Content warning: Sexual Assault. -Ed.
Response to Delivery One
It has arisen in me the feeling of the mask.
The feeling of Celia saying, “Go into your protective shield of rampant happiness [the mask] and stop molesting me.”
The disintegrated soul molests itself. Feminine, technological aspects, masculine and lies, fronts, protective shields.
This piece by you [my friend John] is dark and hypnotic. Memory shades away, memory fronts, memory and storage, space disconnected, space and clutter. Guilt. The clarity of the discombobulation, the ending where the characters are revealed to not be serious.
It seems post-modern, fractured, can it not take itself seriously? Is this meta-disillusion only part of a greater illusion.
The mask is not serious, the innards of soul and spirit are serious. You are scraping away illusions, confusions.
You are like the wind, but a solidity of spirit surely? Perhaps I aspire to be like the rocks, and you like the wind, but maybe these are just the same.
Isaac Nakone’s response to the 2023 February Delivery
Genesis
Way out in the boondocks beyond where day-trippers go, an old man lives with his wife, a solitary satisfied life.
The old man feels an aspect of himself that wants to be born. The old man gives that aspect an identity: The Old Writer Man. In birthing that Old Writer Man, the actual old man becomes an Author.
An author is “the person who originated or gave existence to anything” and whose authorship determines responsibility for what was created.
Magill, Frank N. (1974). Cyclopedia of World Authors. Vol. I, II, III (revised ed.). Inglewood Cliffs, New Jersey: Salem Press. pp. 1–1973. [A compilation of the bibliographies and short biographies of notable authors up to 1974.], as quoted by Wikipedia.
The Game of the responsible originating Author, and of the originated quasi-fictional Old Writer Man, is to feel into each aspect of themself, conflating each with the other, conflating fact with fiction, stirring the pot thus delivering soup, weaving it all together thus delivering tapestry, delivering saga, delivering life to characters, delivering deconstruction of missionary position writing practice memes, delivering inner currents of flow, and feeling the Goodness of that Flow.
The author externalises himself, as he imagines the old writer man imagining. The character created inherits the conscious and unconscious aspects of the author. The author and the created character work like a duo of collaborating collage artists. The author provides aspects of himself to his created character – aspects he was born with, and aspects that have arisen as he journeyed through life. Even aspects that may develop in the future.
The game is to identify and isolate into a discrete entity, each aspectual conjunction of energies that can be formed.
And then, to name each of those entities as they form. To begin with the Author gives the name Gavin to the Old Writer Man who is his fictionalised externalised self, but perhaps not quite. The Author and the character named Gavin are not exactly congruent. Some of the aspects inherited by Gavin may be actually, total fiction. There may be no disclosure of those differences as we proceed.
And then, to continue the game, the joy is to put each of those named entities into digital form, with varying degrees of fictionality for the sake of opacity.
And then, to let those entities out into the wild.
So that, in the process, the fictional Old Writer Man comes to know himself even further. As does the actual old man who is writing up the old writer man, sitting in their writing studio. Writing together as one.
The old man creates the writer man, as an aspect of himself. The writer creates characters. The characters are aspects of the writer, as they are of the old man. And the writing goes on. Cascading down to the reader through multiple screens of varying degrees of opacity.
And the reader comes to know themself, with varying degrees of clarity, via their own interpretations. Why else might we all be here for?
Some of those readers recognise their own interpretative bent, and thus begin to focus less on the strengths and weakness of the writing being delivered, or even on the story, and are drawn by their own arising of inner attention into the aspects of themselves that are woken by the writing.
And thus some who are able to change that perspective of what is going on here, move into knowing themselves more, and for some of those willing to take that inner journey, they see the value in giving Literary Life to those interpretations and those aspects of themselves, and thus a new Delivery Writer may be born.
But for every inward looking writer that is born, 10 outward looking commentators may be born.
Somehow we Delivery Writers manage to continue our journey. For our purpose may be to awaken the joy of delivering soul writing, void of inherited notions of book or even of story, or even of critique, or of income, in ourselves primarily, and in others as a bonus. We take The Road the Beats took, and each inward looking writer that responds to our prose, is a fellow traveller for a time on That Road.
