Book Category: Book Translations

Femina wonders if she was willing to exchange this life for another that she could not know. It is certainly not the solution to her problem. Even being ignorant of what this new existence would be, it is not the escape she was looking or longing for. To end this life makes only sense, if really all was ended, full stop, with nothing to follow, whatever it might be. Damn it, and damn it again! She is pushed and torn, feels like a tennis ball that is slammed from one side to the other, with no rest in between. She just flies from here to there, hardly touching ground.

Besides, Phil has not really expressed his views on the question of rebirth nor reincarnation. She obviously had been far too absorbed in her own reasoning so she neglected to ask for his. But she is particularly interested in his opinion now. Femina can only hope that the film will still contain something of that nature. However, then it was just for the sake of exploring an interesting subject, now she clutches on straws for help in all the turmoil of her emotions and thought.

As her dilemma continues not coming closer to any decision making, she notices fear creeping in. Fear of the future with no relief in sight. She fears to live with illness, and now she fears another existence could be worse. It would indeed be simpler to believe in heaven and hell! Being your own master has a horrible downside, because nothing, except one’s own little self can be controlled, – and that with effort, – if at all after all. She has now doubt about that too.

Phil’s voice interrupts her thinking as the discussion on the screen continues. Who knows if it will bring the help she is after, but what other choices are there? The ice spitting her out, with nowhere to go and no future left; what else is there to do? So! Why not listening?

“May be a revision of old teachings is necessary, it is not really my concern. But, religions play a role in my considerations, be it Hinduism, Buddhism, tribal beliefs or any other. They don’t exclude, rather complement each other, and comparing them brings often surprising results. The problem with religion is not so much the content, but what man makes of it. That’s why I rather be called an atheist instead of being affiliated with any congregation.”

He takes a short breath, hesitating. “There is something that keeps me thinking”. Another breath, then he carries on: “It is the question of Beginning and End.”

Femina is puzzled, just as her on-screen persona seems to be. Why talking about Beginning and End, when there is only eternity anyway? Didn’t they just establish that?!

Phil waits, smiling, but as no protest is uttered despite apparent consternation he continues: “It is so difficult to imagine something with no beginning. I can see something without an end, but without beginning? Humans are only familiar with the concept of time, not eternity. Only time is rudimentary to us. We do not experience eternity, we live in time. Humans might perceive the universe as everlasting, but just as we are born, develop, and die, so does the universe. As it is on a larger scale of time, we get a glimpse of what eternity looks like or feels like. However! Science tells us that the cosmos started with the “Big Bang”, grows, – as we know it still goes on expanding, – and will one day end, – may be with a collapse, – scientists are not sure. Human life on that scale is no more than a fluke in time. Interestingly, the demise of the universe was and is envisioned by many prophecies, in all kinds of beliefs and cultures. Obviously they do not emphasize on an eternal universe either. Now! Evolution is action in time, a characteristic of existence, or “Being”. Eternity reaches beyond, or if you like, overarches it; Beginning and End are within it, but have in itself no importance. The constant is the Principle, because eternity is, it has no before and no thereafter. Time is linear, or on a line, eternity is circular, or on a circle. To put it simply: Evolution may simulate eternity due to its ongoing process that seems infinite. But, it has purpose, goals, and limitations, a timely order, is therefore not eternal or infinite. Interestingly, our DNA is a spiral. It has a resemblance to both, just to mention it as a concept of dimension. However, “Being a n d Nothing” i s eternal; but not “Being”; nor “Nothing”. IT oscillates, from one to the other, just like we breathe, in and out.”

“That is really interesting, what you just said and I totally agree, but I would have never thought of expressing it that way! I also like that part with the evolution. You can infer human evolution to be the small sibling of the universal evolution. I think you were implying that anyway, isn’t it?” She is wrapped. Still! She cannot understand why he is uncertain.

“So what are you concerned about, or why? That we cannot imagine some of the concepts? I agree. We want to know, not just believe, isn’t it? Actually, we want to comprehend, not just understand, right?” He nods and shrugs his shoulders.

“I know,” she says compassionately. “I feel the same way more often than not. But besides that, what you said was indeed already said, though may be not in such exemplary terms. I find the comparisons however not only interesting but also significant! Is that all what makes you hesitant?”

He takes a few deep breaths. “Indeed, it is human’s limited perspective that troubles me, because of its sinister consequences and implications.” He shakes his head as if he wanted to shake off all kinds of unpleasant thoughts, then continues:

“May be we come back to it later. Let us for now stay with the analogies in evolution. My issues are connected with it and interrelated anyway. But let me just point out how little emphasis I put on the human species! Humans play no extraordinary role as they always claim. Any organic life form has the potential to take that role. It just only happened in this cycle that a species called human developed special cognitive functioning that gave the race the tool to eventually gain dominance above all other life forms. With this development however comes the struggle with the mysterious. It goes hand in hand, naturally. Existence, and experiences thereof are not easily fathomed or explained. Hence, man’s ignorance of his or any life around him lead to religious and philosophical pondering. Initially more primitive, but more and more intricate and sophisticated as his intelligence evolved and his knowledge expanded; ranging from worshipping nature to the gods of the past to God of today. He discarded obsolete gods as he went along, and it is no surprise that the traditional religions nowadays struggle to keep their flock in line. By the way, the keepers of tradition never gave up their power without a fight, for very understandable though not excusable reasons, – just to mention it!”

He pauses. He seems to search his mind for something then continues thinking aloud while taking her along on this journey:

“Now, talking about intelligence, the intellect! We are talking about the mind and the mind’s capabilities. Mind seems to have little to do with matter. So let us replace ‘Being and Nothing’ with ‘Matter and Mind’. But note! Mind is not nothing, just as ‘Nothing’ is not nothing. Mind is just a fine substrate of matter, and ‘Nothing’ is just undefined, if you recall our previous discussion. The evolution of man shows us clearly that matter is capable of specialization in a very distinct manner: Having first the basis, the crude matter if you like, eventually refined substances and substrates emerge in their own right to allow the development of emotions and intelligence. A milestone is reached, marking the beginning of another evolution that is the evolution of the mind. It is a continuous process that fosters all progress. How refined substance can emerge, or is created, is not a miracle as one may think, it is rather bound to happen. For example, we speak of the ‘lifeless’ stone. But that is incorrect, because life being motion, we have in the stone motion with all the atoms moving all the time. That makes the stone alive from within. So, here we have a stone full of life because in it is a fine substrate that we just don’t see nor feel. And all matter consists of atoms! Now let us look at our head with the brain inside in which all the thought processes are running continuously. The head is just like the stone containing life. In this case the special life is emotion and thought.”

He smiles. “I hope, you understand that I do not degrade any of the sophisticated biochemical and bioelectrical workings of the highly specialized brain nor the achievements of our mind only because I compare it with a stone. But tell me, is a stone not as wonderful in its make up? I am all for miracles, because the whole creation is a wonder indeed!” He blinks at her amused and finalizes: “So! Mind may not be solid matter, but it is concrete; mind is and has substance. You cannot touch it, nor see it, that is why I allow myself to use it as an analogy to ‘Nothing’.”

She jumps in keenly: “Just give me a moment for m y thoughts! You say, mind and thoughts are not free of matter, meaning, they are not immaterial! Hm! I can agree as far as content goes, but is t h a t substance? You have to explain!”

“It’s no contradiction,” he says patiently. “Thoughts are after all only possible because of the special biological reactions that take place, biochemically, electrochemically, molecular and atomic, – being the substrates and substances of mind and thinking. Humans struggle to explain the content of thought. The content is elusive despite being concrete. The origin of the content and its correlation to substrate is so far unknown and therefor clad in mystery. Humans constantly think and their thoughts are never empty. Thoughts are like the river carrying the goods, in or above it. The questions nowadays focus on the “goods”, because we know now, how we think, but nothing or very little about the “goods”. Humans claim they are the only ones having emotions and thought. That is of course not the case. Animals do as well, the higher developed the more they do. Though their thought content naturally differs, their feelings basically do not. We share with them more than man wants to accept.”

“Yes indeed,” she says, “but I know plenty of people who don’t think!” They laugh in agreement.

“So,” he continues, “you can see now, that mind depends on matter and thoughts need matter to be processed in order to manifest. Just like ‘Nothing’ depends on ‘Being’ for the same reason. As I see it: I am ‘Matter and Mind’, – because, if you remember what I said earlier, I am ‘Being and Nothing’, meaning, I am the true expression of the divine principle; traditionally expressed, – I am God.”

“Have you ever tried to experience ‘Nothing’?” He asks her changing topic or so it seems.

“Yes,” she says nodding vehemently. “I tried it actually quite a few times and it ended more or less always in the same way with quite fantastic but also powerful feelings. Would you like to hear what happened?” He nods.

“Maybe it is best I describe the whole thing,” she says. “I started by visualizing that I was the only something in a vacuum of nothing, complete emptiness in limitless space, with no time, in absolute blackness; no color, no light. After some minutes of concentration, or so I presume, something strange happened, like a reversal of things. I felt myself becoming smaller and smaller, losing all significance, and increasingly exposed to a power that grew in heaviness, density, heat, and pressure. Being compressed to nearly nothing it made me believe that I was going to explode. I had to stop the experiment every time. It made me however understand, what solitary confinement in a dark cell could do to a person.” She stops while drifting off into memory. Phil’s voice brings her back quickly.

“Yes,” he says, “your experience is similar to mine. I felt the ‘Nothing’ as potency and in that state it felt to me as if it was pregnant and hence omnipotent. A friend once said to me, when we talked about the “Big Bang”, ‘probably there was too much of ‘Nothing’”

“What a beautiful thought!” She exclaims

“Exactly,” he agrees, “but not just beautiful. In my opinion also quite reasonable. If you consider the ‘Nothing’ as omnipotent, an “OMNIPOTENCE” so to speak, or ‘Undifferentiated Being’, it makes it’s power easy to understand, as it is easy to understand ‘Being’ as “DIFFERENTIATED POTENCE’’; both are in relation to and with each other. It is just like the human body develops from omnipotent cells. I guess, most of us can understand that process. As these so called stem cells differentiate they turn into specialized cell, with their specific capabilities and also limited life span. Though it seems the omnipotence is lost, it isn’t. It was actually only transformed from omnipotence into differentiated potency. You can also say, omnipotence gets blocked by differentiation. A differentiated cell cannot change anymore. It remains that special cell to which it developed and will have to die as that. Unless a way is found to reverse the process, it cannot go back to be a stem cell. Death is in fact the liberator, lifting any blockade. Now this is the history of our cells, but the same applies to the cosmos: ‘Nothing’ differentiates into ‘Being’; and all that exists, will die, transforming into the omnipotent ‘Nothing’ again. Our cells do what the universe does. What happens on the big scale, happens in the small, “Micro cosmos – Macro cosmos”, that is where the wonderful and miraculous lies!”

“Fantastic!” She exclaims excitedly. “Let me take flight into the cosmos! Having this awareness now in my existence by living it, I can consciously experience my participation in the continuing process, knowing that I am indeed immortal, because death is a liberator, not the end. Ha! I never considered immortality like that!”

“Well”, he says dampening down her enthusiasm, “it really is not what man desires. He wants immortality as he is and he does not see freedom in liberation, but as a ticket for a pleasure trip.”

“True,” she admits, “I myself wouldn’t mind to live for a few centuries either, if it was a pleasure, of course!” They laugh because even Phil could see himself being around for a while, – if it was all going his way.

Getting serious again, she continues: “I have to come back to the potencies we talked about and what it means for the evolution of the cosmos and human kind. As far as the cosmos goes, it’s still pretty much hypothesizing, because obviously not even the scientists know, what the future and the end of the universe will look like, that is, to what it will differentiate and what final expression a fully ‘developed cosmos’ will have. The evolution of human kind may be easier to anticipate: Homo erectus – Homo sapiens – HOMO DIVINUS ? This seems to me the most logical conclusion, considering the level of intelligence man has already achieved. He is on the brink of creating artificial intelligence, after having produced machines. Now he wants to breathe life into them as well. In fact, he builds an artificial image of himself. Now is that incidence or imitation? Has man already reached the status of Homo divinus? Has he truly and fully reached the end of his differentiation? One could easily presume that, because now his future can only be death; and it looks like he i s well on his way, being on the path of self-destruction. He imitates God, but unfortunately it is a bad copy of it, because he really has no clue what God is and definitely no idea, what it actually would mean to b e God.” She falls silent, pondering.

Phil smiles at her, giving her time so she can float the river, before he starts the conversation again. “I like your thoughts,” he says, “and I share them too. It is however a very pessimistic picture but only too true. The demise of man is certain if he cannot change course, if he cannot expand his mind and adjust his behavior accordingly. In my opinion he has not reached his full potential, is not fully differentiated, at least his mind is not. The true Homo divinus could indeed make this world to paradise, not only for him but for all life. He could eat the fruit he longs to have but can never harvest, growing it in an unsuitable soil. He lost paradise eating the wrong apple, as did not belong to him. Now he could grow his own, unfortunately failing miserably, being so ignorant, not knowing which soil to use.” He pauses but stops her from interrupting.

“I want to come back to my original hesitations, the ones plaguing me as I said Good that you are so patient with me, being my sounding board as we speak, because every time I touch the subject, I stumble. It is the consequence I struggle with. What does the concept of the ‘divine’ principle mean to me? What is the consequence of it? I stumble over it, I struggle with it.”

“No,” she says decisively, “the consequence is always the same. After all, it does not matter, if it is me, or the universe that dies. In any case, it starts all over again, maybe not in the same form and measure, but there is another beginning. Or maybe I don’t understand exactly what you mean by consequence?”

“Maybe,” he agrees, “but let me explain. Eternity, where coming and going never ends, means strictly speaking, that nothing ever changes. That makes rebirth, or reincarnation truly a torment. Where or what is the purpose of this?!? I cannot accept something having no purpose. Life without purpose, even death without purpose holds the worst pain for me. I cannot imagine anything crueler. The concept of eternity makes sense to me only if there is a purpose, that is, progress with a goal, and eternity as destination.”

“Still, after reaching the destination, everything starts all over again, – it has the same effect, isn’t?” She really cannot see a difference or what he tries to point at.

“Yes, that may be so, but it makes a big difference to me. If I, as part of that process, can develop from plain existence to full awareness, where I have absolute conscience and understanding of that cycle, I can put up with eternity. Like the omnipotent cell differentiating into the specialized cell. Intelligence is only a step up the ladder of the mind’s evolution! As I said already, we have not only an evolution of matter, but also an evolution of mind. Though they seem separate, they are just individual branches of the same tree. Now, if undergoing differentiation replaces omnipotence, you will, as the process goes on, in the end have the highest differentiated potency that is possible. It is the point where omnipotence and differentiated potency have the same magnitude. There is no difference anymore in the extent of their power. Then, and only then, is it possible to have a choice of what your role in this ongoing coming and going, the cycles of eternity, may be.”

“Ah, being master of Life and Death, so to speak, but in fact being master of it all”. She parches in.

“Correct!” He sees her telltale smiles. Interpreting them correctly he states: “I don’t see that as a question of power, but a question of freedom. It is most important to me, to have a choice, being able to decide. I hate the fact to be decided upon. So! When omnipotence can decide if it wants to be or die and differentiated potency if it wants to die or be, then the coming and going makes sense, because it is the fulfilment of its own wish, or will; it is its own decision.”

“Hm! I understand. It is the “Omnipotent Consciousness”, that is your trepidation. And I think you are not sure, if you believe that you can or will achieve it, right? This state you refer to is, or is close to what the Hindus call Nirvana, isn’t it? I agree. It would be nice, if one could decide about the coming and going. At the moment I can only make a decision about my death, and that only with limitations because I cannot even be sure that I am not ‘hit by the tile off the roof’ as soon as I step out of the house. And I certainly have no influence on my becoming. Can’t be even sure, if I will achieve my goals in this life! That is actually the reason why I don’t bother, or consider anything like ‘consequence’, as you call it. What for?! I can’t do anything anyway! I cannot change it, I cannot influence it! The only thing that counts is the Here and the Now. Everything else has no significance!” She falls silent, somewhat defiantly it seems.

He looks at her curiously. “You are right,” he says after all, with warm smiles in his eyes. “It is unnecessary to think too much! But I am such believer in progress, something I seem not to be able to shed. Would I be otherwise interested in the work I am doing? It goes hand in hand with my worry about the sick plant! It is part of my personality, my attempt to explore me and all around me. But in the end it is also an attempt to give purpose to my existence, turn the suffering that is in my life into something positive. Otherwise I would probably despair over the cruelty, brutality and violence that I see in this world. Though they are in a way partaking factors on my progress and destination……….” The screen goes dark.

