Saturday, October 1, 2022

Paying homage to a planetary rainbow warrior dreamtime goddess

rainbow warrior
dreamtime goddess

she showed me her true colors:
i felt a delightful tingle 
of molecular excitement – electric!
& sensual in a long-forgotten
or just-remembered sense

those fluid lines & funky colors:
music to the eyes – they make one
realize what a spectacular gift 
SIGHT is! oh i feel like jumping up &
dancing to that happy/lively/friendly
pulsating energy

[she had come to me, you see, for “professional advice” on the production of this “promotional tool”]

i said:
you don’t need words to sell your
pictures, they have the power
to create their own demand

she said:
what do you see in my paintings?

[i smiled & handed her her “pound of words”]

for a start: the hologram of eve & 
evolution; primary waveforms, photons,
molecules, cells; also algae, germs,
sperms, worms & axolotls; snakes,
fishes (all shapes & sizes), birds, 
turtles, tetrahedral crystals &
quetzalcoatls (yes… the feathered
serpents of the aztecs!)

Piece by Dutch artist Corneille
@ Guillaume Cornelis van Beverloo (1922–2010
elemental, rudimental, transcendental
micro-macro-cosmic fractal images
such as one may find in the mindscapes
of aboriginal magic art, punk 
guerrilla graffiti & some visionary
works by ernst, corneille, klee, miro
picasso, chagall et alia; or on
tibetan thangkas, guatemalan weavings,
precolumbian jugs & rugs

chromosomes at play:
highly neural (but unneurotic)
& erotic in a subliminal way –
none of that egocentric intellectualism
one finds in much of modern art –
do you know why this is so?

she said:
well, i was born in holland but
when i was 3 months old we moved
to curacao – i remember vividly
playing in the sea! later i shifted 
to the desert & recently i experienced
the malaysian jungle – i like 

i said:
do you mind being called a planetary
rainbow warrior dreamtime  goddess?

she laughed
with childlike innocence
& the wisdom of the ancients


kit leee
(antares maitreya)

magick river
kuala kubu bharu
july 1994


Sunday, September 25, 2022

NO TURNING BACK! [revisited]

As we ease into 2009 following upon BN's spectacular loss of its two-thirds parliamentary majority in March 2008, many of us are resigned to an uphill stretch ahead - at least where economics and politics are concerned. Looking back over the decades, I realize I have been anticipating this exciting phase in our evolution for nearly forty years. I'm talking about the mass awakening that's occurring across the spectrum on this planet right now (aided by Pluto moving into Capricorn on 26 January 2008).

In two weeks all eyes will be on the Kuala Terengganu by-election. The outcome will provide a fair indication of whether we're moving forwards or backwards. A win for PAS will signal that the rakyat has truly had enough of being bamboozled by Umno/BN and is ready to venture into unknown waters on a new political adventure called "participatory democracy."

On the other hand, a win for Umno will indicate that a large number of Malaysians are still driven by fear and greed... and that the long dark night of Umno-style "guided democracy" will linger on a while more before the New Dawn finally breaks, as it eventually must.

While some are already aligning themselves with the Najib Razak camp on the assumption that he will succeed Badawi as our next PM (shudder), others are praying for a miracle - a spontaneous lifting of the curse of misguided pragmatism passed down through countless generations. What we're looking at isn't just the ill effects of 51 years of BN misrule. The problems go much farther back in time...

Somebody left a book in my van a few months ago. I stuck it in the glove compartment and immediately forgot about it... until last week when I spotted it just as I was about to drive to Tanjong Malim and catch a bus to Ipoh. So I brought the book along to read on the journey. It was an illustrated "People's history of Malaya" titled Where Monsoons Meet - published in 1987 by the Institute of Social Analysis (INSAN). A socialist primer aimed at secondary students, the comic-style book was designed for easy reading and I finished it in less than an hour - but it had significant impact.

Looking at our recent history from a non-elitist perspective reminded me how thoroughly brainwashed my parents' generation was. I recall that my mother and father thought very highly of the Brits. In the early 1950s goods produced in Hong Kong still carried the imprint "Empire Made" even though the sun was swiftly setting on the British Empire. Where Monsoons Meet effectively demolishes all notions of a benign imperialism. The colonizers emerge smelling quite foul.

The "Independence" we were granted in August 1957 was but in name. Before leaving Malaya the Brits had rigged the system so that it would always favor the capitalist elite comprising the Malay aristocracy and a handful of Chinese entrepreneurs. When the rakyat began to demand better working conditions and more rights, they were brutally suppressed through heavy-handed police action. The Communist bogeyman justified the introduction of a slew of repressive laws. The truth of the matter was: Malaya was a fat milk cow sustaining the Anglo-American economy and they couldn't afford to lose control of the country's rich natural resources.

In short, British rule wasn't quite as halcyon as it may appear to the present generation of middle-class non-Malays. Every dirty trick in the book of governance as practised by Umno was learnt during the ruling class Malays' long apprenticeship with the British Colonial administration.