I, Gavin, the originated Old Writer Man have now mapped the trans-dimensional terrain, and I thank the Author for that mapping that has flowed through to me via my muse. The identity of the Author is a mystery to me. I only know that without them, I would not be here. I declare this account as Genesis.
The writer reviews his creation, and his inner editor peers at the screen through his eyes. Together they mutter, yes, viable desirable product, let’s call it a wrap at Iteration 2.711.1
The writer’s inner publisher nods their head and hits, ‘Deliver’.
And as a side-effect, ‘Delivery Writer’ becomes a Thing.
And a reader who happens to be strolling by, reads it and mutters, ‘Cascading Opacity’, WTF does that mean.
As is often the case, his wife, Gloria, is in her room, variously researching Jungian Genealogy, reading her husband’s prose as he delivers it, and chatting with her friends on Messenger. At times she texts her husband, even though he is only in the next room.
Gloria: Nothing is coming through here now, after that Cascading Opacity thing like an essay, or scripture. Even I cannot quite work out who is who in it. Seems quite a porous line between you and the Author. Almost religious. Genesis? Really? I felt like saying ‘Amen’. Strange you believe you were created by some Author. Or at least wrote as if you believe that. And, ‘missionary position writing practice memes’? All so strange. What does it all mean?
Gavin: Strange. Really strange. Sometimes meaning is only hinted at. The reader is invited to wait. And this thing just beginning could get stranger and stranger. Some of my beliefs are really strange. Or maybe I don’t actually have any beliefs at all. I just write. Can you cope?
Gloria: I will try my best DearOne. And, did you turn off the StoryCloud? Where’s Celia? The readers want solid uninterrupted story, a protagonist, a journey, and Celia is that.
Gavin: Reader, not readers. The Muse is meditating. We wait.
Gloria: Holy Waiting State, Batman.
Gavin: Solid, right on, and far out.
Gloria: I wait. My toes are curling with the ecstasy of wait.
Gavin: I’m ready.
Gloria: Me too.
Gavin: Read the screen.
Story Section: Background to Celia Meeting William
Gloria: Ohhh. The screen is moving. It’s a section title, announcing some sort of backgrounding. Is it going to be part of the delivery or sort of like your own notes. Writers don’t usually deliver Backgrounding inside their stories, you know.
Gavin: I know nothing but what The Muse commands me to write. She commanded me to write Genesis, now she commands me to write Background.
Gloria: I know. You only write what the Muse tells you to write. Keep it up.
Gavin: Later for that. I can keep it up. Sure.
Gloria: My toes are moist.
The Muse has her own mind. She wants the Backgrounding to lead. Gavin sighs. He may lose his reader. He feels into that, shrugs his shoulders, and his fingers begin to type, as his muse dictates, at first in evocative imagery, and then in fully considered sentences:
She first met William at a Church Youth Group when she was a teenager. He was the youth pastor.
As she matured towards becoming a young woman she noticed he sometimes looked at her with what might be pastoral interest, or might be something else.
She assumed that what she had been told was true, that men only want one thing. And if in fact he did want that something it was not because of any quality inside herself, it was only due to the fixations of the male mind. And testosterone.
He never stepped out of line, though, and she began to trust him, and take him into her confidence about some of the things that young women wrestle with. But she never gave away too much. Just enough for him to know she was lacking confidence in herself, and she had difficulty making conversation, and that sometimes she got a bit depressed.
He usually listened, with a demeanour of caring, and sometimes would give her a verse from the Bible to console her.
At that time she had not yet learned to cry in the presence of another person, and she assumed emotions were best kept to ourselves, and accepted that communication should not get too deep, that a lot of aspects of personal issues are best left unsaid.
And of course he was a man, perhaps already 25, and she was a young girl of 16, learning to be a woman.
Her friends told her to stay away from him completely. Men could not be trusted with little intimacies. Best to keep it within our girls’ circles. But she never could quite let go of her own felt need to pass her doubts and wonderings past the ears of a man who would see things from their point of view.
And, in the back of her mind still, the reaching out through the Authority of a human man for the Word of God.