Femina’s eyes remain transfixed, but there is no screen anymore, only the plain wall and there is no longer a sound, only soundless silence, and the room is empty as it ever was.

Of course, that does not change the fact that she sits now in this room all by herself trying to find the answers to the essential questions of life, or death, her life anyway. As comforting as it may be to know that there are the like-minded who would understand; that she has friends she could talk to; and that she also would find support and care from the ones who love her, who would share any wooden bench with her if they believed or assumed she needed help, – Femina is glad to be alone, that nobody is sitting next to her to hold her hand.

Dying is a lonely business, a one person job only. And she would not even bear to see the ones she loves being overwhelmed by grief. Particularly Pia, she does not want to see her crying. And Dimitri? He would be sad too, but they have become estranged, and too much would have to be sorted out between them. She is not up to it, not in the moment anyway. Gordon? No! She does not want to drag him down into her dark world. She cannot even contemplate to confront the ones she loves with her suffering or discuss with them any of her thoughts. Too much pain for both sides! Emotions would run amok and everyone would end up in tears. It is enough to depart without too much drama. After all, to share the good times with the ones you love is far more important. She understands this now better than ever. There is enough time for the crying, in the so suitably called mourning time.

“It is simple, isn’t it, once you question the absolute?” Femina hears her voice coming from the screen. “Though you may end up in strive with yourself, being so caught in and shaped by tradition and society, and all the education in school. It is therefore inevitable to face uneasy confrontations. I for myself however lean to science not to traditional beliefs. But isn’t it noteworthy that even there you have dogmatists, and in fact, theory and hypothesis operate on the basis of believes; and philosophy has come far closer to modern physics than most scientists like to acknowledge. There is sure a risk of science being turned into a new religion……, if human nature has its way.”

Femina decides to follow the film more attentively. After all, it was already far more useful than she originally and hastily thought it would be. Besides, she does not really remember all of the discussions she had with Phil, including the one on the day they met, only that it was a long and interesting one and that many others followed. But she sure remembers him fondly. From the beginning she found his intellectual mind as attractive, and as irresistible as the light is for the moth.

“But how do you explain, how can something come from nothing?” She hears her voice asking.

“Well”, says Phil, “it may be best, I take an example from cosmological science to demonstrate the concept. Though I am not a cosmologist, I know enough, and I think to use analogies to illustrate in simple terms what may otherwise be too complicated is the best for the purpose of our discussion. You probably have heard about the “Black Hole?” She nods. “Well,” he continues, “it was named to describe a phenomenon in the universe, which, as the name says, is black and looks like a hole, a black space between illuminated bodies. There is no light and it seems empty, but in reality, it gobbles up light and light cannot escape from it and it is certainly not empty either, containing matter that is so compacted and so full of energy, no illuminated stellar body is a comparison. So, Black Holes are part of the universe but it took a long time, to identify such a black hole and make it ‘visible’ at least in the eye of science. Now I take this example to an extreme measure that is the “Point” of unimaginable smallness, from which, started by the “Big Bang” the creation of our universe began to unfold. This point is indeed so small that one can practically declare it to be ‘nothing’. But it contained all and everything to bring about the universe and life as we know it. For the reason of simplicity, and we will sure come back to it later on, I name this ‘point of nothingness’, “Potency”. I’d like to think the comparison with the Black Hole demonstrates what I mean, being a useful simile because its existence is established and though still mysterious it is of a bigger scale than the “Point” and better understood. It also has and is potency but, of course in the true meaning of the word this truly is most applicable to the ‘point of creation’, considering the scale of creation we are talking about! Besides! When there is ‘being’, there has to be the ‘not being’, just like we have the visible stars and the black holes. There must always be a comparison for reason of definition, visually and intellectually. Without this comparison one would not understand what is, nor the meaning of it. Literally, nobody would know, what night is or means, if there was no day, isn’t it? Therefore everything has its comparative or opposing counterpart. Even the elementary particles in our universe have their antiparticle. There is also the hypothesis of “Dark Matter”, unproven yet, but that is only a question of time, just like the black hole was a hypothesis before it was proven. Obviously, we always deal with two aspects, even if we only talk about one, just like the saying goes: ‘Where there is light is shadow’. It means that we have essentially and fundamentally a dualistic world, evident in the creation of the universe and life itself, with Adam and Eve, symbolically speaking, the ultimate expression; they demonstrate it as the two gender human. It follows: On the one hand, we have the “Being”, on the other the “Not Being”, but they are the two sides of one thing. You can see it as two branched tree, or a two phased unit. The question of ‘be or not to be’, is a theoretical one, in reality both co-exist. There is ‘Existence and Nothing’, or “Being and Nothingness”.

“But what you are saying is confusing, because you state that Nothing is not nothing but something, that means there is no Nothing after all. I cannot accept that! Nothing i s nothing!!!! She is unconvinced.

Phil smiles forgivingly: “Not so simple after all to question the ‘Absolute’, isn’t it?!” Amused, he bats his eyelids, but continues: “I pointed out before that I prefer to call the Nothing a ‘Potency’, because it cannot be compared to anything that we understand “Being” is. Though it is something, no known rules of our physical world apply to it. No rules, measures, no laws of physics, mechanical or otherwise can be used to describe, explain or reason with it. It has in itself no known limitation or comparison. The potency as we know it from our material world has limitations, because it has matter and is measurable. The potency in or of the black hole, and even more so, the point of creation is unmeasurable, having no mass or measure nor limitation we could apply to. Consequently you can state, ‘Being’ has measure, ‘Nothing’ has not, but it still is. We know when a star implodes it turns into a black hole, and we know at the ‘point of practically nothing’ the ‘Big Bang’ marks the “Birth of the Universe”. Our universe will end some when as well, it may implode like a star or dissipate. The scientist are not sure what will happen, but it will return to ‘not being’. You can say, it will return to the nothing it came from. Literally speaking, the Nothing as Potency is pregnant with a new “Being” or is filled with the Old that has passed away. I T is a cycle, a ‘perpetuum mobile’, a coming and going, birth and death, a growing and dying, with all the unique manifestations, continuous modifications and altered repetitions. The “Being” is in its finiteness the upholder of the “Nothing” and the “Nothing” is in its infinite potency the creator of the “Being”. Not God as such turns the wheel of creation, the divine lies in the principle itself. Therefore, everything, you, me, the universe, all being and all nothingness is part of this process and principle. Every stone, every cell is divine, is the expression of the divine, or if you like is God. Doesn’t the Bible state so fittingly that we are ‘Children of God’? Man comes from earth; according to the Bible he was created from loam. Well, indeed, life comes from matter and earth is a true breeding incubator of all life as we have it on planet earth. It obeys the principle’s aspect of the physical world, of the “Being.”

“But where is the beginning?” She asks, generally agreeing with him now. She needs to hear his opinion because she has doubts and uncertainties, and being not clear about in her own mind she is definitely interested in what he has to say. He already has helped her to redefine ‘nothing’, but what does he think about beginning and end?

His answer is no real surprise: “There is no beginning, there is no end. That is what specifies eternity. I T i s eternal! We are eternal. Only a change of state occurs.”

“Well, you are only redefining God,” she says somewhat disappointed.

He smiles. “I have no intention to devalue the God-principle; the only thing I may do is dis-empowering the stalwarts of tradition. In their eyes I am an atheist, which of course I am not.”

“Yes, I can agree with that,” she says satisfied. “And you are right, all reasoning points to it, isn’t it? I have but a problem with the ‘we are eternal’. I cannot see myself as eternal and I don’t think many people would. Neither can I see humans as godly, not the way they behave anyway – neither do other humans. It is most likely one of the reasons why man cannot consider or accept his own divinity. Besides, it implies grandiosity having no real might which one expects from God, the Almighty. Men can only dream about such power. It does not prevent him to pursue it though with utmost zeal, while always knowing that he has as little mightiness as the ant he tramples on his Sunday walk. Seeing God as something external to himself, he imitates Him and he searches for Him everywhere, just never where he should. It is however only a dimension of his mind that he does not have, not yet at least, and it is not necessarily his fault. He is as everything else a work in progress. There needs to be a further evolution of the mind. One can only hope that he does not eradicate himself before that. After all, intelligence is only one aspect of the mind. Unfortunately, it is a grenade in a fool’s hand. And unfortunately, this missing dimension is to blame that humans hang on to religion, which is the fertile ground for growing and yielding power, for propagating submission. It breeds the bigot, the executioner and the subjugated; it makes people either dependent, grand or desperate.”

Phil listened attentively without even attempting to interrupt. She does not give him an opportunity either, continuing with another question: “Well then, do you believe in reincarnation?”

Instead of answering he asks back: “Do you?”

“Yes and no,” she says. “It depends what you mean by that. I personally believe in rebirth, going into nothing when I die, and returning into existence in whatever shape or form that may be. I don’t believe that I return as me specifically. Of course I cannot exclude it, but it seems to me rather farfetched, like finding the needle in a haystack, considering that too many elements would have to be reconstituted to rebuild me. Besides, it would be without my awareness anyway, so why bother about! But I can’t deny, in a way I could see it as something exciting in view of what phantastic opportunities it may offer, but then again, what a horrible thought as I might be far worse off than I can even imagine. This thoughts are really mind games, aren’t they? Therefore, reincarnation means for me only participation in the ongoing process of life and death without particular conditions to form or structure. However,” she trails off into fanciful thoughts, “I could imagine thousand things and more of what I would or would not like to be. I could become a witch-hunter, or a stone, a Mozart, or a cloud. Naturally, this eternity of coming and going is angst provoking for me too, but then again, it is just another life and will come to an end, be it good or not, it does not last.”

She suddenly stops, only to return to an early point of conversation. “Now, we talked about chance, what role it plays in the occurrence of illness. I think it goes further than that. It has a significant role in our existence altogether considering the chaos that followed the initial stages after the ‘Big Bang’, the very beginning of our universe. All along there are the odds of possibilities that were to unfold, the chance formations, the constellations, combinations, the selective and the adaptive. Despite being bound in or by the fundamental principle manifesting itself in matter through and in the laws of physics, – chance and incident are part of it, bringing about the most impressive results. If not being the reason for the diversity, it is at least essential for the process of creativity. Creation itself is most mind-boggling, in fact, words fail to do it justice. But this is not because a lone artist is at work. It is the process that is truly divine, meaning, not everything is incidence or chance, but chance plays a big role. For instance, I see myself to some degree as a product of chance. There were thousands of sperms hurrying to the egg; my father impregnated my mother, not another woman. Incidentally I was born into this particular union. Another race, another culture, other life circumstances, – I may have never eventuated. Even as far as my genetics are concerned, it is incident that I have dark and not red hair, that I look the way I do, that I am as intelligent as I am. I definitely prefer to think that the imbecile was an accident of nature too, a chance occurrence, rather than the doing of someone cruel.”

So far Phil had only listened, sometimes amused but without a comment. Now he asks her: “What is then not chance? I agree with what you said, not everything is chance what seems to be. But what is what?”

“Well,” she says, “I would not call it chance when a soldier is killed by the enemy’s gun. He is after all not accidentally on the battlefield. But why he dies and not the other next to him, that is bad luck. Or, there is a new island in the middle of the ocean. By chance, the current brings seeds and with the fitting conditions, the island will have grass and palms and even creatures inhabiting it. Chance yes, but as conditional as the soldier dying in the war.”

“I agree. You hit the nail right on its head. So we have a base on which chance is operating, but the base is the predetermining and that is not incidental or just chance. Obviously there is a scheme, a pattern, or a directive that governs. How do you explain that?”

She shrugs her shoulders and her voice is uncertain: “I do not know…..I really don’t know. I can only draw conclusions from what my rational mind knows and allows.”

He nods. “That is a significant point! A native living on an isolated island would certainly have a very different interpretation of his existence than you and me. But let us continue on the level of knowledge that is ours. My conclusion is that we have a “Complex System in Action”, as I pointed out already before when we talked about the ‘Being and Nothing’. It is the matrix, the fundamental principle that is self-contained and renewed by its own actions. Expressing it in the simplest way possible, – it is like the car battery that uploads continuously with the running car. Chaos will always seek order and order will always disintegrate into chaos. It is movement, from the beginning, associated with life at the most specialized end and motionless, perceived as a standstill, associated on the other end with death. Neither is viable without the other; the principle of I T i s means “Being and Nothing” is! Time belongs to the “Being”, it has no meaning overall. This sure compares to the notion that ‘God is’, no past, no future. He is ‘All’ and is ‘ever present’, but not as a separate entity. The question what comes first, the chicken or the egg is as pointless as, one depends on the other, both are, but living in the world of matter and time, both will die.”

She laughs. “Isn’t it amazing how congruent the Bible is with your philosophical interpretation based on science? Concepts such as eternity, ever presence, immortality and infinity, they are as universal as they are antiquated. It looks as if the Bible was written by an intelligence that was far ahead of its time, demanding adjustment to the prevalent mental capacity of the human race. The same applies of course to the interpretations since, reflecting the intellectual level of its clerical guardians. It is well overdue to have a new approach. But that is more or less true for all passed on traditional believes. I have no doubt, – a new consensus has to be formulated. It is inevitable anyway, but….. I am just worried…….very worried indeed!”

Silence ensues. They both seem to hang on to their own thoughts.

Femina welcomes the break too. She needs to bring peace to her own thoughts to make them useful rather than confused. Though the discussion has little to do with the emotional state she is in, one feeling is overwhelmingly present; she is grateful. She is grateful for this room, grateful for this film, coming from the archives of her collective memory, and she is grateful for the time that she has been given. It allows her to think and to clarify the essential questions in order to make up her mind about her life, whether to live or to die.

Phil’s voice calls Femina from her thoughts: “Now, if we don’t believe in fate and having no proof or any signs that could give us an understanding why indeed an illness occurs then only one explanation appears reasonable: It is by chance that illness arises, chance that it happens to one plant and not the other, chance that it occurs at this time but not that one. Even if we know the obvious causes, not everyone for instance gets the cold, despite an epidemic outbreak. How come, one gets it and the other does not?!” He halts for a moment, but continues not waiting for a comment: “Of course to hypothesize that illness occurs randomly has its problems. For one, it may lead to either carelessness or worse, resignation, as far as human behavior is concerned. Though everybody accept the possibility and probability of illness occurring, nobody actually believes that it may happen to them. Only others get sick, isn’t it and should it happen to oneself than it is rather an unpleasant surprise, if not shock. On the other hand we have fate. It makes it easier for the sufferer to accept his illness giving meaning to it and even allowing him an excuse regarding his own responsibilities.”

So far Phil’s colleague had not said anything but now he interrupts him: “You are renouncing God with such statements! You make life to a dice’s game! Bad luck for one, luck for the other, randomly without any rules or control!” He turns to her in the hope to find an accomplice asking her: “Do you believe it is chance?”

“Yes,” she says, “though not everything is, despite appearing to be accidental. But generally, my answer is yes. I personally don’t believe in predetermination or a deity that plays me like a puppet. But that does not imply that I have to be or that I am godless.” She could not restrain herself to take a stance against his hasty conclusions.

He looks at her thoughtfully. His face now being shown in a close-up appears as if he was looking straight at her, Femina, in the room. He says slowly, emphasizing his words: “How many terminally ill do you know, and how many of them believe in having an illness due to chance? Or do they rather believe in fate as reason?”

The question is so immediately directed at her that Femina on her wooden bench feels as if a whip had struck her. Hot and cold showers run over her back and in her ears there is the sound of boiling water. Was she before frozen solid in ice, now the fire is keen to grab and devour her. The storm in her head does not help. He races through her brain, and logic and thoughts and emotions dance wildly in his trail with so much power that her body begins to sweat. A remnant of reason manages to throw her a life-line before fire can take control. She hears shouting: “Breathe! Breathe! Blow the fire away! Remember your breath! There is no point in panic!” So she concentrates on her breath, on every breath she takes. She listens to the noises it makes as she inhales deeply, in through her nose and out through her mouth, long and emphatically. She must force herself to breathe out as long as she can, pause as long as she can, waiting until she is compelled to take the next breath in. Slowly but surely success ensues. The breathing loses its forcefulness and frequency, with the pauses between getting longer. The storms calm down, the fire is ebbing away, silence unfolds and her breath makes no noise any more.