In the time of the British, indentured laborers imported from India were paid 12 cents a day for their back-breaking work in the rubber estates and on the railway tracks. Even if the local currency in prewar days was worth two hundred times more than it is today, these debt slaves only received the equivalent of RM20 a day. They had to dismount from their bicycles and tabik (salute) whenever a White Tuan crossed their path. The ones who spoke a smattering of English were made mandors and were given the authority to horsewhip insubordinate workers. Rebellion against injustice in the form of trade unionism was roughly and swiftly dealt with. The word "rakyat" was as little tolerated as the word "Communist."

In May 1969 the coup d'etat masterminded by Abdul Razak Hussein (right), Harun Idris, Syed Jaafar Albar, Mahathir Mohamad, Ghazali Shafie and a few other young Turks in Umno resulted in a new breed of educated middle-class Malays wresting a measure of power from the traditional aristocracy. In doing so, they also adopted the self-aggrandizing tendencies of the hereditary elite, hence their fondness for unwieldy honorifics and exclusive "VVIP" treatment.

Forty years down the line (in 2009), we are poised on the brink of another major coup - this time involving the overthrow of a diseased and dysfunctional feudalistic concept of leadership, in favor of a more decentralized, more democratic, more egalitarian, more accountable, more interactive form of management. And we intend to accomplish this feat bloodlessly and through entirely legal procedures.

What is called for at this juncture is optimum clarity of focus and supreme resoluteness. We the people cannot waver for a moment in our desire to shake off the yoke of tyranny and reclaim our civil rights and individual authority as free citizens of a free country. Each of us now has a sacred duty to embody all the qualities we cherish - courage, honesty, compassion, integrity, wisdom, and the ability to love more and more inclusively.

We can endorse and lend our wholehearted support to leaders whose visions align with our own - but we must never become entirely dependent on them. Otherwise we will only experience disappointment and disillusionment when these leaders reveal themselves to be just as fallible as anyone else. No use pointing fingers, scapegoating and foisting the blame for failure on others.

We are the redemption and salvation we have yearned for throughout the ages.

Happy Regime Change, folks! It can still happen, and sooner than you think... believe in miracles!

[Originally posted 2 January 2009, reposted 25 September 2009]

Monday, September 5, 2022

A Doubly Orgasmic Full Moon Equinox (reprise)

Self-produced artifacts are a big turn-on for me. As a kid I enjoyed making my own greeting cards. My most memorable effort was when I doodled a Jesus figure on toilet paper and used it as a negative to print a stack of postcards that read: "Peace on Earth. Goodwill towards Me." Wonder if anyone still has one of those original prints, circa 1970...

On 22 September 2010, I picked up the 2nd Coming CDs from Videoria on Jalan Tiong (near KLPAC). Jess Ho, the feisty manager, can be trusted to do a good job - and she's a lovely woman with a great sense of humor too.

Anyway, now that the CDs are ready to ship, I'd like to express my gratitude to Sharon Chin, who stayed up nights to design the album cover and label, using graphic elements and text I provided. Although I'm still mystified by her decision to change the font on the cover, I'm extremely pleased with the overall feel of her design and layout. I got a stiffy just looking at the gorgeous label she created for the CD, adding color and vibrancy to my personal logo.

I particularly love how Sharon created a mirror image of the exquisite rainbow I photographed from my front garden. Very intuitive and intelligent designer with impeccable taste. I knew she would add a touch of class to the final product and inject just the right amount of feminine essence.

"Priapus, a greek fertility god with a permanent erection." That's how Sharon captioned the above image. It takes a true artist to appreciate mythic resonances - and few artists are truer than Sharon Chin, who manages an art portal called Arteri and writes on the visual arts for Off The Edge. Sharon says: "In addition to being a high-falutin' artist, patriot and woo-er of pale young writers, I also moonlight as a graphic designer for people/projects I love."

Instead of the grim-looking mugshot I gave Sharon, she opted for this antiquated doodle which appeared in the original cassette inlay when the album was released in 1986. What does it represent? Well, the rabble-rouser with a wagging black tongue was used to illustrate "Terminal Hierophantiasis" - so my low opinion of the Amen priesthood remains unchanged.

Sharon Chin embraces the Earth. And the Universe embraces her right back. Read this insightful interview with a young artist who successfully blends intellect with intuition.
2nd Coming is now listenable &/or downloadable (for a small fee)!

[First posted 23 September 2010. Reposted 3 September 2020] 

Friday, September 2, 2022

Is there a way out of this labyrinthine nightmare? (reprise)


In this morning's dream I found myself wandering through a back-alley busy with hawker stalls & as I strolled past a mamak tea-stall, someone called my name. It was my Singapore friend Farah Ong, an actor & drama teacher. As we were catching up, her friends came up to say hello. They were all out-of-work actors, dancers, stage crews, producers, writers, directors, devastated by the abrupt cancellation of a production they had worked really hard on for months before the scamdemic was unleashed upon an unsuspecting world. 

It was heart-wrenching, to say the least, to see the distress of these delightfully charming, talented & exuberant spirits, forced into despondency & despair by a Globalist Agenda none of them had any clue about. Some had invested their life-savings in creating beautiful performance spaces they could call home & then the phantom menace codenamed "Covid" had mercilessly crushed their dreams. Now all they could attempt were virtual performances...