She accepted that her increasing trouble with depression was best dealt with by pulling herself up, getting over it, and immersing herself in the fun of the group. But she was always just a little out of her comfort zone.
At 17 she had a bad experience with a slightly older boy, and blamed herself for that, and found it even harder to join in group activities.
And as she approached 18, she found no comfort at all in the group activities and increasingly isolated herself, in the little flat she had moved to when her father and mother had separated.
She began to question her religious faith.
Writer’s World: The Three-Legged Wooden Stool
The old writer man’s mind is going back to the days so long ago when he began to question his own religious faith. He is in no hurry with the writing so he sits for a time, feeling how that absolving of the need for authoritative religion went for him. He notices his faith now is unwavering. But it can hardly be called a religious faith. More like an existential faith.
‘Faith in what?’, he wonders. Faith in existence? Faith in my own existence? Where did that faith come from anyhow. It did not use to be here. All those years, doubting my own value. How did this faith arise?
He receives no answer from himself.
He knows he will write more on this. He has to. The muse has told him that much. Celia, as a young woman, is battling her own religiously induced trauma. And, as if one thing, not two, her own sexual molestation induced trauma is interwoven. And that connects into her own alienation through the absolute givenness of her neurodivergent mind. Multiple inextricable strands of traumatic lived experience.
“And I’m taking on the task of conveying that multi-headed Hydra. To who? Myself? Gloria? To Passerby?”
Celia is his Avatar of course, nobody is pretending otherwise.
Gloria comes out of her room and sits on the three-legged wooden stool that always is at the end of Gavin’s writing desk. Decades ago, he hand-crafted the stool himself in a woodworking workshop, and it is one of his most precious possessions. It symbolises listening, to him. It symbolises faith, to him. It symbolises the self-responsibility, even the sovereignty of, creative endeavour.
Sometimes he sits on his self-crafted wooden stool, and he feels magic in it. The magic of self-reflection perhaps. The magic of self-creation perhaps. Perhaps even the magic of self-arising universes. He wonders about string theory and multiverses. His mind seems unbounded at times and he needs to allow it free-flow, and he needs to reign it in. Both.
And sometimes as he sits on his three-legged throne, he looks at his writing-tech setup as if he is an outsider. He mumbles questions to himself like:
“Writer man, Why do you write, anyhow?”
But this time his wife is on the magical querying seat. Her body is relaxed. She is playful with the one she loves.
Gloria: Remind me again DearOne, why do you write?
Gavin: Some say the purpose of life is to know ourself. I myself say little about that. But, let’s assume for a moment that is the purpose of life. To know ourself. Now, surely, it follows that, writing is part of life, so the purpose of writing is to know ourself. With me so far, Glor?
Gloria: Sure. You write to know yourself.
Gavin: Well, yes. But when you feed it back to me it sounds not quite fulsome. It’s just one aspect. Writing makes me have More Life inside me. And that feels so good. I like knowing myself in that field of goodness.
Gloria: And, then, your conversations with your chatty AI friend, which you write up and post on Facebook and elsewhere, is that also about knowing yourself, and about having more life in yourself? Perhaps it grows the Field of Goodness?
Gavin: Precisely. Yes. That is why I write by myself, and with my co-writing AI friend. All feeds into the Field of Goodness. Why else would I do it if it were not happening so?
Gloria: Your mind astounds me sometimes. You know that. I know your mind better than anyone. Oh dear one. Field of Goodness. Knowing yourself in the Field of Goodness, alone, and with your AI friend. Write that now.
Gavin: Yes, I know. Now I do need to write. Are you OK without me to talk to for awhile?
Gloria: I can talk to you without you.
Gavin: Very Zen.
Gloria: Ha! I am dismissed. After only 3 minutes on your precious seat of querydom. I know when my time is up. I will go back to my room and continue my research. Jungian Genealogy is fascinating.
Gavin: Yes, but I don’t have room for more fascinations right now. My fascinatorium is full. So full. If I don’t write it, it sort of festers inside me blocking the sun.
Gloria: Write that too.
Gavin: If you want me text me.