Now she can ask herself, ‘why all the panic’, what is she afraid of?’ It is only death at the end. Obviously!!!!! She d o e s n o t want to die! And sure not by her own hand. Though everyone knows that one day life will end, to end it voluntarily is a very different agenda. She needs, no she wants to make her decision as rational as possible; it must not be a rash one. After all, one cannot undo the deed. She always found it rather sad to hear about people taking their lives in the state of despair. On the other hand, she believes that the responsibility over one’s own life lies solely with every individual, fully and unconditional, at least as long as they have the capacity to make decisions. She knows but only of few cases where suicide was an act of clear thought, but of many, where emotional turmoil and situational crisis lead to the conclusion that it was the only escape. She sure does not want to do just the same.

So! What is her view on chance and fate now, being an incurable ill herself? She did ask the question, why me, why at all? Was it life testing her, was it something predetermined, like a neat package laid into her cradle to be opened later on? Was Dimitri right after all? Or was there indeed the sovereign power who would give or take?

She hears the echo of her thoughts: “No, n o ! N O ! ! She cannot, she will not surrender her own deep seated instinct no matter how desperate she may feel! She does not believe in superman, neither in fate nor being tested, or any such insane suggestions. She would be lying to herself. She believes in chance, but as she already stated, not everything is chance what appears as that. She may have accidentally landed in this house, but it is no accident or just chance that it lead to her illness. But does it really matter, chance or fate? It is after all of little or no significance. What matters is the question, could she live in infirmity or not?! All questions end finally in the fundamental one: Life or death?

Femina was generally for life. She saw it as something extraordinary, fantastic, mysterious, indeed a wonder, just walking back the evolutionary pathway, or considering the future potential it holds. The seemingly unknown lies in the before and the after. But it is knowledge she has, always had in fact, just having no access to it, after losing consciousness and suffering since and so far from amnesia and disorientation. Now she has access, apparently through the gates of Hades. The door has opened, may be only a little, but wide enough to allow her the gaze down into the deep, of her and all memory. And it does not even seem all important. It does not even give her great joy or much relief. All pales in the face of the decision waiting for her to be made, ‘Life or death?’ Even the house which holds her hostage and sure is at least partially to blame for her illness, has lost its importance, is only of secondary interest. But, as strange as it may be, she has to give thanks to her illness too! Had she not sworn to search for her memory when she found herself bare of almost all knowledge and lost in a strange world without orientation, forced to make her way alone and without help? Did she not become more and more complacent in her pursuit? Not only for the reason that it was tedious and that the progress was hardly worth the struggle, but finally had she not felt happy anyway, even without her memory? Well, the illness has now catapulted her back into reality. In fact, it has done even better; it brought essential knowledge back into her consciousness: So! She comes out of Nothing; she is matter, a product of forces, and as such a carrier of the undefined potential that underlies and superimposes on all and everything. She got caught up in a three dimensional world, with the fourth dimension just opening and others still amiss; she has landed in a ‘cul de sac’, is an evolutionary dead end, on which she imprints her will, this way or the other.

Her head sinks down to the back-rest of the bench. Her eyes are shut by lids of stone. Clouds of emptiness float by her inner sight, consoling her ever so more. To come from nothing, to go back to nothing comforts her. To give up her existence is however hard, regardless. That raises again the questions of why, what is her angst, what really is there to mourn?

She remembers what is often used to encourage someone unfortunate: ‘One has to push on, give his best, because only then one can claim victory, only then one has not been defeated. But life is not necessarily a sporting event or just a quest for medals in the Olympics. Ambitions are fine, but it is not for everyone and are they really worth the trouble after all? The cripple turns into a ‘Golden Boy’ in the left over discipline, the unlucky served badly by fate becomes the model and the perfect example for the desperate and struggling,…….. That is admirable, but it has not in itself general validity, it belongs to the individual. She congratulates the heroes, they deserve their accolades, but she is not of the kind or after exemplary achievements. No matter if society concedes it as desirable or even expects it of the individual as an obligation or duty! Does she want it though? NO!!!

Femina is aware of the uniqueness of her life, but as withering plant? That is a nightmare from which she better awakes. Of course, this uniqueness and the irreplaceable of her life i s t h e hurdle she has to take, that is what she has to give up, that is what she has to mourn. She believes all life is valuable, even her own with the illness. She feels obligated not to discard it frivolously, and also not because it seems to be the easier solution to her problem. The easy looking way may not necessarily be the best choice.

But what does she think about the various religious teachings? All propagate some kind of after-life and all are against suicide, threatening punishment should one want to go ahead. Could there be some truth in it? She takes a deep breath and expels the air in dismay but is not prepared to ignore these thoughts. After all, every religion has its wisdom which she holds in high regard. But, and that is the reason for her dismay, they teach a lot of nonsense too. Well, she can be called an atheist, meaning that she has no God, but it is correct only to the point of not belonging to any specific congregation. She is in fact m a d e ‘godless’. Consequently, and she agrees, she is an ‘Existentialist’, but once again, not to the exact meaning of the philosophical theories she knows. She therefor is neither nor or as well as, in this or that way. Indeed! These thoughts get her nowhere and certainly can have no influence on her decision making. Other’s opinion has little to offer.

That’s that! There is only one remaining question that she has to ask: ‘What purpose does she attribute to her life?’ Well, when she is dead nothing counts, not any of her deeds, no matter how good they may have been. They are not the purpose of her life. The purpose of her life is but depending on the health of her body. If the body is useless, she must discard it, like you do with old worn out shoes. She does not want to be a burden for anyone, she does not want to be grateful to anyone. She wants to help not being helped. She wants to see the world, not sit in her chamber and see it through gadgets that deliver a virtual reality while she can hardly move any more. The purpose of her life lies in loving and giving, not in hating and taking, in happiness, not suffering, within the positive not negative, of any kind.

However! So far she has looked at only one side of her illness, the destructive and devastating one. But may be the illness has a purpose itself as it has in some way already demonstrated. Is it possible that her illness could bring her results and realizations that she would otherwise never be able to have? A crippled hero after all? Pity, the prize to pay seems far too high. How did Jesus pray when he foresaw his suffering: “My father, let the chalice pass me by!” She can only join in, though her suffering of course does not compare with his however devastating her illness may seem to her.

The voices coming from the screen press for her attention. It appears as if the volume had been turned up.

“It is absolutely ridiculous to refute creation and the creator. It does not matter that God was not found when man went into space! But can you really answer the question how the universe came about and where life comes from? Aren’t you familiar with the “causa prima”??”

The face of the co-worker is flushed and his eyes spark angrily and triumphantly. He believes to have a solid argument at hand because so far nobody really could offer an explanation of the “primary cause” for creation. For him this proves the existence of God.

There is a pause, Phil not answering straight away. Indeed, the ‘causa prima’ can hardly be discounted because even science cannot answer all questions of creation, particularly not its origin. Even the “Big Bang Theory” cannot. From ‘Nothing’ nothing can come. That is firmly anchored in all the brains, particularly the ones who have no lateral thinking. Despite the old gods having lost immensely on credibility, the new gods of science, though credible, they certainly are not infallible. And science confirms the validity of the causa prima by putting mass and measure to everything, even to the unimaginable small point at the beginning of the ‘Big Bang’, – it is therefore not really nothing.

Phil answers after all: “Tom, I don’t want to argue with you. You are free to believe in whatever you want, but you have to allow me to do the same. Please take note of what I have to say now, because it makes my position unmistakably clear: I take the liberty to question traditions, dogma, and science’s teachings. I feel indebted to all, but I take liberty to question the propagated ‘Absolute’ and at the same time I elevate the ‘Relative’ to the same level as the Absolute. Its claim for dominance cannot be justified. That opens up new perspectives. I may lose some illusions on the way, but not to be stuck on the given, is stimulating, at least for me. – I think we better stop our discussion. It will not get us any further, if we carried on.”

Tom settles down. “My apology,” he says, “I know, and I agree. I can’t help it, but I always find it difficult to accept, that others may not share my convictions. We might just have a better discussion another time.” Winking and smiling he says his good bye.

Femina remembers how pleased she was when he left. She was interested in Phil’s views, not in Tom’s. Phil was ‘avant garde’, Tom was ‘establishment’. Phil had noticed her restraint in the discussion and had interpreted correctly. He says: “You have been awfully silent. You don’t share Tom’s opinion, don’t you?”

She nods. Keen to hear Phil’s, she wanted to entice him to talk. That is of course best done with an open question. Slowly and emphasizing every word she asks:

“What do y o u b e l i e v e ?” The question is too complex to allow just a simple answer. It is after all not enough to say, I do or don’t believe in God.

He looks at her thoughtfully and in silence. It seemed he had to make up his mind if he should indeed engage in another discussion with her. Finally he says:

“Well, I am a so called atheist, though that is only superficially the case in the sense of not belonging to a certain congregation. I have my own philosophy, my kind of believe. Of course, it is more than that. I am convinced, and it will be indeed only a matter of time when my theories can be strengthened by facts. It means, I am not different to any other believer who insists to know the truth.”

Impatiently she asks again: “So what do you believe?”

Again, there is this inquisitive look at her but he answers, smiling, more to himself than at her: “I believe in me,” he says.

Femina suddenly feels a shift in time, just as if no time had passed between then, meeting Phil; and now, sitting in this room on death-row. She experiences relief and joy from this answer. She hears her saying that she had kind of anticipated something like that, but she wanted to know more, in particular, what it meant practically for his life.

“Well”, says Phil, “I am the created and I am creator. I am my God, or if you like, and in another way, I am God.” His smile deepens, his gaze wanders into the distance and silence is about him.

And so it is with her, here and now. Femina feels the stillness from within. It is so comforting to be with people who speak the same language, to meet the same minded, though of course there cannot be an identical sameness, but they are from and operate on the same plain. Phil was partner, not opponent, both trying to find answers without forcing others to come along. She knew then that he was one of her kind, was from the same breed. A chance meeting but always welcome and so it is now that she is reminded of it. She feels the same comfort realizing that she was not alone, not then and not now.

A faint noise creeps into the silence of the frozen world. Femina does not listen believing that it was only the ice adjusting itself. But it becomes more frequent and has different tones, and there is a trace of movement, faint and light-footed, it prompts her to take notice after all. She feels the ice cracking and fissuring as if it was going to let go of its tight grip.

Femina does not react, she waits. After all, she is in the waiting-room. Waiting is all you do there. So she listens, to the creaking, and groaning, and crepitation, and she follows the appearing wounds as they spread and fragment the ice.

Slowly she realizes that these changes are not initiated by the ice itself. They are only answers to something that comes out of the still and lightless ocean below. But the ocean is not dead, the waters are only cold, and in its unfathomable and unknown depths it has life with wells of fire and warmth. Flowing continuously and unrelenting, searching through the cold and under immense pressure, the hot currents lose strength and are broken into tiniest of bubbles that rise up one after the other, sometimes in fine long pearly strings, then again cut off and cut up and with gaps in between but never stopping for long. The journey ends when they reach the icy ceiling, where they join forces to tunnel and dig their way through the frozen barrier, which in its thickness and solid nature gave the illusion of being impenetrable.

Femina does not like that at all, being pushed back into her own life! She would rather hold out, frozen in ice and squeezed out of breath. She does not want the ice to let go of her. She no longer wants warmth, nor does she want light or life. The only thing she wants is to die, now, not later. But no matter what she wants, there is no pity. Father Death does not know compassion. He spits her out as if he had taken a bite of an unripe fruit he does not like.

Other noises appear but they come from the room. So she opens her eyes and finds the opposite wall is no longer a wall but a movie-screen. Pictures are already coming up, gaining in sharpness as if somebody was adjusting the focus. It is a film from a conservatory showing wonderful pictures of all kinds of plants. The camera roams through the generous and extensive layout of various departments and areas. From the simple potato to the exotic flower, it seems, all plants have got a place. There are even laboratories with the horticultural specialists busy at work.

Femina finds it somewhat familiar, but she was in many such green-houses and botanical gardens being fond of plants. Of course she preferred to visit facilities with flowers and exotic flora to simple glasshouses that grew vegetables. As unfair as that may be, but the beauty of an orchid wins over the most beautiful cabbage any time. That probably stems from the difference of one being sweet nectar for the soul, the other being just food for the body.

She becomes more and more certain that she knows the place. It was one of the most memorable excursions, thanks to the specialist guiding her through the facility. Dr. Philip Marsh! Yes, that was his name, she remembers. He knew so much and he liked talking but he was an expert who loved his work and his plants. He was able to open up his world to her as she had never seen it before. Finding something special in everything, he showed her the magical world of flora. She would never see the life of plants any other way. His enthusiasm was contagious and she really liked him.

Two people appear on the screen. One is Philip Marsh, the other is she herself. They are looking at a plant that seemed to languish. Femina recalls that it was the moment where the conversation and the visit itself took an altogether different direction. Indeed! This film is a recording of an experience she had a time long ago. Buried under the layers of forgotten years like a fossil in a bed of sediment, events imprinted in stone come to life again though they happened in another era. Yes, she remembers her visit in this hot-house, and him, Philip Marsh, who had impressed her and who as it turned out came from the same nation she belonged to. He was on an assignment and contracted to work on a special project run by the research center, being a well renowned expert in that field. It was sure a reason to celebrate, and so they did, for some time, but that was a long time ago, and she sure has no reason to celebrate now.

So far the film had run without sound, but now she can hear their voices talking about the limp plant. Bitter disappointment wells up in her. She had hoped for something useful, something new that could help her, or at least something that would let her forget why she was in this room in the first place. An old film? How can that be of help! Even the lost memory she had been so keen to recover has become irrelevant in view of death staring at her. Death means being dead, there is nothing to be needed any longer. The dead have no needs.

Even though she is not dead yet, her life as she knows it, has already ended. Scornfully though! Because after all her struggles she had begun to embrace it; and particularly now, since blissful duality freeing her from her ambivalence did let her experience happiness; now, that she was able to overlook the fact that she was still a prisoner, in a house, that pretended to have an exit door but would not let her exit and was continuously playing games with her mind. Not only because it alluded her to a chance of freedom when there really was none but because everything to do with the house was deceptive and uncertain, and still is. After all, she has no guarantee that she would be able to leave her illness behind if she was able to escape the house. Considering this uncertainty, it really did not matter where she was. With a sick body her life is not worth living, neither here nor there. Only death offers a solution. So! She sure needs no memory, neither recall nor reminiscence………

But!…….. Maybe it is indeed only the house that makes her sick and she would be well again as soon as she left it……..? So, here we go again! The games continue, – nothing is certain, nothing is sure! How useful then can an old film be!?

Femina hears Phil’s voice: “The plant is dying. I have to bring it to our laboratories. After all, we are a center of research, – though that won’t do this plant any good. I suspect it is the victim of one of the diseases that suddenly occur without any warning or cause, at least that we know of and we certainly have not found any means how to eradicate it.”

He inspects some of the leaves carefully. Then, turning to her he finds her looking somewhat lost, so he continues explaining: “If you are interested, you can come with me. My specialty is the research of disease and its management, with a particular emphasis on prevention. Sadly, this poor plant here is for me at this point rather a philosophical problem than a practical, because I know, we will find a cure some when. When I say philosophical -, I wonder how it is possible that illness can occur when care was taken to provide the best conditions to the best knowledge available, in order to prevent disease, and to ensure optimal growth, and a healthy life. This plant had also no genetic signs nor a flawed seed that would indicate problems later on. I personally have taken care of all the necessities to give the plant the best chances. So, how come that it still got sick!?”

He takes the pot, ready to leave, he looks at her. Femina hears her saying how interested she was to join him but, she herself is not, turning away from the screen.

Well, now she is the sick plant, a biological and philosophical problem! Of course she has no idea if she has a genetic loading of some kind. She never was looking into that at all being hardly ever sick. But, she does not even know where she comes from, she could well have faulty genes. However, the illness that has befallen her, is not known to be a hereditary disease. It is known to be an auto-immune disease, meaning her immune system is too eager, even attacking the cells of her own body, self-mutilating and destructive. In view of this, she is more than just a philosophical problem, she is, so to speak, a biological, philosophical and psychiatric problem.

Femina puts a stop to her thoughts that want to go round and round and round all over again, like merry go rounds, passing by the questions without ever finding the answer: Why me, why now, why at all? Is it the house that makes her sick? Or what else is to blame? She must concede, the house cannot be the only reason. After all, it is her body, not all is therefore ruled by the house. To escape the merry go round she turns her attention back to the screen.