Well, they had been so focused on honing their performance skills, driven by ego ambitions & dreams of fame (if not fortune) & had in the process become so totally entangled in their personal identities (as arty-farty eccentrics, queers, misfits, pundits & pontificators) they had all missed seeing the forest for the trees. Indeed, many had completely forgotten that artists are, in fact, magicians, wizards, visionaries, oracles, shamans & prophets whose primary function is to serve as the Oversoul of the Community, as inspirational guides & wayshowers.

In their eagerness for things to "return to normal" - for the show to go on again, for auditoriums & theaters & borders to reopen, they had succumbed to the lure of dark sorcerers posing as medical experts & health officials & they had signed up for the dangerous & deadly experimental jabs (sincerely believing that in so doing they were actually "saving lives"). 

But in so doing they had cast their vote for the perpetuation of massive deceit through cunning manipulation of collective perceptions, for the manifestation of the Brave New Normal. They had effectively surrendered to Sauronic/Ahrimanic forces hell-bent on confiscating every last vestige of free will & individual sovereignty that is the absolute birthright of every ensouled human & adopted the cynical slogan of The Great Reset - "Build Back Better" (But For Whom)?

And now, no longer capable of acknowledging their own gut feelings, trusting their animal instincts, having opted to "trust the science," they would henceforth reject any unfiltered truth shown to them as being too painful to accept & embrace. Their work as intermediaries between the Seen & Unseen Realms, as community therapists & educators of future generations - once utterly essential to the long-term health & well-being of the species - would henceforth be officially classified "non-essential."

Is there a way out of this labyrinthine nightmare that does not end in our destinies being ruthlessly ripped apart & devoured by the minotaur?

Well, for a start, stop calling me a "conspiracy theorist." The day is upon us when the only source of undistorted truth will be from the ones you now dismiss as tinfoil-hatters, the ones with no vested interest in maintaining a corrupt & perverse status quo, whose incomes & public image do not depend on subscribing to an official narrative.

If you can get beyond your limited ego for a moment & listen carefully to this simple message, it might not be too late to wriggle free of the Archontic snare:

1) Evil can be defined as the compulsion to wield ever increasing power over others. To this end some quarters have invested heavily on ways to hold the world ransom through monstrous weaponry - whether nuclear, weather control or manufactured disease (whoever dropped 2 atomic bombs on Nagasaki & Hiroshima was only interested to observe & document the short- & long-term effects of radiation on humans, it wasn't to end the war; HIV/AIDS was concocted in a biowarfare lab as an ethnospecific virus that got out of control & in the 1980s Anthony Fauci frittered away $15 billion pretending to combat AIDS & since then has reportedly squandered $191 billion on weaponizing viruses; countless billions have been poured into cancer research even as carcinogenic chemicals were sneaked into processed foods). 

In effect, you & I may be incapable of even imagining such evil, but you had better accept that a teeny-weeny minority are & they just happen to control almost all the money in the world. Let's loosely call them the New World Order Cabal. Yes, they control us via religion, academia, news media & entertainment, big tech, big pharma, big agri & they sponsor covert agencies & the military (at least until very recently).

2) The PCR Test used to ascertain whether people are Covid positive or negative is completely bunkum - indeed, an outrageous racket in itself, along with all the Covid paraphernalia (hand sanitizers, masks, gloves, PPE gear, ventilators). Used in conjunction with fake statistics published by complicit & unquestioning media, it has effectively created a phantom menace labelled "Covid-19" (based on a GMO coronavirus deliberately unleashed on us as an excuse for the WHO to declare "a global pandemic" which, in turn, was used to implement harsh quarantines, lockdowns, shutdowns, the mask mandate, etc).

3) The CDC recently announced, very quietly & unapologetically, that in the US, less than 6% of fatalities recorded as Covid-related were actual Covid deaths. The other 94% were, in fact, due to a variety of other causes, many as a direct result of inappropriate hospital procedures, adding to acute fear & psychological trauma.

4) The media has relentlessly promoted anxiety & panic by publishing daily Covid cases (those who tested "positive" with a bogus PCR Test) & listing Covid deaths (even those with severe comorbidities). Not once have they published fatality statistics for other causes of death (accidents, heart attacks, strokes, cancer, etc) nor have they counterbalanced their reportage with the number of births. In effect, reporting only Departures without noting Arrivals creates an oppressive sense of doom & gloom. They have also suppressed statistics, if any, on the alarming increase of mental health problems & suicides, mostly due to financial distress.

5) The moment you realize what is actually happening & cease to subscribe to the orchestrated fear campaign, you will also stop trusting all governmental authority hiding behind medical & pseudoscientific chicanery. When so much money is involved, people can be bought & bribed & intimidated into silence. Globalist agencies like the UN & the WHO have an occult agenda behind their glossy public relations facades. They were set up by oligarchs to implement their megalomaniacal dreams of Total Control over the entire planet. Along with this realization comes the eureka moment when you begin to experience your Core Self as a Conscious Fractal of The Whole, with direct access to the Supreme Being (or Source) & that you are beholden to nobody & nothing - no monarch, no pope, no president, no panjandrum with a long string of titles, not even your childhood notion of God or Allah or Jesus Christ or the entire Hindu or Nordic or Greek Pantheon. Not only that, you will begin to laugh uncontrollably when you remember that you have always existed & shall forever exist as an Immortal & Indestructible Consciousness, free to take on physical embodiment in any form you choose, for however long you like & wherever you wish. 