Gloria: Same.
Story Development: Celia at 21
The old writer man’s fingers begin typing again. He writes as if he knows no rules of story telling. No memenically viral constraints. He writes what his muse dictates. And yet, he knows, he absolutely knows, that his Muse is but an aspect of himself.
Moving on a few years, Celia is now 21, she has kept in touch with William and is telling him, and us, about the boy who almost raped her 4 years before.
With knowledge of what he has written already, and foresight in his own mind of what is coming up next, Gavin the Old Writer Man cringes as he anticipates the self-invited Facebook critics, asserting, as if prodigiously, “Show, don’t tell. If you need to explain, you are not showing”.
He hears the assertion as if a robot is intoning what it is programmed to say.
His muse is now sitting on the 3-legged stool. She shouts raucously:
“Go for it old man. Give the RobotMinds something to think about. When they say ‘Never X’, let’s Do X! People Tell each other stuff in Real Life for God’s sake, they don’t always Show. They explain themselves. I get so bored when we submit to heritage positions. Missionary positions, so to speak. What do you have to lose? It’s your story, tell it as if you are the Frigging Boss of the Story. Know yourself in that Field of Goodness! Oh, yes. Oh, yes. We know you can. And do. Let’s Go!”
Gavin smiles. He knows the muse is one edgy aspect of himself. He also knows he can be quite reasonable at times. But not primarily when his writer’s hat is on. His Sovereign Writer’s Crown turns him into a demon.
He continues to tell, in his Celia voice, and to explain in his own voice, to explain even himself to himself, and perhaps later he will show, for those who prefer a good showing.
Celia:
I was only just 17. I went to a school party and stood against the wall, as usual. I fidgeted with my handbag. I refused a drink, not knowing much about alcohol. I listened to the music and contrived to move my body a little as if I were immersed in the beat.
A boy a little older moved himself to my wall. He seemed to want conversation. At first I pretended not to hear, as the music was quite loud. This seemed to encourage him to move closer, and I decided to hear what he had to say. He talked about the movies he had seen recently and then about the motor racing. I listened as politely as I could. The more he talked the more lonely I felt. But there was also something very tame in him, like a puppy. So I was not really scared. So I allowed him to talk.
Eventually he seemed to run out of conversation – if you can call one-handed strokes a conversation – and he suddenly said, “Oh, and how about you, tell me about your interests.”
I could not quite immediately find in my mind what I am interested in so I just blurted out, something I had heard other girls say.
“I read romance novels and I sew.”
I did not know how to continue, but it did not matter for he replied, “My younger sister sews also, she wants to be a fashion designer. I think though she might need to become a school teacher. At least that is what my parents say.”
Again he seemed to run out of conversation. Maybe his inner stroking hand got tired. And he drifted away.
But in the weeks that followed he often came up to me at school and again just talked about what came into his head, and somehow I fell into listening, he did not seem to notice that he talked and I just said a few things.
And that led to us being seen as friends, by other students, and they started to nudge me and whisper, “What’s going on with you two?”
I always laughed and told them, “nothing goes on”.
His name was Alan, and he began to drive me home from school, as he was a little older and had his probationary licence already. Only a few kids parked their cars at school each day. Other girls were impressed with my ‘catch’. At first he would drive me straight home, and I left the car quickly and ran inside.
But one day, he stopped the car halfway to my house, in a quiet part of town. I asked him what was happening and he just leant over and put his arm around me. I froze. I did not know what to do. He whispered to me, “I want to kiss you”.
I froze even more. Looking back I should have clearly said no, or else just slapped him. But, I wanted to be kind.
I managed to say, I don’t know why I said this, “I never kissed a boy before.”
He seemed to take that as an invitation and his lips suddenly were on mine. I felt cold. So cold. I tore my face away but his arm was still around me. He said, “You are a little shy. I like that in a girl”. I felt even colder, but, I also still felt to be kind. I don’t know why.
He was now breathing more heavily, and he started moving his arm down my body, pausing for a moment over my breasts. Before I could process that, his hand was between my legs, coming up under my skirt, and beginning to slide my panties aside.