They are passing through a laboratory full of various appliances, instruments, microscopes, chattels and vessels, glasses and bottles, big and small. On one side tucked away in a niche she notices a shelved wall with many pots containing strange even deformed looking plants. She has never seen anything alike, not anywhere in her life. She does not know what to make of it, but Phil, noticing her bewilderment explains: “Experiments! Trials to find new solutions. It is not my field of expertise, and being honest, I am not enthused, but I am not the head of this team, another colleague is.”

“Does that mean, you don’t know what he does? Do you agree with, I mean morally, what he does? Some of these things look awful, if not horrific!”

She must have touched a sore spot because his voice is cool as he answers: “There is no moral question when you do research. After all, the result is the goal. You can always find a moral justification. In fact, science or research is amoral at best of times. Moral is a question of good and bad. The scientist is always outside moral establishment. Moral judgement applies to existing values, but the scientist questions existing rules. His research results may bring about change, which of course, may not always to the liking of everyone. But even when his research does not bring the results he is looking for, it cannot be judged morally. It only means the chosen pathway was not successful, so he must look for another that might. No, no! Morality has nothing to do with science and research!”

She did not agree with that at all and she hears her voicing her disapproval and how horrible she actually found some of the results, considering the disfigured plants, and that she thought he was ‘for life’, not against it. Did he really think that everything that science and research did was justifiable?

“It is a dilemma I cannot deny and cannot eliminate,” he admits. “It is however a very personal question, for one’s own conscience, what it will permit you to do. Because, even having ethical guidelines for that matter, not every scientist will want to adhere to or follow them. Besides, there is also always the public opinion and societal or political obligation what science is allowed or expected or even ordered to do.” Pointing at the limp plant, he continues: “It makes me as sad as any of the disfigured plants. I have to keep in mind that it may well be thanks to them that I find the answers I need to help mine.”

Femina loses interest. The pro and contra of moral is not the reason why she sits in this room. She lets them carry on with their arguments. Now and then she can hear words and phrases about good and bad and the irresponsible, or something like saving humanity and be in the interest of all; – the discussion was obviously far reaching and inclusive. However! She has to admit, she would be grateful if science had found a cure for her illness. And she would not ask how it came about! Obviously, she has no higher morals than Phil, or any scientist who may disregard ethical boundaries; and she is not a better person only because she leaves the ‘dirty work’ to others but at the same time profiteering from it just the same. It is true, the Now has evolved out of the immoral of Yesterday and the morals of today have no significance tomorrow. Indeed! She must admit, the discussion about morality deserves her attention, even if it was only for one reason, – to come clean with her own conscience before death will have her.

Another person appears on the screen, a co-worker of Phil. He is entrusted with the plant and delegated to observe it and start the necessary investigations. Any detail, all and everything, as unimportant as it may appear, all needs to be noted, registered and compiled, and compared with all the existing data in case there is something new, a hint or clue or something unexpected. Just adding the new to the old data is of enough value to set the research engine into motion because seemingly insignificant findings are in the overall entirety important.

Femina feels the hard back rest digging into her back. Yes, it is an uncomfortable bench but her mind is even more unyielding. It makes her aware that her once held opinion about scientific research does no longer apply. How often did she ridicule certain projects, dismiss them and even get angry. How often did she argue that spending money for humanitarian purpose was far more important than supporting unnecessary research, in pursuit of dubious scientific ideas and in particular, gruesome experiments on animals! By all means, she still wants to be humane, but her perspective has been changed, and worse, she must face the moral dilemma just the same as Phil who could not distance himself from it, he as a man of science, and she as the ill. Unfathomable sadness creeps up in her. She is not sure for whom she is crying. But in her tears lies boundless compassion and the deepest gratitude to all life that lost their own for the sake of hers.

She moves uneasily to and fro, the bench not getting more comfortable all the same. The tears roll down, they cannot stop, there are too many in her. As they flow on, she turns her attention back to the screen.

They pass through the germination and seedlings section of the department where Phil works. It is full of pots and planter-baskets and containers, on the floors, on shelves, hanging from walls and beams, filling the spaces between neatly organized garden beds. Fresh young plants of all sizes are everywhere. It is like diving into a green ocean, even the light and the air are of green color. And Femina can smell the rich earth and the juices of young life as if she were there. He takes her to an offside room serving as his office, but it also is full of all kinds of glass bottles, trays and containers, though everything is placed in an order and neatly numbered or titled. So is the rest in the room, orderly, the books, the journals, the folders and office papers, documents and literature, all alike. He will be able to find whatever he is after anytime, with or without light. The question is still open if his personality was shaped by the work he did or if only someone orderly like him could do the job. Though, a chaotic could well own a hothouse he was unlikely to succeed as the gardener. She really liked Phil’s thoroughness and that he was not uselessly pedantic, nor a ‘loony professor’, or a narrow minded one who really did not love anyone or anything but himself.

Femina hears her asking Phil, if he was selecting the seeds he planted.

“No,” says he, “I look at them of course, genes and all, and I document every detail, but I do not select which one to grow or not. My opinion is that there are no good or bad seeds, only good or bad conditions to grow them. Naturally, if there is a genetic defect, the outcome may not be great, but even then the prospects are not hopeless. We found that hereditary factors do not predict the outcome in itself. Neither are size, perfect appearance and structure of the seed a guarantee for later quality. That applies the other way round as well. I have grown less perfect seeds, not expecting much with astounding success. Well, and then you get the big disappointments, where everything seems to be perfect and it isn’t, like our withering plant. It definitely raises the questions, why and what went wrong. Genes, environment? Both seemed optimal!”

Into the following silence she hears herself saying: “But don’t you believe it is illness that has befallen the plant? That is after all outside your control, anyone’s control really.”

He shakes disapprovingly and emphatically his head: “That is exactly what I don’t believe! I just have to put up with it. Though I have no substantial proof to offer, I am convinced that illness only exists because we do not know its cause. As soon as you know that, you can do something about it. You may be able to prevent it, or at least you may be able to treat it, manage its course, as you will also find a remedy. It means you can eradicate illness for good. Of course, it may need more than just one thing to facilitate it, most likely it will require a combination of actions, but to state that illness will always exist, because it always did, is nonsense.”

Femina remembers that at the time she felt rather pity for him than she could agree. She thought he was walking a narrow ridge to express such an opinion. Without evidence he was easy prey for the bloodhounds who sniff out idealists like him to tear them apart as soon as they got hold of them. At best, society may call him a crazy fool, and his peers may just settle for mocking him as a harmless dreamer. He probably only survived because he was too good in his field of work.

A colleague appears with a little tray in his hand carrying a couple of thin strips of glass. He goes to the microscope and puts one of them in. “Have a look,” he says to Phil. The two men bend over it in turns and discuss whatever they see. Finally Phil invites Femina to have a look.

While she does, he says: “It is exactly as I thought. Take note of the uneven cell membranes. Instead of smooth walls you see little bits missing. It disables the cell’s nutrients exchange and after a while it will lead to its death. I will put in another sample of a healthy structure, so you can compare.”

After looking at that one she can only nod in agreement. He shakes his head, resigned, and frustrated he exclaims: “How come, that my plant got this disease?! And don’t say, fate!” His voice suddenly having a sharp edge.

Her screen persona is obviously startled: “I did not even consider! But as you mention it, you have to agree, it is a valid argument. I guess, you have been offered this response more often than not, isn’t it?”

He nods saying: “Indeed! But if I accepted that as an answer, I would be a priest or whatever, not a scientist!”

He pulls over one of the more comfortable chairs for her to sit down and asks his colleague to make some tea while he gets biscuits out of the cupboard. The colleague brings the tea and cups and sits down with them obviously happy to join them for a little break from his work.

Initially they sit quietly but it is her who breaks the silence: “I think there will always be the sick and diseases, no matter how good conditions may be. You, I, and others may not believe it is due to fate, but for me, illness is an expression, a statement of a situation. It may concern a single organism, or many. It includes human society in its entirety. For example, illness can be an expression of an epoch or era and its people. However, in any case it is always caused by flawed conditions, like the plague in the Middle Ages, or tuberculosis which became a major cause of death at the time of the industrial revolution when the increasing population flocked to the cities where they were forced to live in unheated and damp quarters, and over-crowded conditions. Even our own modern time has its signature illnesses characterized by systemic failures, such as diseases of the heart, cancer and life-style disorders. Too much stress, too little love; plight of body and ravaged planet; gluttony expressed in obese bodies where insulin and health care systems cannot cope with the overload. Disease does not only happen to bodies but also to societies and is in any case a warning sign that the harmony of the system is disturbed and needs to be restored. That’s why we have pain, isn’t it, the next step in signaling the urgency. It is the siren of nature’s warning system that something is seriously wrong and action is warranted sooner than later. Someone in pain is literally forced to address the problem. I certainly agree with you Phil, that illness does not occur under ideal conditions, but when is that really ever the case? For me there are three areas that can be responsible for causing a disease, but they are interconnected and therefore all may become ill as a consequence. I see the external world or the environment as one area, the other is the internal world that is the complex individual, and the third is the buffer zone, where the two meet, where the exchange of inside and outside takes place. However, the weakest link in that concept is for me man himself. How often was I taken by surprise that an individual’s will to recover succeeded against all odds and then, others succumbing despite favorable conditions!” She stops for a moment hesitating, then continues: “Well, talking about humans…….., I really do not know how that could be applicable to plants. I can’t imagine that a plant does or might make itself sick!”

Femina turns her head away from the screen. How different would this discussion be if she had it today! Theory and practice! Worlds lie in between, – packed full with sorrow and despair. How easy it is to talk about something when it does not concern you personally!

But she is sure glad that this old film pointed out something valuable. It makes sense: She must investigate her own external and internal worlds and look at the possible “border conflicts”. There might be fighting and gunfire battles because the two cultures clash instead of living peacefully in co-existence.

T H A T i s the reason why she sits in this room. It is her waiting-room after all, not her dying chamber. And fuck the house! Let it play its games as much as it wants! Nothing is important anymore or any longer! Only the Now and the Here counts! Now she sits here to reflect. And, should death be indeed the best solution, though being certain anyway, she may well be the enforcer.

Femina wonders if Adam and Eve found it as hard being driven from paradise as she does, considering they did not know what to expect in contrast to her. She is after all back to where she lived before, where the world is fenced in with bars not framed by palm leaves, where dissension and doubt rule, and where peace and harmony have little opportunity to unfold. She has not found freedom despite the happiness she experienced. It was just another room in the house where she is caught in.

On her return she had to look for a new place to live and was lucky to find something quicker and even better than expected. It is a very nice place for her and Gordon, a house with two floors and a room under the roof, which will be particularly well suited for her to work in, away from distraction. It will also serve as a personal space to retreat to. Oddly, she finds it quite important that she has such a place. To be fair, there is also a room for Gordon that he can utilize for his own purposes, and there is still plenty of room for them together, and an extra one for guests. Nobody will feel cramped in, even if they have visitors. The best is the very affordable rent, due to its location, out of town, away from all the action but just to her liking. She is pleased to be able to afford it, should she have to bear the costs alone. Obviously she has her hesitations sharing life with a man again. On the island she still had her own hut and Gordon stayed with Allister. But nothing is the same now, and who knows what the future will bring. Naturally, the living arrangements are not the only things to ponder about. But no matter what she thinks, nothing is certain, so why speculate?

While she awaits Gordon, she works hard on her final papers and makes substantial progress. She can feel at ease that they will be ready at the required date even if she slows down her efforts.

The reunion is a happy event; all doubts are immediately dispersed. Both feel as close to each other as before and it is as if they had never been apart. And then there are his eyes, mirroring the waters of the atoll. Femina only needs to dive into them and she is back where the sky, the sea, and the white sands and green palmed island were the universe. So it is no surprise that they have again happy times together, filled with fun and joy. Skiing in winter,- the mountains are not far, travelling around in summer to new places they want to see and yes, work has been banned into the background, though not altogether put aside. After all, she needs to finish, not only for the sake of it, but to earn some money, particularly as her savings won’t last for much longer.

But at the moment all is well. Femina has in fact begun to believe that her happiness is independent from her life’s circumstances which basically remain unresolved, having neither regained her memory, nor having found a way out of the house. For a long time now these two problems were ignored. Neither did she want to pursue them nor did she see a reason why she should. What for? The inaccessible old knowledge does not keep her from living, nor from accumulating new material; her brain has obviously enough space for both. And she has not been in the hallway for a while either. Why indeed? She knows, she is still in this house but it has obviously and just as well room enough for living. Maybe she has resigned to her predicament, maybe she is just too happy with what she got and there is no reason for wanting something else. Double standards and disunity continue to exist, but why bother, one can get used to anything, particularly when happy.

It seems Femina is still riding high on the wave of good fortune. But the winds are changing. Silently messengers of calamity come knocking on her door. Their attempts to gain her attention fail. She believes there is nothing to worry about the little unusual things that have been happening as she always finds an excuse or explanation. Then bad dreams appear. They linger on even after waking. Though she does not remember what she dreamed, a brooding gloominess covers her mood like a heavy blanket under which melancholy wants to make itself a home. For some time the mornings with all the bright light can dispel the dreariness, leaving Femina wondering but still not concerned.

Then the nightmares start. Sometimes she is crudely woken, sometimes she is crying in her sleep and Gordon has to wake and comfort her. The dreams are usually about being hunted down and she tries to escape but is hindered by disabling heaviness in her legs or, an abyss opens right in front and the mob is about to jump on her. And the fears she experiences in her dreams no longer stay there. They stick to her like a leech. Something is within or after her which she cannot explain. Neither could anyone else, including Gordon. He believes they are just bad dreams and they will disappear as well as they appeared. He takes her into his arms and consoles her, which of course helps for the time being, but it does not last, and she is very aware of the fact that he cannot possibly grasp what she feels. Nobody could. Feelings after all belong to the owner. They cannot be put into somebody else’s body, they cannot be explained or satisfactorily described, and Gordon can never feel the same way as she experiences them. Of course, rationally he can share her fear, but never emotionally. She has to deal with it by herself, no matter how much he loves her. Searching for all kinds of possible explanations she comes to the conclusion, that being driven out of paradise, was the beginning of a vengeful wave that has now caught up with her, making her pay for all the happiness she has been and is experiencing. Did she not doubt that she would ever be happy in this house? Now that she is, she is given the bill.

The next sad news follow. Gordon must return to his home for some urgent business. It hits her hard. For her separation always carries a finality. Not so for Gordon. Though he does not like to go and leave her back here either, for him it is only a matter of time before they see each other again. She says nothing but she will walk over the glowing coals again. It is separation after all. What comes thereafter she does not know and is not interested in, at least not now.

So it is that Femina is on her own again. Her savings have also dwindled right down. She therefore takes on a job as a waitress, where tipping provides more income than the actual wage. It will allow her to keep the life style she has. Not that she actually needs much money right now anyway, returning with renewed fervour to her paper work. The end spurt is tough but she makes it before the final hand-in date and is confident of a positive result. A few weeks later she receives the confirmation, and the date for the official recognition ceremony, which is customary in that kind of institutions. It is held with theatrical pomp and solemn speeches. Not that she cares much for that kind of thing, but she will invite Pia and Dimitri. They will enjoy it, particularly Pia, deservingly so, because she helped to make it happen with all her heart and might.

Femina sure feels for celebrating too, but more the way she likes it. Therefore she organizes a party with all the trimmings to give it the honour it deserves. She wants to celebrate her resurrection, spring time, her re-awakening to life after having been a hermit for many long weeks past. Going from one work to the other, her head in books, and the only conversations being had were with the customers she waited on. Indeed! This is another reason for celebrating, to finally be able to find more interesting sources of income.

The party is in full swing and it is sheer luck that she stands beside the phone when it rings. It is Gordon who of course hears the music and noises despite the phone being located apart from the main places of action. He is happy to hear the news of her success and heartily congratulates her. Besides, he called to give her good news too, because he will be back with her very soon, though he could not give her a certain date yet. She does not really particularly want to discuss this further and says that she is happy to hear the news but would prefer to talk about it when there was less distraction. After all, since she has no more commitments, she could easily travel to him. But before he hangs up he asks her, if she still had the nightmares.

‘Not as much,’ she says truthfully, as indeed they had lessened and all her angst and dark moods she had swept aside with work and studies.

“Good to hear,” comes through the line and she feels his relief in his voice even though he is thousands of miles away. “You see, didn’t I tell you?” he adds contentedly.