So it's perfectly fine to take off that stupid mask already & stop complying with utterly absurd SOPs issued by pathological liars & hypocrites or worse! Reclaim your dignity, your sovereignty, your sacred destiny & your perfect freedom... NOW!

P.S. I strongly feel that in the very near future, those who wish to neutralize the ill effects of the toxic jabs they have foolishly taken into their beautiful bodies will be able to do so through a variety of healing modalities that are beginning to become accessible - though at this stage they cost a fair bit, it's true. I refer specifically to vibrational therapies patented variously as Antantra or Healy or Bioscalar Photonic Fusion Quantum Healing Systems (there are so many more I have yet to even hear about) which, to be expected, have faced vigorous opposition from a Medical Inquisition founded entirely on Allopathy & surreptitiously funded by Rockefeller $$$.

[First posted 5 July 2021]

Tuesday, August 23, 2022

All Quiet on the Domestic Front... (updated & revalidated)

I write this on the last day of 2010 and all is quiet on the domestic front...

Too quiet, in fact. Without Roger Putra to grace our scenic veranda and to amuse all and sundry with his galloping cute bum whenever he runs ahead (as he must) to the river for his daily dip and photo ops on the rocks.

Roger's wholly unnecessary and meaningless murder at the hands of a demented Orang Asli on 14 December 2010 has soured what has otherwise been an entirely sweet year for me.

For the nation and for the planet as a whole, whether 2010 has been sweet or sour - or a bit of both - depends on what constitutes your sources of information. If you subscribe to the mainstream news media and watch a lot of TV, then it has been a generally chaotic and frustrating year, with rogue regimes stubbornly (often violently) clinging on to power while natural (and unnatural) disasters continue to inflict massive hardship and suffering on the disenfranchised and the destitute.

However, if you've been listening to your heart more than to your head, you might have sensed that humanity is waking up very swiftly and spontaneously.

You might also have noticed that there are vast numbers of amazing children incarnate on the planet right now - some already in their teens, others still toddlers - but all of them represent a new octave of evolution for the human species.

These rainbow starchildren (some might label them Indigo Crystals) arrived fully conscious with minimal karmic or neurotic impediments. Just look into their eyes and you will recognize them as Master Souls - entities from celestial realms who have volunteered to be physically incarnate at this crucial juncture of the planet's evolutionary process.

I met a large number of Indigo Crystals recently at a special gathering in Bali. The youngest, Eilidh (above, right), was only 10 months old. From the moment I laid eyes on her (she was playing in the hotel pool with her mother Elspeth) she focused directly at my energy field and her face broke out in a beatific smile. On the last day of the gathering of healers, shamen, wizards, magicians and starseeds, Eilidh's dad Anthony had her on his shoulder while he walked slowly around the grand ballroom. I noticed that Eilidh made eye contact with every single one of the individuals present - all 115 of them. I felt blessed to be in the same space - indeed, on the same planet - as her.

And then there were Akyuna (16) and Elena (24) who seemed to have arrived on earth riding the same beam of love from beyond the stars. Although Elena got here 8 years ahead of Akyuna, when they gaze lovingly into each other's eyes, they are both completely ageless - just a radiant unified field of divine love. With Akyuna and Elena I never really had to communicate verbally. Every time we bumped into one another, a tender hug was the only currency we traded in - and ear-to-ear grins that spoke volumes about the pure joy bursting from our hearts. Although Akyuna lives in Hawaii and speaks only English and star language - and Elena lives in Moscow and speaks Russian, English and the language of the heart - they communicate regularly via facebook, and all who love these luminous starchildren rejoice in their earthly reunion.

What about Tonatiuh and Taisia? He was born in Mexico, went to Germany for further studies and that's where he met his future bride, the exquisite Russian-born Taisia. The sacred union of North and South, Latin and Slavic royal bloodlines. In Peru at the second part of the 8th Gate Activation in 2009, Tonatiuh and Taisia awakened to the fantastic truth of their earthly incarnations as embodiments of the White Dragons - noble beings of magical and primordial wisdom that have not inhabited these dense realms for aeons.

I returned from Bali to the ecstatic embrace of a starry princess named Nannan (a true Indigo Crystal) who chose to incarnate in China, so she could embody the deep and ancient memories of a hardy and resourceful land that has seen heavenly glory and known the darkest despair, deprivation and sorrow. Her spirit so bold and fearless - yet as merciful as the compassionate goddess Kwanyin and wise as only a rider of dragons can be. Our reunion triggered long-buried echoes of memories from beyond the veil of forgetfulness, stretching across many lifetimes. To recognize and to be recognized is indeed the epitome of true love!

Beyond any doubt, I feel powerfully connected to an ever expanding network of incarnate souls representing all the Primordial Creator lineages - beings that originate from archangelic and angelic realms, volunteers from exotic star systems and wizardly technicians from all points in time and a staggering profusion of probable realities and parallel universes...

They are already here on Earth, in beautiful human embodiment, eating and chatting and laughing and making love with other awakened and awakening humans. Their radiant energy fields are luminescent and vibrant fields of limitless love and unbounded intelligence, transcending the 3-dimensional confines of the Matrix and immune to the primitive, fear-based, scarcity-conditioning and mind-control mechanisms installed in the early versions of Homo sapiens by the Anunnaki and other spiritually immature ET factions.