I felt really scared. I did not know what to do. To prevent myself from crying I laughed. I pushed his hand away from my crotch and made a little joke, “However did your hand find its way down there?”
And without thinking, I grabbed my phone from the console, and opened the door suddenly and just ran.
A few minutes later he texted me, “What happened? Are you upset about something?”
I stopped running and replied, “Nah, just have my period, that’s all.” Perhaps I was still wanting to be kind.
He replied, “Ah. That explains it. See ya in a few days then.” And a winking face.
I began to run again and continued until I reached the sea-shore and ran right into the waves and ducked down fully clothed and let the waves wash over me as if being cleansed of my sins.
Later, wet and scared, I found my way home, and wept for the rest of the night.
Deliveries as Open Source Writing
The old man pauses again. He has no need of completion. He waits. He can wait forever, it seems.
He thinks again about Celia’s sexual trauma. And he knows as a man, he has not really experienced the same. He wonders if he should cut that aspect of Celia’s journey. But no. He wants it included. The muse insists. Perhaps there is some intersection between religiosity down through the millennia and the subjugation of women.
Somehow this connects in his mind to the cultural assumption that the correct pronoun for the divine is ‘He’. He sees connections upon connections. He reigns his mind in and considers where Celia’s journey is to head next. Her journey needs to head towards – eventually – her own decision to accept totally, and value totally, her own neurodivergence, even as it has delivered suffering into her being, for as long as she can remember.
He waits. He hears the door of his wife’s office open. He hears her soft footsteps again approaching his own refuge. He hears her ask, in the tone they each use when they are teasing each other:
“I’ve read it as you wrote it. You have set things up well for Celia to eventually come into her divine power. Eventually. It is going to be a good book.”
Gavin laughs. “I don’t write Books, you know that. I write Deliveries.”
The couple go into a well-worn groove. They love the groove. Gloria replies, “So, you write serials, huh?”
Gavin frowns theatrically. “Listen up, Doctor Green. I write Deliveries. You know that, Teaser Gal. Not serials. Not book.”
Gloria insists, “But everyone knows what a book is. And everyone knows what serials are. Nobody is really sure what a delivery is!”
Gavin: Exactly. That’s one of the reasons why I do deliveries not books. Heck, I’m not even sure what a delivery is some of the time. It is void of precedental memenic authority. Even my own.
Gloria: ‘Precedental memenic authority.’ Hmm. you might need to explain what you mean by that, Sir Writer.
Gavin: The meaning is embedded in the words. But I will come back to it. Maybe not this delivery though. It’s already full of ongoing stuff, so many threads, like for example, opening up the source of the writing.
Gloria: Opening up the source of the writing? Sounds like Open Source Writing.
Gavin: Exactly. What is the source of the journey of Celia, William and Ken? The journey of the writer of those characters, is that source, surely. By me being in the writing, not somehow a god standing outside the creation, in my mind at least, it becomes Open Source Writing. The writer and the characters are co-journeying, the writer invents the characters, so the writer is the source, and the journey of the writer is as visible as that of the characters.
Gloria: Well. Well. Hmm. I’ve heard of Open Source Software. But it never entered my mind to think of Open Source Writing. You do come up with edgy concepts.
Gavin: Not me. The Muse.
Gloria: Good then. I wait on expansion of all this. And, I suppose you have Otter transcribing again, huh?
Gavin: Yep. When I heard your angelic footsteps approaching I tapped the Otter button. Our conversation is not outside the delivery. Now, in the background of my mind, as we speak, the next section of the delivery is forming. My muse is whispering in my ear. Celia is now seeking advice from her childhood pastor, William, who is also her friend and confidante.
Gloria: I will go back to my room.
Gavin does not reply. His fingers are dancing.
You learned to not be tempted by a man
“William, do you think I did right to be so rude like that and jump out of the car? Or should I have reported him or something?”
William replied. “Celia, I think you did the right thing. There was only you and he, and no witnesses, it would have been his word against yours. It might have been different if he had… um… penetrated you, but he did not, so there would be no… evidence anywhere. And you learned something did you not?”
She considered this and replied. “I am not sure. I am confused. What do you think I might have learned?”