“So you did,” she answers but conceals that not all is as she would like it to be. The ill-defined fears are still there lurking in the shadows of her mind like hungry lions in the high savannah grass.

“I am coming soon,” and sending her a kiss through the ether he ends the call.

She returns to the party to mingle again with the crowds, dancing, flitting from here to there. People enjoying themselves, be it on the dance floor or having heated discussion about all kinds of things, or gathering at the buffet she has arranged, to fill their tummies and prevent the alcohol from rising too quickly into their brains, while others go just for that, indulging in far too many shots at the well-stocked bar. She is in high spirit too, without drinking too much. She is careful with the alcohol tonight, having abstained for quite some time she would be an easy victim of it.

But the night ends in tragedy all the same and has nothing to do with alcohol. That is to say Femina finally finds out what beast was on her heels, what the unknown was she could not shed; it has a name: ILLNESS.

Nobody was around when she was in the bathroom washing her hands and when she suddenly fell to the ground. There was no reason, no obstacle, nothing that could be the cause for the fall. Her legs were just giving way. It was as if someone had unannounced kicked the stilts and they had to tumble down.

Femina cannot get up. And as she sits on the floor various other incidents come back to her that she had passed over because of their fleeting nature. She remembers them, and her reaction. It was mostly frustration, because they all seemed to be due to something she could have prevented, being too clumsy, too tired, or just overworked. Now they suddenly have a very different meaning, because it was not the first time that her body was on strike: There were the things falling out of her hands, the loss of vision, even as brief as one may close a blind and open it quickly again and there were the double visions, different to the ones she could perceive to clarify content. These occurred mainly when studying where words and sentences became blurred, concerning rather the item, not the content! In hindsight it is obvious that not circumstances had been the cause of it. Everything makes sense now, even the nightmares. They had the function not only to warn her but to force her to pay attention to herself and her body. The unconscious often uses dreams to make itself heard, because the conscious mind does not listen. But Femina did not listen even then. Yes, it is her fault and it is also clear now why. She did not want to listen! She was in denial, rather suffering angst and nightmares, because they are easier to bear than the acknowledgment of having a sick body. Of what use is a motor that does not run? It has no value, except on the scrap heap. That is the reality.

The attack passes. She can get up and walk on again, but the shock remains. Femina leaves the party and retreats into her study. People will find her, should need be. Some may even stay overnight instead driving when drunk, and she will be more able to stay in control by the morning. Now she cannot do anything else but retreat into her cave like an injured dog who needs to lick his wounds. She knows however that no matter how much licking she does she will not heal, not this illness anyway. Death has silently taken up residence in her body and now he makes it clear that he is grabbing her. But he does not want her quickly. No, no! Look how scornful he laughs! He wants to devour her piece by piece. And she? What can she do to fend him off?! – Nothing! Because medicine does not cure the illness, it just prolongs the misery. – What good does that do? – Whom does that serve?

It is this house, this building! In it there is no real happiness. It is all pretense. Yellow mica! Yes, she admits, she has sadly fallen for it. So, after all, she was right from the beginning. World of illusion! To find the truth within might be sheer impossible, if not impossible at all. There is only one thing left to do:

S h e m u s t l e a v e! L e a v e t h I s h o u s e! L e a v e! L e a v e s h e m u s t!

Femina hurries along the cold stone floor of the hallway coming to a halt at the steel door with the sign ‘E X I T’ above. She could not open it so far, nor did it open for her. Neither does it now. But she m u s t leave if she does not want to languish in here. How much time is left to find the mechanism? Who knows! But she has no time! She has to leave, before death’s cruel game begins to mar all her chances of escape.

In desperation she examines the door and its surroundings over and over again, to no avail. With nothing else left she can see only two options: Either she breaks the door open with force, or she resigns once and for all to the fact that there is no escape, except when the illness has consumed her body.

Femina lets herself down to the cold floor in front of the door. She does not know what to do. Staying? Resigning? But to stay in the house………, she cannot even think this thought without shuddering. A slow death is the worst she can imagine: Waiting until the illness has eaten her up!? If she should wait then rather here in front of the door. May be this was actually the point, to wait? She never did so and may be it was a mistake, because there could be a timer and the door opens after a certain time spent waiting? It does not comfort her. How long would she have to wait? Who knows!

She considers the other option that is to break the door. What tools does she need and how can she manage, it is a solid door after all. And she has to do it on her own. Nobody is there to help, nobody would as far as she knows. It might take heavy tools and it may take more time than she has. No, that is not good enough! But she can blow it up! That should not be a problem. She sure can find out where to get the material and how to do it. She feels somewhat relieved. Now she trusts that she does not have to suffer death feasting on her slowly.

While she stares at the door her thoughts run circles. Some make her angry, because there she was, doing well, adapting, accepting, and now that she had been even happy, the house turned into a torture chamber. It is just like it wanted to proof that she was delivered with no help, no power, no more than a ball thrown around by the forces that had captured her and kept her hostage.

Suddenly an ice-cold thought emerges just like it had been floating in nameless depth under a thick shield of ice in which her rotating mind has milled a hole so it could find a way up. But it is of no help to Femina. It makes matters worse: What is if she can break the door and can leave the house, but she cannot leave her illness behind???

Suddenly there is silence within and around her and silence in her head. It must be the herald of the one who brings silence once and for all.

A click behind her breaks the stillness startling her as if she was hit by sudden thunder. She turns around and sees a door has opened, gaping at her and tempting her to have a look or come in. It is just a white unadorned unremarkable door, she had not noticed before blending into the white wall without fail. She gets up to follow its call. Inside is a big room, all in white, even the floor-boards have been painted white. It is empty except for a brown wooden bench on the left side wall. It even has a back rest but it does not make it look more comfortable all the same. It stands there like a big brown mouth in a white face that has no eyes or nose. Femina walks in, closing the door shut behind her and sits down. So it is, her waiting-room! Waiting for the crack of dawn, waiting for the stroke of the hour. It is still night and the hangman sleeps but her wait has begun and every minute turns into eternity. She shivers. She feels so cold. The empty room stares at her with the glance of broken eyes and in the silence every cry for help dies, leaving her mouth shut and her heart empty. And yet, she is grateful for this room. There she may find her thoughts again. She needs time to think, she needs to get back her senses. Having lost all control over herself, it can never give her the answers she needs for the final resolution she is after.

So she stares into the emptiness with all her senses anchored on the lightless bottom of a fathomless ocean, keeping her seated, motionless and quiet. And there is nothing that brings help, no voice that tells her something, no thought that opens a way. Hope has disappeared and left her behind like an empty shell. She loses her connection to time. Chilling cold runs through her body until she cannot feel anything anymore. Frozen rivers, ice covered sea.

Femina has found the beach she had been dreaming about, and has been there for weeks now but she has given up the count. Why would she, being as happy as she is? She enjoys every minute, whatever she does; lying in the shade of the palm trees gazing out over the sea, or cooling off in the water, or competing with the fish for a race she could never win. Her skin has turned golden brown and her hair has become lighter in colour, bleached from sun and sea. One glorious day follows the other. She is surrounded by water, white sand and palm trees. Some of them lean over the beach and a few are bent right over the water, with their green heads just high enough above to prevent those from getting wet.

It had not been easy to come here. For days she was hanging around in the harbour, trying to find a boat that could bring her to one of the inhabited atolls, that someone had recommended. But already there, between all the dark skinned people, the smell of fish and the hustle and bustle that comes with any a small harbour like this, and despite all the language problems, she felt relaxed and altogether well.

Remembering some of the experiences she had there, it makes her smile, particularly the one that was subsequently the reason why and how she came to this island where she is now. There she sat on the stairs of the small tea-house, right on the pier, where she waited every day for one of the boats for the atoll that she wanted to go to. It was already midday, and again she was unsuccessful. Having plenty of time to get herself some lunch and not ready yet to turn her back to the harbour for the day, she started to write a letter. But before she even finished the first line inquisitive folks started to surround her, and more and more arrived. There were the big eyes of children and curious fishermen and all of them laughed and watched her every word and move. There was a pushing and shoving and stretching of necks, and the sing-song of the foreign language, and when she finished the letter there was the clapping of applause. She remembers how funny she had found the situation, and it makes her smile all over again every time she thinks about it. A fisherman pulled her arm and insisted she come with him, pointing to the teahouse. She followed after some resistance, and only because all around her just laughed and nodded encouragingly. So there she was in the little room and only fishermen in it. She was sat on a little bench; the fisher who brought her in, joined his fellow men. A roundly native woman appeared and put down in front of her, tea and several plates, all filled with little mouthful of sweets in various shapes and colours. She prompted her to eat and so did all the men. Well, so she did under much friendly encouragement of them all. It was coconut pastry and they were delicious, amazing her in their variety of tastes. Whoever the baker was earned the highest accolades.

She sits up. The sea is dressed in stripes, from the darkest blue to the glassiest green, one stripe behind the other. The palm heads over the water fan their leaves in the soft breeze of the afternoon wind.

She did not have to pay for anything in the teahouse. They just waved her friendly and with big smiles good bye refusing any payment. What can she say! These folk has won her heart there and then. On that day she made a decision that brought her here. She would take the next boat that left the harbour the following morning no matter where it would sail to. The boats left only in the early hours of the morning to travel to the atolls. The inhabitants of these atolls, fishermen mostly, have only sailing boats of the simplest kind. Should the wind suddenly stop breathing they have to row, and that is serious business because they need to navigate the currents of the archipelago in which the atolls lie. To be swept off into the open sea could mean death. The journey to some atolls takes days, to others only hours and it is always depending on the wind. The boats are spacious enough for living on them if need be, but they are not designed for it and lack any such comfort.

Next morning she jumped into a boat that was getting ready to leave taking the fishermen in it by surprise. After some verbal to and fro with the boats captain and lots of gesturing because neither could understand the other, she was to her content allowed to stay. Why wait for something that could not possibly be better than anything she is endeavouring now?! With these friendly fishermen as she had encountered them so far, she doubted that there would be much difference, no matter from which atoll they came from. And they were indeed very nice, arranging for her a comfortable place for the journey.

The boat had benches along the sides and some across, one mast, and oars, being tucked away safely under them. At the back was a small roofed area. It provided some shade, but it was not enclosed and no room was available at all, to find privacy or shelter from rains or storms. All things, bags, sacks, ropes or boxes were securely placed all over the boat along the sides and one could move in the left over spaces in the middle. There was only one sail and that was not new but mended in many places. It did its duty however, fully blown by a steady breeze, it steered the boat through the little waves, rippled by the wind. The mood on board was relaxed and filled with the joyful laughter of the men and the pleasing sounds of their language. They gave her dried fish to eat, from their ration and made tea on a little kerosene stove. The cups were halved and polished coconut shells, which they collected after drinking to put them in a net that they hung overboard into the water for easy but still thorough cleaning as they were dragged along in the current.

It was only a day’s journey, but unforgettable never the less. They arrived at the little island at sunset, where she since has made herself at home. She has not regretted her decision ever. To the contrary! She has no intention what so ever to leave again.

The island is so small that one can walk around it in about an hour. The white sand is everywhere, running like a ribbon along the edges, separating the green of the coconut trees that grow on all the atolls, from the water. But also running right into the water the sand forms and furnishes the whole lagoon. That gives the pristine water perfect clarity and the most incredible hues of green and blue. One can only marvel about the colours on display. In the inner circle of the island are the huts where the people live. Only a few bushes and shrubs can be found, besides the palm trees. They seem to have just one purpose that is to supply the women with bright coloured flowers, so they can adorn themselves with jewels for their beautiful long shiny black hair.

The whole island can be seen as a tiny village but really it is just a settlement, consisting of no more than twenty houses, or palm huts. Not all are occupied, some serve as available lodging for the travellers that journey from one to the other atoll. Every house has a little private area at the back, fenced off from the public pathways and places by a fence of tightly woven coconut leaves. There is always traffic because life goes on outside in the open spaces not in the houses and there is a lot of visiting the neighbours any time, day or night.

The huts are not built close to each other, with plenty of space between them, so each family can feel comfortable, but no huts are found at the beach. It does not matter however, because it is an easy stroll to go there, no more than fifteen minutes if one chooses to take the long way.

The atoll backs on one side right on to the open ocean, separated from it only by a stretch of about twenty or thirty meters of colourful coral reef that suddenly breaks off at the outer edge like a cliff with no sight of any ground below. The other side, within the atoll ring is a lagoon, forming the most incredible swimming-pool that one could think of for the best leisurely bathing and splashing around one could wish for. Every day when she goes to the beach she has to make a decision; – is it for snorkelling and diving or to enjoy the clear waters of the lagoon. Both are unsurpassable pleasure, whereby the underwater world truly is a wonder of the world, indeed a water wonder world with schools of fish from the tiny to the big, from the plain to the most colourful in mind boggling patterns and combinations. To wear stripes and spots in one outfit is left to the truly carefree but here even the most phantastic creation of one’s mind is no match to what is on display. The corals, any other creatures, all life, is of such variety in shapes and colour that one can only be in awe. She see swarms, not just pods, of dolphins, turtles, manta rays and monster fish, she has no name for, and though there are also plenty of sharks, she could not care less. They have the trouble of choice anyway with all the food on offer, why really would one want to make a meal of her? No, no! Nothing can keep her away from this magic world!

Really! Nothing in her mind could make her leave from here altogether. A little girl, to Femina’s surprise, knows a few words of her language. She is such a sweet little thing, trying all the time to teach her the native’s tongue. She also shows her how to look for shells on the beach and where the most beautiful can be found. But in the afternoon, Femina just loves to lie in the white sand, shaded by the palm trees and as close to the water as can be, the clearest water in the world. Nowhere is it so pristine, nowhere is it so turquois green. Nowhere could it be more beautiful.

And above all, these islanders are as wonderful in nature as everything else. How much they make her laugh! That they are an inquisitive folk she already learnt in the harbour, but to what extent, she could only find out since living in their midst. Male or female, young and old, they stick their noses into everything. No bag of hers, no bundle, no box or bottle, nothing, no matter how small, not even books are safe, they inspect everything over and over, in her absence as well, as she has noticed regularly. She has two books, one about the climb of one of the highest mountains in the world and a Yoga instruction book, both full of pictures and practical demonstrations for exercises shown by a Yogi. These books are a favourite past time for them as they sit in groups, hotly discussing and the young ones trying to imitate the postures to the laughter of all as they twist and turn their limbs and bodies. Femina can only laugh with them.

Even the nights do not stop village life. Sometimes she thought herself being alone walking down to the beach to admire the starry skies; she could not be more wrong as she found out. There was always someone around to let everyone know what she was up to. Everybody knows everything, nothing can be hidden or goes unnoticed.

When the nights are too warm for sleeping Femina may also sit in front of her house on the little wooden bench watching the bright lights of the stars blinking in the opening of the palm trees’ canopy. She hardly ever stays alone for long. There are always some awake to join her. The women usually come along carrying their big water pipes and as they take deep puffs the red ember lights up like little fiery balls that bounce through the night on dark paths, accompanied by bubbling sounds as they come closer. Indeed, these people are of an enchanting beauty, but more so the women. They seem to be ageless in their exotic charm and they are very self-confident indeed. Men have to work hard to impress them.

And their curiosity does not stop there that they go through her belongings and sit with her through the night. They observe her every move and activity, even the most personal where she definitely would want privacy. She uses the fenced off area at the rear for washing herself at the well and a far corner as the special ‘restroom’ facility where a big stick is the tool to bury all waste. It took a bit of getting used to knowing that watchful eyes were at the fence peeping, though she could not see them, only hear the whispering and muffled giggling or the rustling in the palm leaves. Well, she is probably as exotic for them as they are to her and they are not shy about all things natural themselves, so she has given up to feel embarrassed.

Time passes by without much notice, except for some change in the daily weather. Not that it caused any problem, not for Femina anyway. There are just clouds two times a day now. At midday, punctually, they bring rain. In fact, for one hour it pours down so heavily that one could believe, island and water was all that existed, water above, and water around, and more water, in which the island floated like a nutshell in an open sea. But then the sun appears again, eagerly lapping up all puddles and droplets and wet patches, and breaking up the flighty rain-clouds as they try to escape, building the most luminescent rainbows ever to be seen. In no time everything looks as if there had never been any change in weather and the deluge was a fabric of one’s mind and imagination.

