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Sirius Chronicles

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  • 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 1 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 2 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 3 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 4 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 5 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 6 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 7 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 8 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 9 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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