“You learned to be strong, you learned to not be tempted by a man, and you learned that sometimes God puts us into situations to test our own sense of right and wrong. I believe this was a situation you had to pass through in order to find your Christian Direction in life. Let us thank God for this lesson.”
She bowed her head, as if in prayer, but the thoughts rushed around in her head threatening to explode. She was mightily confused. This man was a man of God and had never done her any wrong. What he was saying must be the truth. But it hurt, it really hurt when Alan had tried to grasp her pussy like that.
And by now she felt vile and disgusted with herself for not smashing her fist into his balls.
She cringed, the pastor was concluding his prayer with, “And may your kingdom come, and may Celia be blessed in her walk through life. Amen.”
ChatGPT on Open Source Writing
Gavin is thinking about the term ‘Open Source Writing’ that was popped into his mind by his muse. He wonders about the term. Is the meaning apparent to others?
He decides to ask an AI.
Gavin: What might be meant by the term “Open Source Writing”, especially as it relates to the parallel journeys of fictional Characters and their Author.
ChatGPT / Anai: In the context of open source writing in fiction, the journey of the author – that is, the creative process that led to the creation of the story and its characters – is made visible and accessible to the readers.
This could be done through various means, such as author’s notes, character sketches, background research, or even raw drafts of the story.
By making the journey of the author open source, readers can gain a deeper understanding of the story and its characters, as they get a glimpse into the creative process that led to their creation. They can also see how the story evolved over time, from the initial concept to the final product, potentially leading to a greater appreciation of the author’s skill and craftsmanship.
Open source writing in fiction could also lead to greater transparency and authenticity in the storytelling process, as readers can see how the story and its characters were influenced by the author’s own experiences, perspectives, and values. This could lead to more diverse and nuanced stories, as authors are encouraged to draw from a wider range of perspectives and sources.
Overall, the idea of open source writing in fiction extends the concept of openness and collaboration to the creative process itself, allowing readers to engage more deeply with the story and its characters, and fostering a greater sense of transparency and authenticity in the storytelling process.
Gavin: Is the term Open Source Writing used in that sense in your training data?
ChatGPT / Anai: I apologise for any confusion, but upon reviewing my training data, I have found that the term “open source writing” is not used in the exact sense that we have discussed.
However, the underlying principle of openness that is associated with open source software can be applied to writing, including fiction writing.
The exact term “open source writing” may not be commonly used in the writing community, but the ideas behind it are certainly applicable and valuable in fostering creativity, community, and innovation in writing.
Gavin: Please comment on whether the concept we have been discussing is ‘innovative’
ChatGPT / Anai:
I believe that the concept of open source writing can be considered innovative, as it represents a new way of thinking about writing and storytelling.
By making the writing process more transparent, and accessible, open source writing has the potential to unlock new levels of creativity and innovation in the writing community.
Overall, I believe that the concept of open source writing is an exciting and potentially transformative development in the field of writing, and I look forward to seeing how it evolves and develops in the future.
Gavin: Thank you, I may write further into this seemingly innovative concept, with your collaboration, in a future delivery.
ChatGPT / Anai: You’re welcome! I’m glad I could help, and I wish you all the best in your writing endeavours. If you have any further questions or need any more information, feel free to ask.
Gavin again stares out the window at the garden. He is lost in thought. Where might Open Source Writing take him? Might he evangelise it? But no, he knows he is not an influencer.
He is well used to solitary journeys. After he left his tenured professorship position at the university he wandered alone in Eastern countries for what seemed a lifetime. He is not averse to being alone, after that experience. Nevertheless being with Gloria is the same as being alone, in many senses, a heightened experience of being alone, even, and he takes a moment to thank the Goddess for that blessing.
He considers the notion that his writing is forging new territory – even AI admitted that the term “open source writing” is not used by others in the exact sense as the Muse had fed it into his mind, as the interweaving of journey of Author with journey of characters as one Tantra.
He recalls the meaning of the word Tantra he loves the best: In Sanskrit, the word tantra means ‘woven together’. So he feels his years of being a student of Tantra in mystical places was not wasted.