Each one of us is in the process of integrating our celestial and terrestrial neural circuitry and emerging as authentic masters, like a hundred million Krishnas, Buddhas, Padmasambhavas, Muhammads and Christs that have managed to sneak past the border guards right into the heart of the Occupied Zone. The Revolution we are fomenting is essentially a mental and spiritual one, without recourse to violence.

The Agent Smiths of the New World Order cabal and the evil priesthood of the ancient vampire bloodlines will, as to be expected, lash out in panic, thinking they can quell any large-scale rebellion through the force majeure of the police state at home and their military might abroad.

When physical violence erupts, as it occasionally will, physical bodies get damaged, even destroyed. As far as possible, we shall be extremely cautious when negotiating these dangerous political reefs - but none of us, in the ultimate sense, fears death or incarceration, if only because we have all been through this sort of low-grade scenario time and again. Yes, some of us remember the Inquisition vividly; some of us still bear the emotional scars of a dozen massacres and bloody wars. We have navigated labyrinths and resurrected ourselves from fictitious crucifixions countless times. We're veteran Jedis of numerous Star Wars.

We are fighting this war of enlightenment to liberate the human spirit from the fetters of deadly dogma and dull doctrine; from Neo-Darwinian notions and Malthusian misconceptions that have resulted in grotesquely iniquitous and unbalanced distribution of the planet's majestic abundance. We will not bow or cower before deformities dressed in the robes of earthly power, usurpers of and pretenders to the throne of heaven on earth. All the puffed-up honorifics and titles they bestow upon themselves will not protect them from our scrutiny and our scorn.

They believe they can cork the leak by arresting and harassing a cyber-revolutionary like Julian Assange. But can they cope with ten million Assange clones in Guy Fawkes masks?

Sooner rather than later their own children will recoil in horror at the stupid cruelty of what their parents and grandparents have done to the planet and all her lifeforms - and the psychosis they conceal behind their botoxed fa├žades of respectability. And these children will open up the fortesses and palaces from within to let in some desperately needed fresh air and some pure new blood to renew the view from Pisgah and restore the divine blueprint of heaven on earth.


[First posted 31 December 2010, reposted 1 December 2019]

Friday, August 19, 2022

APOCALYPSE… OR EPIPHANY? (revisited & updated)

Lotus flowers blossom in the Khao Sam Roi Yot national park 
in southern Thailand (AFP/Roberto Schmidt)
Musings at the edge of eternity

The World of Appearances moves visibly towards a series of possible Apocalypses. Now as never before, I am doing all I can to maintain a clear focus on my innervision of heaven on earth – which does NOT include the triumph of Big Brotherism in some dystopic New World Order Fourth Reich!

With Galactic Alignment come and gone (refer, if you like, to John Major Jenkins’s Maya Cosmogenesis 2012 for the mind-boggling details), massive shifts in consciousness and spiritual maturity have brought about a rapid meltdown of dysfunctional institutions and societal conventions. All that is mechanical and regimented will swiftly and abruptly run out of political charge. The “princes and principalities” (or Archon-infested golems in suits) won’t surrender without a desperate fight, in the vain hope that they can at least drag everyone else down to “hell” with them.

However, Mother Earth (Gaia-Sophia) herself will no longer support their parasitic and piratic misbehavior as she attains to full awakening. Those governed by fear and greed and trapped in egocentric skepticism will be subject to their own Twilight-of-the-Gods scenario – despite all efforts to help them experience a paradigm shift. The rest of us will bear witness as self-governing sovereign entities to the birth of a New Octave of Consciousness wherein beauty and truth will replace money and military might as focal points of endeavor. (All this is unlikely to happen right after 2012, but the preceding years will prove to be pivotal era in which each incarnate soul will consciously cross a threshold, towards true individual freedom or deeper enslavement in the Matrix.)

But what happens to all the encrusted egos hellbent on keeping the Duality Scam going? The Fear Merchants, trading in terror and scarcity conditioning, clinging tenaciously to ancestral privilege or ruthless ambition - are they a nightmarish mass delusion that’s absolutely no concern of mine?

I can see bits of myself embedded in these primitive programs going by descriptions like "Neo-Darwinism." Survival of the Fittest, indeed. How is “fit” defined? The ones gifted at making money, or the ones with universal empathy? Is it possible to accumulate wealth as measured by consensus – and still feel a tender compassion for all life?

The way I see it: since I already feel oceanic ripples of deep affection for All That Is, I need only gain access to unlimited wealth to be in a position to answer that question truthfully. It’s easy to dismiss money as a spurious concoction of the banking fraternity, but so long as it’s in use, I’d love to have a huge pile fall in my lap. I could get the entire contents of my rusty filing cabinet published, release some sonic dreamscapes I recorded some 30 years ago, fund radical social and artistic projects, visit friends all over the planet, lounge around on a Thai island for weeks, help a few fellow humans who happen to require a reboot, and so on.

How about The Vision? Well, it’s all part of it. My definition of heaven: infinite possibilities (where merely knowing that every desire can be fulfilled is enough). Hell, of course, is utter impossibility (where the woman who excites me most begrudges even a smile).

