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Journeys of the Mind, (C)1994-2004 A. Alexander Volenski

Chapter 2, unedited excerpts
Main characters: Stilly & Harry
Location: Europe
Time of year: June

Genoa & Savona

  Harry Locke was awake early and stood on the terrace of his hotel
room peering across the city toward the lake.  Geneva, like most large
cities, appeared quiet at 4am in the morning.  He was packed and ready
to leave, but wanted one last look at the city.  There was something
about Geneva that he felt at home with, a feeling he could not explain,
one that went beyond that of a tourist or frequent visitor.
  The sky line brightened as the faint light of dawn approached to dim
the flickering stars above.  He gazed across the roof tops and felt the
old, the ancient, even medieval past, this city with its history seemed
to breathe into his character.  Then turning slowly, he left the terrace 
of his room and headed for the lobby to check out of the hotel.

Like a drifting awake-dream
this morning seemed,
as drifting visions of a spirited mind
blended with the golden airy
and rode the windy-way with the rising sun,
and Harry was encompassed
immured by it all.

Whirling thoughts
danced through his mind,
attracting both the future and past,
twirling them together tip-toeing both
to the song of the beating heart.

That heart rhythm
raced to a tune of two,
and pulsed to the melody
of a far reaching kind
which lived inside the mind,
as a spirited dream-like identity.

