > > Jeff
                > >
                > > ----- Original Message -----
                > > From: Mathew Morrell <mailto:tma4cbt@...>
                > > To: steiner@yahoogroups.com <mailto:steiner@yahoogroups.com>
                > > Sent: Monday, November 04, 2002 2:57 PM
                > > Subject: [steiner] Sirius Chronicles
                > >
                > > Ed sat slumped-over in a wheel chair and if not for the
                > leather belt
                > > strapped around his torso he would have doubled over onto the
                > floor
                > > and not realized it. His body seemed un-occupied, yet was
                > breathing;
                > > his eyes were closed and his arms dangled over both sides of the
                > > wheel chair. Every now and then his plastic, immobile facial
                > > features would show vague signs of life: his eyes brows and
                > eye lids
                > > would shutter; his finger would bend and un-bend; his chin
                > elevate
                > > then fall to his chest. Nothing seemed to connect, all he
                > saw was a
                > > blur, and he would sink back into a mute, catatonic trance
                > that is at
                > > peace with death and insanity.
                > > It wasn't until he returned from Sirius that his
                > > consciousness begun to re-coil into the five senses. Little by
                > > little forms coalesced into his field of vision. A splotch of
                > > brightness formed in front of him; a TV set. The lesser
                > brightness,
                > > behind the TV, was a barred window. He struggled with his
                > eyes but
                > > visibility was reduced and voices seemed to arise from a gray
                > > unconscious fog that made everything appear hazy around the
                > edges.
                > > Barely visible was a man in a Panama hat sitting on a couch and
                > > eating an apple. Several patients were watching TV; others drew
                > > pictures at an art table in the corner; then there were those
                > > incapable of engaging in any activity requiring prolonged
                > > concentration; these were the ones who stared as if into
                > emptiness.
              • golden3000997@cs.com
                I don t think that we have clarified exactly what this site should be for. It has been an open forum for sharing on many themes and levels. I don t
                Message 7 of 10 , Nov 5, 2002
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                  I don't think that we have clarified exactly what this site should be for. It
                  has been an open forum for sharing on many themes and levels. I don't
                  particularly care for the Lutz/Starman debates, but I totally accept that
                  this is a place for them to discuss their issues. There have been personal
                  crisis explored and literary sharings. We have alerted each other to
                  interesting news items. There have been direct studies of Steiner's work.

                  I vote (it's voting day!) to keep the forum open to whatever people want to
                  share. If you get a post on a topic that you're not interested in, simply hit
                  the delete button.
                • Pacbay
                  Sheila, I have absolutely not problem with the chronicles but in this type of exchange it just does not work. From my time perspective (and others have
                  Message 8 of 10 , Nov 5, 2002
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                    Sheila,
                     
                    I have absolutely not problem with the chronicles but in this type of exchange it just does not work. From my time perspective (and others have commented as well) I do not have the time to read through three to four pages of material. If someone wishes to create long essays or stories then here is a simple solution used by others: offer a brief mention of the content  and then direct us to the archives. This would be a win/ win situation and one does not have to feel like they are skimming or ignoring valuable or interesting long posts. Just my preference. Others may think differently.
                     
                    In time is of essence,
                    Jeff
                    -----
                  • LilOleMiss
                    ... Jeff, I understand your position as well as Mathew s and Golden s. I m on all sides since my time is limited, too. I solved this by having cut back on the
                    Message 9 of 10 , Nov 5, 2002
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                      Pacbay wrote:
                      > Sheila,
                      >
                      > I have absolutely not problem with the chronicles but in this type of
                      > exchange it just does not work. From my time perspective (and others
                      > have commented as well) I do not have the time to read through three
                      > to four pages of material. If someone wishes to create long essays or
                      > stories then here is a simple solution used by others: offer a brief
                      > mention of the content and then direct us to the archives. This would
                      > be a win/ win situation and one does not have to feel like they
                      > are skimming or ignoring valuable or interesting long posts. Just my
                      > preference. Others may think differently.
                      >
                      > In time is of essence,
                      > Jeff
                      >
                      > -----
                      Jeff, I understand your position as well as Mathew's and Golden's.
                      I'm on all sides since my time is limited, too. I solved this by
                      having cut back on the number of lists [such as the anthroposophy
                      list] I belong to by their quality, thereby simplifying my life as
                      much as possible. I'm also selfish, and am fascinated by the
                      spirituality of *The Serius Chronicles*. Golden came up with an
                      excellent idea, and since Dr. Starman owns this list as well as
                      there being other members, maybe we all should vote? I must vote
                      as Golden has.

                      Best to you and your's,
                      Sheila
                    • DRStarman2001@aol.com
                      In a message dated 11/5/2002 1:01:18 AM Eastern Standard Time, ... ******As the moderator, I don t have any problem with creative writing here. It beats
                      Message 10 of 10 , Nov 5, 2002
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                        In a message dated 11/5/2002 1:01:18 AM Eastern Standard Time, pacbay@... writes:




                        If we open any of these forums to posting popular literature and fiction sharing, we are in trouble. There are too many long posts now.

                        This is not a creative writing course.
                        jeff


                        ******As the moderator, I don't have any problem with creative writing here. It beats uncreative writing any day.
                          The spiritual path for modern man is ART.
                        -starman


                        ----- Original Message -----
                        From: LilOleMiss
                        To: steiner@yahoogroups.com
                        Sent: Monday, November 04, 2002 6:39 PM
                        Subject: Re: [steiner] Sirius Chronicles


                        What is your reasoning for such an opinion and what do you feel a
                        "right place for such a post" to be? Can you not understand Mr.
                        Morrell's spiritual realism? Any answers for us?

                        Sheila




                        http://www.DrStarman.net
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