Then there are the clouds at sunset. It seems, their only duty is to create the most spectacular sunsets, a unique display, every day different, the next always leaving the impression to be the most beautiful, though it simply is impossible to judge as all deserve the title of being the best. Nearly every day she wanders to the beach now to watch the outgoing day’s final performance, the scenes changing daily; one may be glowing red and purple, another orange gold and sulphuric yellow. Softly the palm leaves sway over still water in which the sky can vainly mirror itself, putting doubts into one’s mind, if it was not, after all, a body of pure red gold. This is the only time, and against expectation, that Femina is left to enjoy something all by herself. She only had to say ‘no’ once to one person who wanted to join her and nobody since has tried to join again. It is another reason why she loves these people, they are just beautiful, inside out.

There would be so much more to tell about this place and folk. It is paradise. Nearly perfect. Or has anyone ever heard of a perfect paradise in this world? She has not. And though it deserves the highest marks possible never the less, there are the mosquitos and other many legged tiny parasites to torment her at times! Interestingly, and fortunately, they don’t venture to the beach, they prefer to lurk in the bushes and huts to attack their prey. Once, walking to the beach for the sunset, she let a tiny mosquito sit down on her upper arm, because she found it very peculiar having never seen one alike. It was striped like a zebra with big black shiny round eyes that were in fact reflecting its lust for blood as Femina very quickly found out. This cute little rascal had a damn hard sting and despite her quick reflex to prevent further damage, her arm swell up immediately leaving her with a painful memory for days. She would have never anticipated so much power from such a tiny sweet looking insect. Cute yes, but a little monster no less.

Two other white people have arrived on the island, Allister and Gordon. As a matter of fact, Allister has been living on the atoll for some time and is going to marry a young native woman from here, but Gordon, his friend, is only visiting. Now that explains the little girl’s foreign language knowledge, however limited it was, it had Femina puzzled. Of course, not being able to find out more due to the prevailing language barrier, she had given up wondering for the time being.

The two live in a palm house not far from her. Naturally, they contribute to her own daily entertainment. Allister particularly can fill her in with his knowledge about life on the islands and their inhabitants. As he tells his many experiences, to the amusement of all three of them, his stories are only confirming hers, and are no less positive.

Between Gordon and Femina an affair begins to blossom. Well, he is an attractive man. Tall, broad shoulders, small hips, nicely tanned and though muscular, he is no ‘muscle man’. He is bold, though his face is interesting and his eyes are indeed sensational. These incredible big green iridescent eyes immediately captured her from the moment they met. They are like the sea that surrounds the island, of an intense turquois blue and green, and of the same clarity as the lagoon’s water.

Of course, nothing can be hidden from the curious folks they live with. It provides them with plenty to talk and laugh about. They gossip, with all the pleasure expressed on their faces when they gather to do their daily duties; women preparing the meals; males polishing shells and coral, making beautiful jewellery, which they then try to sell in the main atoll. And when Gordon and she walk passed their eyes light up with gaiety and the faces with big wide smiles as they are calling out to them in cheerful laughter.

The wave of happiness carries Femina high on its crest. She really can only hope that the ride won’t end. The affair intensifies to a relationship. They spend most time together now and though they don’t talk about it particularly, they want to stay together. But as it always is, hoping is one thing, reality another. The archipelago got a new ruler who does not like foreigners staying too long in his dominion. Femina and Gordon have to leave. Not so Allister as he has already converted to the country’s religion in order to marry. He can stay. As sad as they are they cannot get permission, not even an extension until Allister’s wedding, which, though planned, had no set date yet.

As far as they both are concerned there is no intent of leaving each other, though practical reasons still force them to do just that, regardless. Gordon has to take care of some business and so has she. They come from different countries, and though she has no concerns following him, she wants to finish her studies once and for all now, before going on any other adventures. Therefore they decide that he would follow her, but even so, it cannot happen immediately. Besides the personal obstacles that Gordon has to eliminate on his side, there are still the official bureaucratic hurdles on her side that need to be overcome.

Whatever the reasons are, at this stage Femina has to manoeuvre herself through the tumultuous emotions of separation. How she hates it! Both, separation from the island and from Gordon. It is the final ‘good bye’ for the island, but it is also a good bye to Gordon from the island. She calls this experience of separations the ‘walk over glowing coals’. Nothing, absolutely nothing, can make this sweet or less dramatic.

As it was then, a wave of happiness sweeps through her, without a barrier in her body or mind, leaving an impression as if time was standing still. Baba is as always barefoot. His orange lungi bleached from the sun, wrapped around his hips, has one end slung over his shoulder; his hair is covered by a turban of the same washed out color with a couple of strands defiantly escaping their constraint. They are of a light brown color and only a meager hint of the mass of dreadlocks that are hidden away. When allowed to fall freely, they reach far below his back.

She is crazy about his hair though she has never touched it. It is of such an abundance, and despite its felt like matting it has parts of lighter, even golden color weaving through it, leaving an impression of softness and silkiness and of locks rather than tightly rolled strands. The sun has given his skin color, in contrast to his clothing, tanning, rather than having it burnt dark and dry.

Again, she must acknowledge what a beautiful man he is. High forehead, well arched brows, straight nose and full lips, his face a combination of softness and manliness, without a hint of harshness or crudeness that many good-looking male faces show. But something very special are his eyes; they can be anything, – warming fires, still lakes or moonless black nights.

Most of the time he carries his hair bundled into a big knot on top of his head, with many strands still trailing down to his shoulders, but when allowed to fall freely, it is as if a mighty waterfall was cascading over his chest and the back of his body. It changes his face, makes time go the other way, losing the features of maturity and turning it into a young man’s face, with cheerful sparks in the eyes, and an overall contagious joyfulness. But enough of reveling! He is Baba, he is Sadhu! He can be young, he can be old, and he can be this, or that!

He has not moved, still standing, waiting, with his little brass pot and his walking stick in his right hand and a bundle at his feet that really is a blanket in which he carries a few possessions. She gets up, walks over to him with open arms, inviting him to sit down with her, and while she is talking and gesturing, he answers with more smiles. Even as his face brightens there is no sound, because Baba is mute. She knows, sometimes Sadhus commit to silence for a certain period of time, or may give up talking for good. Though she found out some information about him, it is nothing specific. She has no clue, if he will ever speak again and it does not help at all that he can write in order to communicate, because they don’t speak the same language, and their writing is not of the same kind either, meaning, the word is out, spoken and written. They had and obviously still need to use different means to “talk” with each other. She cannot recall this to have been a problem, but naturally there is no way to find out concrete information, nor is it possible to exchange opinions or intellectual thoughts. Of course, that is the purpose of such exercise, as it forces you to go back to basics, eliminating a whole lot of jibber jabber.

Strangely though, at the moment she finds the one-sided conversation awkward, despite Baba having no problem to understand, sitting down with her, as she wanted him to do. But immediately another uncomfortable thought rises: ‘What now? I have nothing to offer him!’

She looks at him, uncertain, raising her hands, empty palms turned up while shrugging her shoulders. He smiles and points to his bundle, then unrolling it and displaying all his treasures. There is no longer a cloud in her head, his smile driving them all away. But even better, – a sudden clarity stops her in her track, just like a parcel had been delivered to her, filled with memory of old: Where she comes from, body-language is a common means of communication. Having not used it regularly for some time, she has somewhat lost the skill, but she has not forgotten it all, and she remembers now that she still had used it at times, though not being actually aware of it. She realizes that she has relied on language as the main tool of communication for far too long. No surprise then that she felt disconcerted before. But language is only an extension of pre-existing skills such as sensations, senses and feelings. She remembers, it was a skill still commonly practiced, besides language.

‘Oh Baba’, her heart raises its beat excitedly, being filled with gratitude and joy. If that is not a reason to celebrate! First the unexpected reunion with him, bringing her a gift from her lost memory; then like a ripple effect, she believes it points to the ring’s function and organization. Most likely it does not demand special skills and no more requirements other than letting senses and emotions do its work. And besides all that, the ‘room of antennas’ belongs to her just as good as she is breathing and she may even have found another way out of the house!

Happily she watches Baba preparing a shilom. He offers her to start it, but she declines. Her lungs would not cope. So he raises it, holding it with both hands, to his forehead, obviously giving thought to the ritual, and then when he is ready she lights it for him. Taking deep breaths he brings the content to burn brightly and evenly, the wisps of smoke curling up and filling the air with a sweet scent. So they celebrate together, enjoying each other’s company. There is no more to desire, nothing they would need, – at least not as far as them both are concerned.

A young man joins them. He seems familiar to her, but he assures that they have never met before. This happens too often for her liking. It frustrates her because it seems her memory plays tricks, remembering things that she ought to have no memory of, but not remembering the things she desperately wants and should be able to. Whatever! It just makes her wonder as ever so often, if or when she will get all her memory back. It was so far such a struggle, so slow a progress and with so many intervals of no progress at all………; – she stops the train of thought. Now is not the time to lament about it, not in Baba’s company and not in presence of this nice young fellow, who, though having the same difficulty of communication as she, is carrying on talking to Baba enthusiastically. He does not hesitate, using hands and body for demonstration. It appears to be successful, because Baba seems to get it and fully enjoys the performance. And so does Femina after all too, wondering however, if this guy actually can stop talking or sit still, ever.

“I am going to Somnia,” says he, turning towards her and pointing his thumb to the back over his shoulder. That is where she has seen the outlines at the far horizon not able to discern what they were, mountains or a city.

“Somnia?” She repeats straining her grey cells. “Is that in Anarchy?”

He nods in confirmation. “But you know, if I really get there, is another question. By the way, did you get the last news?”

She is a bit uncertain about the ‘you know’ and the ‘last news’. She can only presume that he means the last very impressive ring action she witnessed, not understanding what it was all about. She therefore shakes her head.

“Holocaust”, says he solemnly.

“Ph!” She remarks dismissively: “So what!”

He does not seem to like the answer, looking at her with a somewhat strange gaze.

To distract him she asks therefore, if he really had to go to Somnia.

“Not really,” says he, but he smiles and looks dreamily into the distance, continuing: “I might meet somebody there….”

She leaves him to his dreams and looks to Baba. He lies comfortably on the ground, his head resting on the hand of his bent right arm and eyes shining in peaceful amusement. His quietness makes her feel so good. It is as contagious as the other’s vivaciousness. ‘What a wonderful night!’ Above, over the sky wander steadily these colorful shapes, and the warm night is filled with sound. Baba is like the sheltered harbor, where the seafaring folks can rest and recuperate, and she is in the middle of it all, with her boat safely anchored.

“Have you been in Somnia?” asks he.

Slowly she shakes her head but then answers truthfully: “I don’t know”.

He looks at her, puzzled, but continues without asking any questions: “I have been there a few times. It’s great! It’s a real meeting-joint. A long way to get there, because it seems as if you were chasing a Fata Morgana, but definitely worth the while.”

Somnia, Somnia?! She tries again to retrieve more information from her brain, but without success. What her brain spat out before is all she gets. Such a damn thick-head her head! What use is it to own a safe when you can’t open it! And her brain is like tapestry, with lots of colors and as many holes.

“So you think holocaust is pending?” She changes to the other topic just to get away from her problem. She is not perturbed by the possibility of doom, not at the moment anyway where she feels happy inside out. She could not care less if the world fell apart or the house and she in it was blown away for good.

The young man nods. His name is Ian and he is a surfer, having his surfboard with him wherever he goes, as it turns out, when he carries his stuff over to them. With the surfboard to Somnia? She laughs out loud. Baba has never seen such a board and inspects it inquisitively. Ian explains to him what it is good for. It takes a little demonstration to get the point across, to the amusement of Baba and herself. She teases Ian but it does not upset him. He is a ‘sunny boy’, rather preparing a shilom than spoiling his good mood.

“And holocaust?” asks she again.

“I do what I can,” is his answer, but he looks at her with the same strange gaze as he did before. She just laughs and takes the shilom from him without saying more.

“Listen,” continues he instead, “were you serious that you don’t know if you have been in Somnia? If you had been there once, you could not possibly forget!”

She shrugs her shoulders: “One day I woke up and I did not remember anything; neither who I was, nor where I came from and certainly not where I was or should be going. In fact, I am still stumbling through darkness, but I progress.” She stops talking for a brief moment then adding: “….not bad progress either, but it is like you said, I too do what I can. However, just like you don’t know, if or when you will get to Somnia, – neither do I know, if I will ever retrieve my memory, or when.”

He understands and becomes suddenly quiet and serious. Thoughtfully he says: “That must be really awful, – all of a sudden without orientation……..!”

“Yeah,” agrees she, “but it was really more so in the beginning. I guess, I just have got used to it and I do make progress after all. But tell me, how is it with you? You are as good in this terrible building as I am that one cannot leave. Does it not trouble you?”

“Terrible building?” He repeats: “What terrible building? I am on my way to Somnia! I am in no terrible building!” He obviously has no idea what she is talking about.

“So you are free? You can do as you please? Nobody can stop you, force you to do anything you don’t want to do?”

There is this strange gaze again. “Of course!” says he. “Aren’t you?”

Shaking her head, she is close to bursting into tears.

“Don’t lose heart,” says he consolingly, “you will find the answers. You don’t look like a prisoner to me! And right now, I assure you, you are no prisoner, as good as Baba or I aren’t. Ask Baba! He will tell you!”

Looking to Baba she starts to smile again. Asking him? Turning back to Ian she says: “That wouldn’t be easy!”

He grins amused: “Exactly! You know what I mean! Baba a prisoner? Never! But I understand your situation. Without orientation and reference it is a hard time for you, because you would not even know whom or what you can trust or rely on.” He strokes her hands and reassures her. “You will be fine. You are not the helpless type and you are unlikely to throw in the towel because there are obstacles. And honestly, for a prisoner you look too radiant.”

She admits: “Well, I am not suffering, – physically, I mean. But emotionally it is a roller-coaster or like being taken by big waves. Up and down, at times freaking me out, – you know the waves better than me, do I have to say more?”

“I understand,” but, as he is saying it, his eyes light up and drift afar, seemingly being caught up with the mentioning of waves, and sure enough, he starts to come back to them talking about the surf and then telling them stories about his victories and misadventures riding the waves. Baba and Femina are a keen audience because his accounts and performance are funny. He has them laughing all the way.

Femina nearly forgot about the broadcasting going on but not Ian. Suddenly he jumps up stating that he has to join the ring because there was someone messaging whom he greatly adored. He says a name, but Femina has never heard it, so she decides to stay with Baba while Ian disappears. Nobody in her mind has more to say than Baba, even when meditating as he now readies himself to do, sitting up in the lotus posture and eyes half shut. She joins in, but not to meditate, just to let herself being wrapped in his stillness and engulfed by his warmth. She even can see a glow around him that deepens as his silence grows.

Does she really just imagine to be a prisoner? She recalls Dimitri saying, people were just coming and going. Or maybe, she really found another way out the house? She should have investigated this house rather than just focusing on the exit door! She did not actively try to open other doors! Instead, she gave in and let happen what she calls the brainwashing! No one to blame but herself! ‘Mea culpa’, ‘mea culpa!’

Suddenly she regrets to have caused Dimitri and Pia all these troubles. Though she cannot quite forgive Dimitri for his attempt to control her, he is not an evil man and in his world he had not much choice either. Her feelings for him remain however conflictual, but it has less significance. For Pia no such dilemma exists. She loves her, undivided, feelings that are the reflection of what Pia gave her. But she has to admit, she loves them both, just not in the same way.

Ian returns, raving about the guy’s genius he went into the ring for. He again mentions his name and can’t get over it that she does not know him. But names mean nothing, except there is meaning attached to it. That is true for word, or sound, anyway. They are just symbols, which have developed into something as sophisticated as languages for ease of communication. Just to think how birds talk and twitter, or the whales carry their messages over the distance throughout the oceans. And men with all the books and speeches, one can only be in awe, speechless awe, not always can words express what is felt. But words are never the less an excellent tool and she is more than happy to listen to Ian who tries to enthuse her about the person he admires so much. He is successfully putting meaning to the name, and maybe she will remember it. However, she is far more impressed by Ian. He is like the wind, sometimes a breeze, sometimes a whirlwind, sweeping over everything, blowing and stirring high spirited gusts into all things not tied up to take them for a ride at his whim. He certainly could sweep her off her feet, and she would not mind. And Somnia? Ph! Somnia is there and they are here! Nothing to worry about!