Do I envisage a Vegetarian Future?

It’s not what we do, it’s how we do it that changes the essential equations. Having lived among hunter-gatherers who generally prefer to get their protein by fishing and snaring wild game, and who are content to subsist on tapioca leaves and dried anchovies the rest of the time, I’d be glad to see an end to commercial exploitation of the animal and vegetable kingdoms. It’s not meat-eating, per se, that constitutes a problem – it’s industrial farming methods that treat other lifeforms as mere commodities to be processed and sold which greatly saddens my soul.

Times when my atoms were oscillating at close to light speed, I have been able to sustain myself for days on prana and photons – which is why I’m sympathetic to breatharians, though I lack the ascetic impulse to wilfully embark on such a course. I eat to live as a matter of habit, and I bless and enjoy whatever’s on my plate. Food is NOT the issue. Famine is invariably the unhappy result of ecocidal human activities driven by scarcity conditioning. The fact that “developed” countries have problems with anorexia AND obesity reflects a deep spiritual imbalance.

Speaking of food, I recently received an internet joke with a timely teaching. It’s called “God’s Test”:

God put the angels and the devils to a test. He set up a huge banquet hall with a wonderful feast. First He invited the devils to the feast. They were delighted until they found out that they couldn't bend their arms at the elbows! How were they to eat all the delicious food when their hands wouldn't go to their mouths? They tried eating off the plate, which was messy and undignified. They tried throwing the food in the air and catching it in their mouths. Nothing worked very well. After 15 minutes of this mayhem, God told them that time was up. They trooped out cursing Him.

Next, He invited the angels into the hall. A fresh feast was laid out, and the same thing happened - they couldn't bend their arms at the elbows. The angels all looked at each other and burst out laughing. "What a great game!" they said as they fed each other.

If you happen to be an atheist - don’t worry, so is God. In 2022 I’ve decided to revert to my original name. From now on, don’t call me Antares – “God” will do nicely. Heh heh, just kidding, folks. I've had enough problems trying to get old friends to call me Antares... or cash cheques (back in the analog days) with three E's in my former surname Leee.

© Antares Maitreya, written in January 2003 (updated October 2005, August 2018 & August 2022). First posted 2 December 2006, reposted 30 August 2018.

Sunday, July 24, 2022

Horace Tan’s Horrible Skin Condition (& how Mrs Tan cured it) ~ a bizarre short story by Antares

This story began its life in 1967 as a high school creative writing assignment. It was originally titled Herbert von Schenke’s Rare & Disconcerting Problem – And How Dutiful Delilah Solved It. I dusted it off in 1987 and fleshed it out for a short-story writing competition. It was awarded a consolation prize. I subsequently sold it to Men’s Review, a trendy monthly magazine, in 1995, along with a couple of new illustrations. And now, here it is again in its latest incarnation as a blogpost (first uploaded 26 May 2007), which only goes to show that there's a future in recycling one’s past...

HUMMING WITH above-average self-confidence, Mr Horace H.L. Tan would flounce down the street each day, despite his rare and disconcerting Skin Condition.

And an uncommonly horrible problem his was at that: poor Mr Tan was burdened at birth with the distressing misfortune of Loose Skin.

When Horace was but a day old everyone had tried to dismiss the issue with humor, saying how charmingly like a plump little prune he looked. The doctors had conducted a series of expensive tests and, after serious conference, had diagnosed the child’s condition as “a most unusual case of acutely uncoordinated cuticular cellulation.”

“Probably a passing phase,” the doctors had declared in reassuring unison, fondly tickling the gurgling bundle of joyful wrinkles that glistened in its cot.

“Don’t worry, dear, he’ll grow into it,” Horace’s father had said, with sensible optimism.

“’Tis God’s Will,” Horace’s mother had responded, carefully powdering her infant and arranging his skin in neat folds, with stoic affection.

As to be expected, young Horace encountered traumatic difficulties in trying to gain the acceptance of society. At school the other children mercilessly mocked his pleated skin: “Jellyfish, smellyfish,” they chanted, “just go away, that’s all we wish!”

Before long Horace had acquired an aura of grand isolation arising from his dermatological uniqueness. Some called it freakishness, but never to his face, for his features had by now become very much enshrouded in the spotty skin of adolescence. Nobody could think of anything meaningful to say to him, and he remained enveloped within himself. For Horace Tan it was one of life’s poignant ironies that he should suffer a total deprivation of the sense of kinship, while enjoying a superabundance of skin.

But he comforted himself by recalling his father’s last words: “A great man, Horace my boy, must have the courage to be different. The ugliest insults to one’s dignity are, at their worst, only skin-deep.” At one time Horace Tan’s father had been the owner of a famous reptile farm (featured on all the tourist maps).

After her husband’s death, Horace Tan’s mother had sold the business and established a trust fund for her only son. She somehow knew her own days were numbered.

Solace also came to Horace in the sweet, unselfish person of Philomena P’ng, a quiet girl from the local orphanage who had been engaged as his handmaid and cosmetician. Not having really had a proper upbringing she had been spared the normal quota of prejudices that children inevitably absorb from their parents.