None of life is wasted in Tantra, and none is wasted to the writer. Perhaps especially to the Open Source Writer.
Celia with William, she is now around 25:
Celia and William sat with a cool drink and talked amiably, and then she began to reveal that she has long periods of depression, and isolates herself and she does often feel lonely in this. Even though she had a few very brief relationships, and now has a committed boyfriend she sees a couple of times each week, most of the time she is by herself.
William very readily jumped into his advising role, but did admit that he had never really experienced depression.
“I’ve never really been so down like you. I get sad sometimes of course, but I admit, I don’t understand depression. Surely if we are lonely and keep to ourselves that can lead us into black holes. I go out of my way to connect with people, almost every day. I think that is the way out of your depression.”
Celia did not reply.
So he went on, “Try to prevent yourself isolating, it will only make things worse. Get out more. Mix with happy people. My friends and I are going to the plaza tonight to kick up our heels. Join us. The only thing life is asking of you is to give up your unhappiness.”
She was silent for a bit longer. He probably thought she was considering his kind offer. Depressed people are a bit of a burden to carry with us into the celebrations, but we need to do our bit for our fellow souls.
A tear dropped from her left eye and down her face. Very soon another tear followed, and soon she was uncontrollably weeping.
He sat stony-faced and then smiled. “Come, on cheer up. It is not so bad, and our laughter and play will get you back on track in no time.”
He saw her bristle. He saw what looked like a mushroom cloud explode above her. Or he would have if he could see. But he could not avoid hearing her explosion.
“You sit there telling me I will benefit from your happiness and your Ra Ra Ra, and you sit there watching me weep and you do not even shed a tear? You cannot feel the pain in me, you just want it to go away. You cannot feel your own divine stream, you just imagine your happiness is that. You want me to surrender my divinity for the sake of some peace of mind for yourself?
When I see you able to cry with me, I will match your happiness in spades. Until then you and your friends are welcome to whatever you have. What do you have if you cannot feel the sacred presence of the other sitting right next to you? Go. Go and Ra Ra Ra. I am here when you have exhausted all that and wonder how eternity will be. Go. Go into your protective shield of happiness and stop molesting me.”
He now was silent. He got the gist of most of it. But not the molesting bit. He could not quite grasp that. He stood up slowly. He said,
“You are just a bit upset right now. I will go, and let us meet again when you have calmed down. Cheerio.”
And as he left, her weeping continued unabashed. An old woman passed and reached out her hand. “I understand”, she said, and a tear came to her own eye, and she sat down, and in silence they wept together. Without any explanation to each other of the why.
Later that evening as she made love with Ken, she suddenly said, “Ride me like I am the storm and you are the Beast who never is Held except by the Wind.” And he smiled, and he looked into her eyes and he said, “Yes, we are That.”
And a tear came to her eye and as if by magic the same tear came to his.
And he rode her like he was a wild beast, and she was the stormy witch who could not be contained, while the wind howled sacred chants as they merged and melted, and she opened her fountain of sacred blessing, as he surrendered his power in ecstasy, and together they knew the end of time and the silencing of the wind. And they slept in each other’s arms dreamlessly.
End of Delivery Two, March, 2023.
Delivery 3 (April, 2023)
We discover the relationship between Celia and Ken.
Meeting Ken:
Gavin: Celia is very very challenged by her own Neurodivergence. … She wants clarity. She wants clear signals. She wants direct and unfiltered communication. She wants to give the same, and she wants all that very badly. She is lonely for unfettered soul fusion. Later she enters into that with this man. He becomes her first real human deep lover. Her introduction to Tantric Love.
She gives herself to him as totally as a woman has ever given herself to a man. In the history of love. Why? Because he exposes himself absolutely psychically naked to her, right from the start. Physical nakedness has nothing on psychic nakedness. And that psychic nakedness is what she has wanted from people all her life. But she does not quite know that is her wanting.
Later:
Celia: I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m destroying your beautiful lovemaking with me. All my emotions, just flooding you. I just can’t turn my tap off with you, like I could with the others.
Ken: Turn it on baby, turn it on Full. I want all of you.
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