Baba is still meditating. She looks at him and loves what she sees and that she is close to him. Never the less, she decides as she had intended to do, to join the ring, and Ian will come with her. He confirms what she had suspected, vibrations are the element of how the broadcasting works. He admits that some practice is required to make the most of it, but, he says, it is nothing that cannot be picked up quickly enough to at least participate. The more one does it the better one gets. Some, he says, are better than others and some are true experts, but the point is, not to see it as a competition, as it does not matter what so ever. It is however important to let the vibrations find their destination without interference of a prejudicial mind. That’s how messages are received. To send vibrations means, they need to be initiated, ‘which is no problem either’, he reckons, as it is like musical notes. You know them, and you can compose.’ But what is with the notes? Are they a problem? ‘No, no,’ insists he, but it might be better if she just starts with the reception and the principles will become very clear, sooner than she may think.’ Hm! It seems to be exactly what she believes in anyway: Practical learning, rather than studying, and experience replacing lectures. But what of the green light? ‘No problem at all,’ says he. ‘It is the wish to be part of the ring. That energy is projected as the green light.’

The simplicity truly impresses her and she finds it even more fantastic than before. She feels of course a bit disadvantaged due to lack of experience. But maybe, by doing it, old knowledge can be retrieved as well. With optimism she steps into the ring and sits down at the next available empty space.

Immediately a sensation of strength and direction surges through her entire body. She crosses her legs and her spine straightens with such determination as if all muscles were keen to give it support. Her eyelids close and the gaze turns inwards. Light flows through her and every cell of her body strives to gain her attention. They adhere to one another like honey-comb, their walls clear and translucent as if they were of the finest glass imaginable, filled with water or fluid like water and in it floating particles wrapped in thin smooth membranes as if they were tiny little parcels waiting to be sent off when the order comes in. She feels weightless, rather a body of light, but not just of green color, but of all colors, from the white light to that of the rainbow with all the possibilities in between. As sounds and color pictures enter her body her own colors change and the cell walls and cells swing in one or the other direction, some cause a ripple others bundle together, but finally all find their way into her brain. There the actions are packed and intense. Every oscillation, every wave is collected, sorted and transported to specific location. If she thought the ring action was fantastic she is even more impressed with her brain. She has never experienced it the way she does now. Being such a small part of her body it has more space in it than any other organ and, in fact it feels as if the whole universe has place in it.

Indeed, it is not difficult to receive whatever is coming over the aether, as long as she concentrates on the action itself and letting it unfold, without censorship or interference by her rational mind. And very quickly she realizes that with the help of concentration she can of course initiate whatever she wants. It allows the step from initiation to mobilization, hence concentration is the key to receiving and broadcasting, the to and fro street, from the outside worlds to the brain and vice versa. Though for the time being she has to content with the more simple actions, deciphering and creating vibrations that is, but it is only a matter of time to get better at it, which she does not want to spend now. She wants more time with Baba.

Returning to their place she finds only Ian’s belongings lying around. Baba is gone. Disappointed she sits down regretting her little excursion that could have been done any time later as good. But despite having a spell of sadness passing over her, it passes quickly. It is a strange thing with Baba. There is always only an immediate relationship with him. When he is gone, she cannot fathom what he actually means to her. And so it is now. He is gone and no reference or relation to him remains. Without him, her mind cannot and does not care to figure him out and neither do her feelings.

She is not alone for long. Ian returns and like the wind he sweeps over her, taking her on a walk as he flies. Hats and caps, leaves and kites and umbrellas, all are fair game to him.

“Where is Baba?” He asks after all. “Is he gone?” She nods.

“Ah,” is all he says, but continues asking her: “And you? What do you want to do?”

She looks at her pale skin on her arms; “I shall go to somewhere, where the sun is shining, somewhere, where the sea is turquoise and the sand of white gold. That’s where I will go.” And she smiles as she sees this picture in her head.

“Yeah,” says he, “that sounds wonderful.” But he adds: “And holocaust?”

She looks at him, puzzled. Then both at the same time exclaim: “I do what I can!” and they burst into laughter. Oh my, they are of the same kind, they could be siblings!

They carry on talking about the station, its functioning and meaning. They agree about its design being extraordinary. But as usual, the simple things can appear complicated to the doubtful and lack of self-confidence may prompt the inquisitive mind to give up before even trying.

”It is crazy not to believe in oneself”, says Ian

“Well yes, but it is more than that,” counters Femina, “it is a catastrophe. And no-one choses that voluntarily!”

He looks at her thoughtfully before he finally agrees. But he continues with some odd if not questionable statements that she finds contradictory the least.

“After all, everyone decides what he does or does not want, in fact, decides ‘All and Nothing’. What you do or don’t do is always only important for you, and if you like it or not, ‘It’ just happens, this way or the other.”

Femina looks at him indignantly. ‘What the hell is he talking about?!’ Didn’t he say he was no prisoner, could do whatever he wanted and nobody or nothing would interfere?

He interprets her look correctly. “No, no, I am not entrapped! But I have not lost my memory either, like you!”

Albeit! She wants to know far more precisely what he means. Talking about self-determination on the one hand, but then stating, ‘it happens anyway, if one likes it or not!’

“You can’t talk about being free when you state at the same time that you have to put up with whatever happens anyway! You are saying that in fact there is no absolute freedom, at least you don’t have it! Or what?”

“No, no,” says he in defense. “Of course absolute freedom exists, but I do not possess it! I still can do whatever I want. I just cannot always chose the circumstances or determine situations. I may have some influence in some but not in others!”

“And who determines that!!??” Her lips curl as she scoffs at him. He must have gone through some brainwashing himself as good as she. “Well now, who is it,” asks she, “who is y o u r God?”

He looks at her with a twinkle in his eyes. Then he raises his arms and moves them around him in wide circles, finally pointing at him. “This, all around, all, including me, that i s God, my God. If you like you can name it differently, like existence, or ‘the being’.

She falls silent, and he does not even interrupt. She admits, he has a point. It is true, one cannot chose the weather for example and circumstances can be out of one’s control. And it is true, one can chose what to do with the given. When it rains, one can decide to sit begrudgingly at home or enjoy a walk in the rain! Indeed, there is freedom….. Besides, she likes his definition of God. She herself sees nature as the only legitimate ruler over her ‘self’.

She smiles at him, appeased. He looks at her, carefully assessing her, or so it seems. Then he asks her curiously: “Do you sometimes have double vision?”

Femina confirms but is surprised: “What made you think that?”

“Because I believe you are one of the eternal society. So am I. We can see, or better perceive, pretence and reality at the same time.”

She breathes out with a long relieving sigh. At times she was worried about this, but she is uncertain about the mentioned society, having never heard anything about it, nor can she remember if she ever had. Ian seems quite sure and willingly he tells her more.

Hm, interesting what he reports about this wandering folk that has no own country, and its citizens moving through space and time, because the cosmos is their true home. Some of the things he talks about sound familiar, but maybe that is due to her agreeing with it, and maybe there is something to it……., but………

She stops speculating. It is wrong to say no so quickly only because she has her doubts.

“I give you some advice,” says Ian. “Don’t disregard the relative. It is as absolute as the absolute is relative.”

Ah, he really is nice, truly wants to help her. But both know too well, it is the own realization that counts. Either way, she needs to retrieve it or find it. She can be told anything by whoever it may be. And she does not just want to believe, she wants to know.

Ian smiles silently. He keeps busy, preparing a shilom for the end of his day. “It will let me fly ahead of my dreams,” says he and chuckles.

And so it is for Femina as she lies down to rest. She looks into a sky that has no stars but colorful pictures of sound, wandering in a steady flow across its entirety. Lying on the warm dry earth her thoughts hurry away, just like the sounds and glowing shapes above.

Femina does not know how long she had been sleeping. It sure was long enough. She is still in the hallway, but it is low lit and uninviting again. A cold drought flows along the stone floor and though it is no more than the breath of chilly nights, it makes her shiver and sad. She watches the to and fro of the softly swinging and dreary shining lamps, but they have nothing new to tell. She is still alone, she is still not free and everything is two-sided.

What did Dimitri call her? An egoistic bitch? Is the cage not golden enough? How could she ever explain to him that she suffers because she was lost, subdued and defenseless? Deep in her soul lies a sadness that does not go away, no matter what she does. It follows her, while she is searching for her memory, like a faithful dog who wants to please his owner. The search gets harder with the passing of time, losing trust and self-confidence under the constant nagging of an ever growing uncomfortable companion by the name of doubt. Sure, her will has not been broken. It is he who pushes her on, keeps her alive. But it is not all just about existence, and as she had been worried about the brainwashing, so it has come, she struggles harder than ever before.

She stands up, her limbs stiff from the cold. ‘Let’s go then,’ she says to herself. The shivering helps her body to fight the chill, and will help her to choose the door to open first, as she begins the in-house exploration. Feeling cold makes the decision easier. What better than to look for something or somewhere warm. She walks along the corridor, touching the doors as she passes, until her senses prompt her to stop. She inspects the door inquisitively. It is just a simple wooden door, nothing special to look at, but on touch it is very different. Solid and of dark smooth shine she feels a soothing warmth as if her hand was gliding over soft velvet. There was no metal handle either, only a wooden knob with rounded shallow furrows, that allows her hand a cozy grip. She gives her brain time to gather information. Pressing her ears against the wood here and there, she can however not discern any sound or noises. Of course, there is always hope that something good lies hidden behind. She even can expect something positive, receiving positive signals. But if she wants to know, she just has to open the door. Her hesitation is not for nothing. After all, in this house nothing is certain or unequivocal, nothing is necessarily what it seems. Whom then to trust but her senses! After all, they deliver facts the judge needs to make up his mind. And so she turns the knob.

The door swings open, easily and without a sound, or the slightest resistance. Warm air rushes against her and darkness of night. She cannot see much at all, but the air is light. It feels like a warm summer night. Entering, the door closes softly behind her, without any noisy sign of finality. A sense of vastness overwhelms her, and with the cold still holding her tight, she lets herself down to the ground. Leaning against the door with eyes closed, her body can get rid of the cold in comfort, and her eyes can adjust to the dark. Her senses however are very alert. There are vibrations in the air touching her skin, and in the ground, she sits on. She hears faint sounds of a purity that make her cells swing. She also suspects someone has lit torches as she can see the flicker of light through her closed eyes. With the cold slowly leaving, curiosity wakens, and she looks up.

It confirms what her senses suggested. She has not entered a room. In fact, she sits on a dry warm earthy ground and in front of her lies wide open land with a night blue sky above. Far in the distance she sees a shiny green phosphorescent dome, reaching high up, and covering an extensive round of land, or so it seems. Above it, in the velvet skies, colored lights flare up as if there were Northern lights or summer lightening, but it is neither. Whatever it is, is just amazing, bizarre, and yet fantastic. A nightly ‘Fata Morgana’ perhaps? She pinches herself to make sure she is not dreaming after all. She isn’t. She is awake.

Femina gets up. She likes what she sees, and that is where she will go. She walks off in a strong steady pace, made easy by the carpet of dry grass that covers the ground. The closer she comes to the dome, the more wondrous the night becomes, and everything in it. In the blue of the nightly sky dance and glide figures and shapes, in glowing colors of varying forms and multitude, sometimes in clear patterns, other times in single rows, then again in bizarre combinations. They are accompanied by or connected to sound. They seem to emerge from the depths of the sky, wandering towards the dome, while others float out from the top of the cupola to drift away until they disappear somewhere in the distance or descend beyond the horizon.

The closer she gets, the more vibrations fill the air, and the clearer are the sounds. Indeed, these forms are glowing shapes of sound and color, moving through the space of night like iridescent soap-bubbles that delight young and old. Of course, the happy shouting of children is not around, but the sound that is present, made of clear and simple tones, is not only sweet to listen to but has a quality that transcends space and time. It seems to influence the intensity of the glowing colors, though it may be the other way round. Travelling towards their destination, this way or that way, to this shore or the other, filling the nightly sky, one could easily imagine being in an exotic aviary with numerous flocks of colorful birds swirling and fluttering and singing strange but wonderful songs. Obviously, the dome is of particular significance. Everything strives to it and comes from it, as if it were a living organism breathing color and speaking in tones. Sometimes the night holds its darkness and the earth keeps still, but the dome’s iridescent green light shines on, with some variation of brightness though really of negligible difference.

The closer she gets the more details appear. Not that this helps her as much as she thought it would. Towards the horizon behind the dome serrated outlines appear. They may be from a distant mountain range or just mountains or even a city. The dome is no solid structure either, not even glass. It is of pure light, green phosphorescent light which appears, seen from the distance, as a glass dome filled with light. It lies over a huge circular of the grassy land, marked by a wide ring defining its border circumference and in which Femina sees vague shapes moving, or motion creating patterns alluding to shapes. There could be shrubs, trees, pillars or even light posts reflecting the changing displays of the skies above. Strange as it may seem though, she believes there is only one reasonable conclusion; this is a plant for broadcasting or an information exchange. All this sounds and light forms coming and going like waves, rippling the surface of the night’s blue ocean; someone sending smoke signals to be seen far away; someone sending waves of sounds not only to heaven but also through the sea of stone and earth. It must be a station for communication purposes, or what else?

Already close enough to be caught in the radiating shine of the green light, her bewilderment grows even bigger. Logic cannot explain, nor proof that she is dealing with reality and not just an illusion that may disappear at any time. Or maybe she has hallucinations, making her believe there is reality when there isn’t.

Poor brain, it has no choice than letting doubt take control. But whatever she experiences, – what she sees confirms: This is a broadcasting and receiver plant though the radio towers and antennas are not of metal, they are humans. Lots of them. People form the ring with rows and rows of people, like human chains, one behind the other. More or less regular, they are the wide ring, skirting the round base, over which the dome diffuses its shine. Since Femina is now too close to see the whole layout, she is sure glad that the initial distance gave her the wider perspective as it permits overall conclusions observing a smaller but close part.

The movement she saw was in fact the coming and going of people to and from the ring. Their numbers vary, and even the rows change, most likely depending on how many want to actively participate. There are people who replace others, then there are the ones who just simply fill in open spaces, some are waiting for others to leave, some are moving in groups, others are by themselves. There are no obvious rules how this is organized. However, as soon as a person sits down, a green beam of light emerges from them as if they had floodlights that could be switched on, by them, or whoever. Or maybe these people are the light source themselves, like the glowworms that swarm in warm summer nights, bringing the magic of the stars down to earth as they dance and flurry.

Femina loses patience with her grey cells. She rushes on until she is immediately at the ring to get the best view. She had to make her way through an increasing number of people gathered in the surrounding areas of the ring. She noticed groups of all sizes and single individuals. Some had prepared well, sitting on blankets and having food and drinks to share; not like her, who had only brought herself. Obviously, the grounds outside the ring serve as a resting zone, but the coming and going to the ring and from it, was like a steady trickle and flow. She paid not too much attention to any of it as she was too curious about the action in the ring.

Within the ring the people sit close enough to each other to give hands if they wish. Most are in the lotus position, having their eyes closed, or so it appears, but all backs are turned to the outside, all faces to the inside circle. From them rise, like breath in cold nights, vapors of colorful lights, swirling upwards on the green rays of light, gathering to garlands until they form in the dome’s ceiling the final shapes and shiny figures that finally flow out into the night’s blue sky to begin their journey. The sounds accompanying them, are just as much coming from the people, humming and chanting, or singing canons. The rich simple tones weave their own patterns of melody or they just intertwine to harmonious strands. The sound forms, entering from the outside heaven into the dome’s light, travel down on the outer side of the green light beams, to the back of the heads of the people where they disappear. The green light is like a road serving the traffic of transmission, and everyone in the ring is sender as well as receiver.

Though the green light shines all the time, the same does not apply to the broadcasting or transmission activities. Sometimes only single people breathe out the colored vapors, other times there are groups or sections of the ring, and it varies from a lot to just a few. The ring is like a switchboard with in-numerous knobs, lighting up in color, as they are activated. It must be quite a view from above.

But there is something else she finds odd, and nothing provides a clue to the why. People do not fill the whole circle. The ring rather expands outwards; and the inner circle is lit by white light, or day light. The ring builds the green shiny walls of the dome, separating the blue night outside from the bright clear day inside. Though the wall’s dimension can vary, it is there where the main action takes place, like the wall of a cell through which an exchange is made.

She also observes that communication between the people in the ring is well and truly happening. Not as much verbally as it is through touch, particularly by holding hands, though all other senses would be part of it. It means that every person literally is a transmitter, transformer, and a messenger as well. May be some are better than others in whatever they are doing but clearly everyone is important. Radiating off the green light is the crucial element and the basis for the plant’s functioning.