Now, Horace’s extraordinary hide had attained new dimensions in horniness ever since puberty – for his prodigious dermal development was accompanied by no significant loss of tactile sensitivity. Perhaps in defiance of his own physical shortcomings, he had perversely cultivated a keen interest in feminine pulchritude (which would later prove valuable in his professional life).

For the present, Horace had to make do with Philomena P’ng’s services. No doubt she struck Horace as a morsel too bland for his exotic taste, but she did seem to care for him above and beyond the call of her domestic and cosmetic duties. In fact, after the death of his parents, Horace’s only companion was Philomena – and hers the only other human skin he had touched.

At nineteen-and-a-half Horace Tan stopped growing. But not his skin. It was now at least three sizes too large for him. (To get a more graphic idea of how Horace looked at this stage, slip an old condom over your index finger and wiggle it.) However, to a sympathetic eye, Horace did not appear at all repulsive – thanks to Philomena’s conscientious and tender ministrations which kept his overall complexion clear and healthy. A ridiculous proportion of their monthly expenses, however, went towards imported skin care products.

Since his strange affliction precluded active participation in sports and other social games, Horace had naturally turned to books. (He rarely watched television, complaining that he found the “superficiality and false glamor of TV-land “ in poor taste.) During this period he chanced upon Frank Herbert’s Dune stories which profoundly altered his self-image: Horace was drawn irresistibly into a quasi-mystical identification with the Hero - whose horrendous transmogrification into a hideous heap of omniscient protoplasm earns him the status of Emperor God. The silent contempt Horace felt towards the human hordes that pride themselves on Normalcy became even more pronounced.

FOR A FEW best-forgotten years, Horace Tan supplemented his dwindling trust fund income by submitting his Skin Condition to public exhibition. He was billed as “The Incredible Human Fungus.” It was disgusting and demeaning, true, but on weekends the takings were appreciable. Philomena set up a tea stall outside. Soon, a multi-cultural element (consisting of two giggly Thai women wrestling in French salad dressing) was incorporated into Horace’s Human Fungus routine. While Philomena diverted curious policemen with her excellent tea and delicious margarine rolls, Horace livened up his act with a series of other ingeniously flamboyant titillations. “Fun on Fungus” evolved into a fantastic money-spinner, and Horace H.L. Tan was well on his way to true-blue entrepreneurship. “They want skin… I sell them SKIN!” became his private credo.

And with that Horace Tan married Philomena P’ng, bought her a gleaming new chain of fast-food outlets, and installed himself as the Invisible Godfather of a proliferous network of adult video agencies. It was the perfect climate for purveyors of preserved prurience: hot, humid and hypocritical.

Working behind the scenes with transcendental vulgarity, Horace swiftly established a vast and venal empire of ‘musical’ coffeehouses, ‘massage’ salons and ‘sex-clusive’ health clubs. Meanwhile, video vice was doing very well, thank you, with the staunch support of the nation’s puritan aunts and uncles: the more they raved, the more they rented (this was before the advent of the internet made rented videos obsolete). When the Official Outcry Over Obscenity and Hedonism (OOOOH) reached a premature climax of impassioned publicity resulting in Nocturnal Omissions by the Blind Forces of Moral Erectitude (ref. Raids & Seizures Act, Amendment V, 1969), Horace gently pulled out of pornography and plunged into other, more personally gratifying pursuits.

He took up a correspondence course in Amateur Dermatology and soon was acknowledged as the World’s Foremost Authority on the tragic case history of John Merrick (the original Elephant Man). Inspired by one of Alan Sherman’s doggerel ditties (“You gotta have skin/All you ever really need is skin…”), Horace next tried underwriting and producing a musical extravaganza (predictably called Skin). The critics dismissed the whole show as “a flabby and shabby flop” but its lyrical content, though accused of “unrestrained idiosyncrasy and self-vindication,” was occasionally brilliant:

Skin is a most precious commodity
Especially when it stretches to Infinity;
Although a few fools think me an oddity,
My ego-encompassing epidermal packaging
Gives me a great sense of Divinity!

Skin, luxurious skin:
Oo, it’s the nicest stuff to be in!
Come rain or shine it won’t fade with time;
Yes! skin is a substance sublime.

Skin, my glorious skin:
Where do you end, where do I begin?
Who cares! just send up an endless supply
Of skin…

But most of all Horace cherished his regular afternoon jaunts. When the sun warmed him like a chappati and the breeze billowed his cheeks like a Sultan’s birthday banners, he would pause and tuck the freehanging ends of his knobby kneeskin into his superstretched socks (so as not to trip and embarrass himself). And he would think fondly of faithful Philomena: so passionate, so patient, so practical, so resilient and resourceful. And his entire skin would quiver with a peculiar pleasure.

Having thus worked up a voluminous appetite Horace would hurry over (the best he could) to his wife’s nearest outlet, where he would drowse behind the giant microwave ovens and wait for the last patron to leave, before doing hungry justice to the day’s remnants of frankfurters, French fries and fruit pies.

And yet, Horace Tan’s marital, epidermal and gastronomical contentment was clouded by the horrid certainty that the rate of his Gross Dermal Product was obviously and undeniably proportional to his age. In other words, Mr Tan’s horrible Skin Condition was STILL getting worse (notwithstanding his remarkable psychological triumph over the cruel bathos of Fate).