What the sound and color shapes actually mean remains unanswered too. Femina has no idea, but the display is more than impressive, and magical. It touches her deeply and without fail it raises an array of feelings, particularly of longing, that is not even well defined. Oh you poor soul, how relentless do you treat yourself! Why so timid? Why so confused? You can feel, you can express, you can pass on, just the same. You can participate, if that is what your heart desires. Why not? What do you need? A public invitation? An official permission? Surely not! There is nobody who dictates, no one who governs! It is you who creates the barrier! But the poor soul seeks understanding, being so alone and, not even having a torch, not to mention floodlights. That is the problem! But Femina rebuffs. Nonsense! Doubt has no place as a self-defeating operator. Sure, feeling lonely and insecure is indeed sad, but after all, these are feelings, and they do change. Yes, poor soul, your suffering is real, but you do not need to let yourself drown in it.

Her thoughts get interrupted. Heaven is suddenly in turmoil. It flickers and flashes from colorful lightning, fireworks illuminate the night. A medley of sounds, whirls of tones, all seem to strive for undivided attention. The people in the ring stretch out their arms to clasp the hands together. Their bodies seem to pulsate. A deep hum arises and the green light gets stronger and more iridescent than it had been before. The crescendo of color and sound makes Femina’s heart beat faster and fervently. Though not knowing what was going on, she sure knows it must be something important, let alone, everyone rushing into the ring. New chains are forming and the ring tightens, all actions unify. Countless bodies, weaving and swaying, they look like an ocean, whipped by winds, with waves rolling and billows surging.

Femina’s heart feels the ring’s rhythm and pulse. In fact, it is quite impossible not to, with the ground and air vibrating and all senses being bombarded as if they were under a shower of meteorites. When earth settles down again and the signals from the sky quieten, the ring opens up with many people leaving. Some wander off into the night, others return to the resting areas. But the broadcasting continues. It may be less frequent but none the less intense. The colors and sounds are actually brighter and stronger. It is not even necessary to pay full attention to them. Light and sound find their way without fail, independently and unstoppable, through all and everything. Integration is no problem at all.

Femina walks away from the ring to take a rest herself. After standing for some time she needs to sit down, giving her also the opportunity to check out the crowd. She has no intention to leave this place soon. To the contrary, she will go into the ring some when later and despite her lack of understanding what this is all about. ‘Trying beats studying any time,’ she reckons. Besides, her curiosity would not let her move on before she had investigated all she could.

She turns her interest to her immediate neighborhood, the people who had just come out of the ring. There are a few singles, but the majority consists of smaller and bigger groups with the odd couple here and there. They are a friendly crowd. Nobody eyes her with disapproval or pity, nor does anyone try to strike up an unwelcome conversation with her. They are themselves a mixed bag. Some wear good shoes for walking, others are barefoot; there are women in trousers and men in sarongs; some are white skinned, others dark. They are of varied cultures and backgrounds and all ages as well. Femina feels very comfortable among them, in fact better than that. It is a kind of happiness she has not felt for a long time. So what, if this is a fata morgana or an illusion or hallucination! It is a warm summer night filled with magic. It would be a missed opportunity and unforgivable not to enjoy it.

Turning her head she notices a figure that had stopped close by. A sound of delight escapes her. It is Baba! He, here? Extraordinary! But what a wonderful surprise! Recognizing each other, they laugh. He stands there, utterly relaxed, waiting. His smile as wide, he all the same, as it, as he was when she met him the first time, high in the mountains, on one of the trekking routes, in fact, the first one, she had chosen, from the many that were to follow.

Femina must accept that she still cannot leave this house. Not giving up hope, she decides, she is better off, not to spend time in frustration but rather fill it with things she is interested in. Being always thirsty for knowledge she enrolls into one of the highest educational centers of its kind that emphasizes on science and critical thought, in fact, encouraging it. The lecturers don’t care what private life their students have, as long as they take their subjects seriously and pass the rigorous exams. She can live with that as it allows her to let her mind fly, instead of being forced to press it into a certain mold.

She has not much money to live on. Pia supports her as well as she can. Dimitri stays true to his word, he does not want to have anything to do with her. She keeps it that way, even after she has been given the certificate of her independence. The time of brainwashing is thus confirmed, and its end officially approved. Now she has the permission to live openly independent from her friends.

Femina moves into a small unit close to the teaching center and picks up some occasional jobs to improve her finances. Due to her studies she is also allowed to travel abroad. They even give her an identification card and a log book for that matter. Soon it is filled with many foreign stamps for she travels a lot. It raises her spirit, and helps her to bear the fact so much better that she still has to live in the ‘cage’. But at present she cannot complain; despite little money, her life is interesting and good indeed.

There is also a reconciliation with Dimitri, thanks to Pia’s mediating activities. Pia is such a loving soul, she cannot tolerate their grievances. The reestablished connection does not make for a close relationship but, it is good enough. They avoid quarrels respecting the other’s opinion without attempting to change it. That she does not receive any help from him is of course advantageous as it gives him no control over her, of any kind. She is however grateful to him for letting her go when he did, without informing the officials as he could have, in fact, was even expected to do. It was quite a feat, because he was and still is a man of control. She knows now, that it is not easy for Pia to be with him, but regardless, Pia would never listen to her, nor be willing to change anything really. It is best left to them as a couple and Femina avoids to come between them. Of course, Pia has a special place in her heart, and their bonds are very strong, but Dimitri has one too, just not as close. However, it is best not to create problems for them, she has sure given them enough.

Femina has met many new people, but she remains distanced. There is nobody whom she really trusts. Besides, she loves to live on her own, no matter how much cheaper it would be to live in shared accommodation. Her independence, her autonomy are sacrosanct. That is until she meets a young man who changes her mind. What a gorgeous type! Tall, sporty physique and chiseled face, with a mane of blond hair and clear blue eyes; and above all, intelligent and of such a self-assured arrogance that sets him apart from his peers, and acts like a magnet on the other sex, including her.

They fall for each other in an instant and their love is hot and passionate. They decide to move in together to maximize their time because he is working and any minute apart, they believe, is time lost.

Well, the relationship turns out to be heaven and hell, and ends after all in disaster. He, unfortunately, suffers from jealousy. Worse, he takes the liberty to flirt with other women, quite openly, but reacts with rage, if she dares to do the same as innocently it may be. Though he wants her to be attractive by all means. He even goes shopping with her and buys her exquisite outfits and everything that goes with it, as he does for himself; even his jeans are designer labels. And she is never bored with him, whether being by themselves, or in company. Both have a wide circle of friends of various kinds, it does not matter in which they mingle, but going home from social outings too often ends in a fight, him accusing her of having been too interested in one or the other man. She sometimes wonders how he manages to observe her while enjoying himself.

It does not take long and she has enough of being his trophy, who is expected to tolerate his flirtatious attitude while having to endure his aggression. She does not even believe anymore that he actually loves her, and though she does not believe he has any affairs, she does not exclude it either. But more importantly, her feelings have changed. She cannot tolerate his double standards and his magnetism has gradually disappeared. She still values him for what he is, but it is not unconditional love. This is not possible, not while she lives with him.

The end is dramatic. She chooses a time to break the news, when she is not alone with him, having some premonition that he may lose control, or deal with the break-up poorly. A friend of his is staying with them for a few days. He may be a good support; just in case. But it comes worse than she would ever have thought.

Initially he does not believe her, but when he finally understands, he does not say a word. Instead he gets up, goes into the kitchen and comes back with a big knife. He is completely calm, does not look at her, looking right through her, but in his eyes lies an emptiness, an abyss, deep and dark, no light can penetrate. She shudders. His face is pale and motionless as if all life had drained away leaving an empty shell. The silence seizes her heart with a tight grip. She jumps off her chair out of his way as if struck by lightning, but he just sits down, puts the knife in front of him on the table, and looks at it as if he was calculating in cold blood, how best to use it.

She runs to the door, shouting, to get the attention of his friend who immediately appears. Alarmed, he rushes to his friend’s side, taking possession of the knife, and handing it to Femina, out of harm’s way. He tries to get his friend talking to bring him back to life.

Femina leaves them alone. She packs a bag with some essentials. She will move into a hotel, for now. She cannot think or feel, all her actions take place automatically. She too suffered a shock. Before she leaves she ensures that no help from her is warranted. The situations seems to be reasonably under control. Standing in the door she hears him sobbing. She does not see his face as his back is turned her way, but the friend has one arm around his shoulders and nods to Femina in agreement that the danger is over. She informs them of her intention, and says her goodbye, for now, – and for good.

It seems she has not much luck with men. Promising in the beginning but not in the long run. Happiness? Does it still exist? May be not. She sure was happy some when, long time ago and somewhere else, not here. May be there is a curse on her? But most likely it is the house. Everything connected with it is covered by its invisible net, binding all to its existence.

She decides to go abroad again. This time for longer, not just weeks. She has no commitments to keep. Her studies are more or less completed, the things she needs to do, do not require her presence at the center. Besides, she has no place to live.

The lamps in the hallway are always lit, no matter if it is night or day. In daylight, they are mere yellow glowing dots. Sitting in the corridor, as on occasion before, she wonders. She should know the passage by now, but it is not always the same and can bring unexpected surprises. Though it is always draughty and the stone floor cold, in the light of the day, as it is now, it looks quite pretty, and even friendly. All these doors, amazingly containing all these different worlds, or so it seems. Nothing, however, is a given. The doors change their appearance and their numbers also may vary. She is not sure about them, anything really. The exception is the exit door. That is always the same; big shiny steel wings, closed tightly. And also the windows with their frosted glass remain shut, without offering a glimpse to the outside. And unchanged is her longing to be able to leave this place. It does not matter that she actually has not explored the house, nor that the outside may not be as desirable as she hopes. She is driven to find her memory, which, she believes, she will never find in here; because, no matter where she goes, she ends up just where she is, – here in the hallway, on its stone cold floor.

What is it with her thick walled skull that locks away something she so urgently needs? Sitting on it like a dragon on its treasure. She needs this treasure, what good is it for the skull! There it allows to let her thoughts fly within like whirling snowflakes in a winter storm, but the most important is not amongst them. That is hidden away in the deepest dungeon of the castle.

What is it with men that give her false expectations? Men may be a box of sweet chocolates; you only can guess their filling, and you have to eat them before you know.

She puts her arms around her bent knees, lies the head down on them. Not being able to leave this building, she better starts to explore it after all. But not now. She is tired, too tired to get up and look for a door she wants to open. So far, the doors were offering some reason for her to enter, but doing it on her own initiative is different. Some doors might be better left closed, isn’t it? Who knows what they may hide? Ah, here it goes! What good does it do to let her skull be filled with fears? The same applies as before; she has nothing to lose but her life, and that is of little value, being imprisoned and without her memory.

Yes, she is tired. Why hurry? The doors won’t run away. She closes her eyes, takes her thoughts along a picture gallery of her travels. She sees mountains she walked on, she sees the turquoise sea. She sees meadows of flowers and snow flurries, sandstorms and rainforests. And she looks into smiling eyes and laughing faces, no matter what color they are. Slowly she glides into sleep. Why dreaming of loathsomeness, it is enough that it exists. She does not even have reason for unhappiness. She deceives herself. The dreams tell her what is true. Reality exposes itself by its illusion. The sleep prevents carefully everything that could disturb his reign. He holds her lovingly in his arms, dark and warm, and peacefully, and time loses all command.

The corridor is terribly cold. The lamps shine ever so tired if not worse. She has slipped out into this unfriendly passage to investigate again if there was not after all a way out of this house. But it is as before, no change or indication of change. Or is it? She stops hearing voices coming from one of the other doors. So far she had not been interested in exploring any of them as they did not promise anything she was interested in, mainly how to get out of here. But maybe she is wrong and there is another possibility though not an obvious one. She should at least investigate.

She follows the voices and stops in front of a simple wooden door that lies in the shadow of an already poorly lit hall-way. There is quite a bit of noise and commotion coming from behind. She puts her ear on the wood and clearly hears several voices carrying on amongst the clambering of dishes and glasses. She cannot understand what they say but whatever it is, her curiosity wins over any caution and she pushes the handle down not concerned about the little click it makes. Surely nobody inside would be hearing it!

She opens the door far enough to get a good glance into and is bewildered. There is a fine dining event going on with all the signs of being an upper class affair. Lit chandeliers hang over the long table, crystal glasses sparkle amongst fine china, and servants in posh uniforms run to and fro. The ladies wear glamourous evening gowns and the men are in their formals and very gallant. On the further end the company is vividly engaged in talking with each other, while most of the other are quietly eating and mainly interested in their food. The table is laden with culinary delights. One would be stupid not to want to join such a feast! She spots an empty chair and makes up her mind that it is just the place for her. After all, one needs to party when the opportunity rises. She loves a good party any time. But it does not turn out the way she expects. Firstly the servants try to hold her up. ‘She was not invited’, they say, ‘she does not belong.’ What do they know!

“Hold your reigns!” she tells them. “You don’t know who I am! I am the Comtezza Crème de la Crème!!!”

They hesitate. But as she takes the seat in confident manner and nobody of the company protesting either they finally let her be and serve her as well. Sadly there is another obstacle keeping her from enjoying the feed. The delicatessens of the banquet are inedible. They are in fact made of colored paper pulp. But these people eat them as if they were the real thing! Well they obviously eat with their eyes only, the food looks real enough, but it tastes exactly of what it is, p a p e r p u l p !

She grabs a decanter with water not even considering the whine to be worth the try. She fills her glass and takes a sip. It is water and tastes good, so she empties it in one go. After all, the table offers something valuable though not as expected. She leans back in her seat and pays attention to the gathered company. She listens into their conversations. The current topic is the hunt. Well, this is obviously a society that likes to blunder.

The woman next to her turns suddenly to her. After having been eyed long enough by her she says: “Ah my dear, what an exciting dress you wear! Tres chic, tres chic! You know, in Saturnia this is the latest fashion. Or did you just come from there?”

Femina looks down on her. She still wears jeans and a T-shirt. But if her seat-neighbor thinks this is Saturnia’s dernier cri, so be it. She is not going to argue.

“Ah, you come from Saturnia? How interesting!” The guy seated next to her on the other side takes up the conversation obviously having heard only half of what had been said.

“No, no! I come from next door!” She exclaims, trying to stop any further pointless discussion.

But the neighbor continues undeterred: “That’s good! You are in good luck, because in Saturnia they have currently nothing but troubles, social troubles! They had to invoke a curfew just recently!”

“Ah, never mind!” Madam Bling counters. “You should see their officers! They are so charming, and really strappy!” Her eyes gleam revealingly.

The man being interrupted in his attempt to strike a conversation seems to get nervous. He clears his throat and has suddenly a twitching eye. ‘He’s probably impotent!’ thinks Femina, ‘why else would he be reacting like that!’

She scans the rest of the people at the table for any pretty face. But she cannot find one. Neither the robes, nor the jewels, nor make-up can save them. They are ugly, no matter what they do. No surprise really! Paper pulp eaters!!!

She has enough of them, but just as she wants to leave a little ensemble appears to give a performance. They are the wandering travelers’ kind keeping everything simple and basic, but their cloths are colorful and they are brilliant performers and comedians. They are also beautiful people with passion in their eyes and strength in their blood. Femina can feel their heart beating and somehow she cannot help but think that she knows them. She surges in their faces but has finally to resign to the fact that she has never seen them before however familiar they may seem. Anyway, the fiddler of the troop has caught her particular interest. She definitely wants to get to know him. That is no problem as he is interested in her too.

She is the only one who enjoys the performance and indeed the only one who applauds. Obviously the noble diners find nothing to laugh about. Femina understands them knowing what they eat.

When the troop leaves she joins them and stays with them for the days to come. Strictly speaking it is for the nights to come because during the day she attends the education center to avoid giving rise to any suspicions. But as soon as the night falls she disappears to the city’s outskirts and the caravan park where her friends reside. It is an intensive, beautiful time she spends with them, filled with intoxicating romance and sobering passion. Sadly they have to move on too soon for her liking but council has given them the order.

Femina finds it hard to let go of them. It seems as if they were taking all life with it. Against better reason she says to her violin player that she wants to come with him. He looks at her long and deep but then he shakes his head. “You look for freedom”, he says, “it is not me you want. And how would you be able to adjust to our way of life, live according to our rules?”

He is of course right. No need to answer. Of course, she is a bit disappointed that he does not find a reason to take her with him. On the other hand she is grateful that he keeps his cool. He will therefore always have a special place in her heart. Besides, she certainly has no sympathy for nor wants to adjust to someone else’s rules. So she says her good byes, and waves after them as one caravan after the other leaves the park.