"Each day the dutiful Mrs Tan would scrape off the waxy waste with a scoop and sell it by the tub to an orchid fertilizer factory."

BEFORE HE REACHED 44 the unfortunate Mr Horace Tan had become quite incapable of carrying out the simplest tasks of daily living. His devoted wife soon had to administer liquid food to him through a veterinary hypodermic (it was impossible to locate his mouth); walk him in a heavy-duty motorized wheelbarrow (his feet were hard to find); read, or rather, shout the morning and afternoon papers to him (his eyes had for years been buried beneath pachydermoid lids and he hardly had ears to speak of or into); scratch him whenever he had an itch (and he had more than a few); and hose him down thrice a day (to reduce his profuse transpiration).

Almost all his natural bodily functions had undergone a bizarre mutation. He no longer had to “go to the toilet.” Instead he exuded, at regular intervals, a resinous effluent which, although slightly unpleasant in odor, was wonderfully conducive to plant growth. Each day the dutiful Mrs Tan would scrape off the waxy waste with a scoop and sell it by the tub to an orchid fertilizer factory. Then she would turn on the electric shower system in the ceiling and spray her husband with Dettol, followed by Odorono. At night she had to tape his facial folds to the wall to prevent his suffocating in his sleep as he lay helpless on his foam-rubber floor like a retired Portuguese man-of-war. It was a truly unhappy existence, even for such a positive-thinking pair.

Despite his Herculean struggles with dermal density, heroic Horace never forgot each night to whisper hoarsely, albeit inaudibly, to his wife: “Hey, Sugar-Melon… stick around. I… I’ll show you a good time yet!” (Alas, a rarely fulfilled promise.)

Philomena Tan, with phenomenal determination and without prejudice, divided her time equally between running her fast-food chain and attending to her poor husband’s saprophytic existence. But as each day dragged saggingly by with no miracle in sight, and even the subcutaneous sound of Horace’s voice receded beyond the effective range of the electronic bugs implanted within his remote recesses, Philomena began to admit that things looked grave.

The last time she heard him speak was through a medium. He sounded deeply regretful to have imposed such a massive burden on her, and begged her over and over again to put him out of his monstrous misery. She had replied (through the medium): “But, Horace! After all we’ve been through, how can I get rid of you?” (“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” Horace had quipped via the medium. At least he still had his sense of humor.)

What with the bourgeoisie rabidly bourgeoning and its insatiable demand for junk food, Mrs Tan was kept too busy to indulge in self-pity. Not till the weekend did she find time to ponder a possible cure for her husband’s horrible Skin Condition. Every known medical approach had been attempted to no avail: Allopathic, Ayurvedic, Homeopathic, Dianetic, even Acupuncture, Ch’i Qong, Hypnotism, Mind Control, Reiki, Aloe Vera, Aromatherapy, Aurasoma, Past Life Regression, Royal Jelly, Lourdes Water, Mystic Ash, Prayer and Tiger Balm.

Then she remembered having seen, among some ancient books collecting dust in the basement, a frayed edition of Dr J.S. Petit’s quaint classic, 101 Ways To Cure Skin (published in 1903). The book had probably belonged to Horace’s paternal grandfather. In a thrice Philomena was rummaging through the musty accumulations of three generations of Tans until, at last, she retrieved the slim volume. Hands trembling, she began her desperate research, struggling over Dr Petit’s worm-eaten archaisms.

The following week, having secured “a good supply of tannin and gambier,” she mixed the recommended ingredients into a concentrated solution and added this regularly to her spongoid spouse’s nutrient injections. There was no way of knowing if the treatment would work. Now that hope and faith seemed useless, only luck remained.

One evening some weeks later she arrived with her husband’s food syringe to find his discolored and deflated blimp-like bulk even more devoid of human semblance than usual. Missing were the familiar rumbling undulations of inexpressible yearning that preceded every meal. “Horace!” she cried distractedly. “Horace, wake up! Your dinner’s getting cold!”

There was no response. Not a single heave, nor the subtlest quiver. “HORACE??” She began poking all over the unmoving mammoth mound of flaccid cuticle, looking for traces of her erstwhile matrimonial partner, but found absolutely nothing: nothing vaguely suggesting an arm or a leg or a protuberance of any description. Horace H.L. Tan had apparently dissolved into the labyrinthine folds of his own skin.

Perhaps for the first time in her life Philomena P’ng broke down and wept. But not for very long. Within a year, the phenomenal Philomena had gathered her resources and opened a classy boutique in Star Hill Plaza selling a chic selection of designer Belts, Boots, Handbags, Shoes, Wallets, Vests, Cigarette Cases, Pipe Pouches, Money Belts, and so on. The turnover was simply sensational. A massive promotional campaign was launched in Hong Kong, Taipeh, London, Paris, New York and Los Angeles, and exports began in earnest. Soon, the House of Horace could boast the rare distinction of being the “World Leader in Quality Leather.” Well, at least till the supply fizzled out… and, horror of horrors, it eventually did, poor Horace.

© Antares 1967, 1987, 1995, 2001, 2007, 2009, 2013, 2019 [Last reposted 6 November 2013, 20 August 2019 & 23 July 2020]