  When Stilly's flight arrived in Genoa, her friend Clare greeted her
at the airport.  Clare was a thin pretty blond, and the color of her
hair, shape of her body, the smooth features of her face, always
reminded Stilly of a tall and slender stem of wheat with tasseled
grains.  Clare was a nourishing kind of friend, with very refined 
thoughts, like finely ground flour that came from the mill, ground by
the constant turning stone that ever pressed until a sifted and final
result appeared pure and smooth as silk...
  Looking to Stilly, Clare asked, "what brings you to Genoa so suddenly?"
Showing no emotion, Stilly answered in a coy way, "it's good to see old
friends, good to talk with old friends."  Clare had heard that kind of
evasive expression from Stilly before, and in her silence she understood
what Stilly's comment meant; something was in the wind, something 
important, new, and Clare wondered what it could be...
  Looking at Clare, Stilly slowly said, "I met someone...I'm doing a
book."  Clare knew what the term 'a book' meant, it was a code they had
amongst their close friends, meaning a romance, perhaps just an affair,
an involvement, something both serious and even dangerous.  For 'a book'
was usually with someone new and unknown, someone with a mystery.  They
never knew what they might find as they walked the path of that 
relationship.  However they did know one thing, he was someone they had
chosen, someone they were attracted too, someone they wanted, because
to them he represented a special possibility...
  That evening relaxing alone in Clare's apartment, Stilly went to bed
early.  As she dropped off to sleep, she concentrated upon a recurring-
dream, one she had since childhood, one always referred to by her as
'my-staircase'.
  Stepping into that Dreaming Place is easy, she thought, because it is
a domain I know and desire, for it gives me pleasure, privacy, and a
perception of self, parallel to the world around me.  The endless
staircase, the one she always knew, seemed to go on, on into infinity.  It
reached up and away, dipped, curved, spiraled, weaved, sometimes to the
right, sometimes to the left, with little terraces here and there,
places to pause, places to stop and rest as she looked into her imaginings.
A place to conceive and perceive the world of existence, her past
acquaintances, lovers, friendships; a stairway, that projected itself
in a total time and realm of its own.
  Still had experienced many episodes on her staircase, and since she
was a little girl it had changed in various ways.  As she had grown
older it became more complex, descriptive, more direct too in some
places, and in some, short, abrupt, yet always it continued on, and
someday she hoped it would find a footing, a landing.  She always
wondered though, what she would see and find there at that landing.
  In the thought of a footing, she was apprehensive, yet open.  Stilly 
wondered too, if she stepped off the stair (along the way), would she
ever be able to return to it again.  She didn't want to lose the poise
that her staircase was attached too, nor weaken or alter its manifesting
ability of which she yearned.
  The grand depth of mind, spiraling on and on, the unlimited spirit,
ever and always there, the vast rebirth and touch of a living region
(of dream), reaches out to our awake world.  A site where the mind and
body continue intertwining, holding, letting go, ever clinging and
loving as life in the human ever reaches, stumbles, goes astray, as it
reaches itself, in self-perpetuating warmth and fullness of the
passionate kind.
  It was a staircase capturing past episodes so very close to her
heart, the very dear memories were stored there of her parents, brother
and sister, now gone.  A staircase personal-private, whole and undivided
in her individuality, identity, and complete self.  A staircase with so
many things comprising of all she was and all that she would be, a very
alone staircase (sometimes), so very alone, because only she knew that
staircase, only she commanded its existence, its substance, its
realiness, its forgiveness, and its sublime love.  A love she felt deep 
inside, a love from the very depth of her being, a love filled with its
own sparkle and living kindness; a love to meet all her human needs.
In her humility, her human nature seemed so alone, but in her spirit,
the endless expanse of love soothed the aloneness away, bringing the
inspiration of new life to her and to her staircase of spiraled dream.
  Leaning on a railing that circled the terrace portion of the stairway,
her event (dream) began to take shape.  Stilly looked from the staircase
as it floated high in the sky, and saw huge white billowing clouds all
around, and looking down below her, she could see a rolling valley
veiled in a green glow, a valley which stretched far into the distance.
Emerald fields flourished in the spring season, with trees and even 
small homes placed amongst the rocky ledges of the surrounding mountains,
mountains that too, possessed a spirit which was expressed and
engendered with natures beauty.
  The sun was rising to a new day, and up above gliding on the air,
she saw a Golden Eagle with out-spread wings.  The bird seemed to sing
a song as it rode the wind, a song of fortitude and caution for things
to come.  The Eagle flew closer, holding itself in a fixed glide, with
the wind bracing clinging to its outstretched wings, pushing it along.
The Eagle suddenly shrilled out a long high pitched screech, that seemed
to penetrate completely through her, and then it glided off in the
direction of the warm sun.  Stilly sat down on a bench there and 
watched the large bird as it disappeared slowly into the distant 
billowing clouds.
  She took a deep breath, and could smell the sweet scent of budding
spring which drifted on the air from the meadows of flora that bloomed
below.  As she sat, she began to hear a melody, and recognized it as
one she had heard many times in recent weeks.  A song that lifted her
heart and touched her soul, it was a popular song now played all over
Europe.  A song that she surmised he too (Harry), may be hearing,
perhaps even at this very moment, and in the hidden mystery of her
mind, she wondered if it was being sent to her from him; something she
silently imagined to be a romantic gift.  Listening to the song and
relaxing, she looked ahead on the stairway and saw something move
amongst the translucent mistiness.  Concentrating, she saw the image
shift as it began to take shape, it was a white dog, and the dog was
looking toward her.
  The white dog stood motionless in a very alert manner, ears up eyes
centering in; it looked at her for a long time, very rooted it was,
never making a sound, yet so it seemed trying too.  Many thoughts and
wonders within her mind reflected, thoughts asking questions as she
focused on the white dog.  Then the animal began to run along the
stairway coming toward her, and suddenly abruptly it stopped and was
very close.
  The dog had a woven gold collar around its neck which hung loosly,
and she noticed a gem attached to it, a gem that sparkled in the sunlight.
A very large gem it was, and its color glowed and flashed with a deep
sapphire blue transparency.  She stood up and moved toward the white dog,
an as she moved, it stepped back and then turned, disappearing into the
misty surrounds which shrouded that portion of staircase.  The white
dog was gone, the music had stopped, only she alone stood there, and
in that momentary stillness she awoke.
  ...Life for Harry Locke was like so many roses, the pathway led
straight and narrow, no-way back.  A one-way course, like a stem of a
rose it pointed, one lined with many sharp edges, and often with hazards
that could draw the life away and not return it.  His chosen path was
filled with all the sweet things of the material world, gold, silver,
riches, and also a thrill of winning.  This was the track of the 'player'
and the gaming tables which he lived, a pathway that earned him more
each year than most made in the course of several.
  A footpath that he had started upon in his early twenties.  At a very
young age he made his first big win, it had come during the Chinese
year of the Dragon, and it happened in Hong Kong.  To Harry this win
was like a huge draught of fortune, one that he would always remember;
he had won it with 4-Kings, and that began his career as a Gambler.
Eventually his course carried with it more than the challenge of
winning money, for the money became secondary to Harry.  The challenge
now was of whom he played against, be it person or just the house.  The
challenge of will between his opponent and himself, and the ever 
pulling of wills, often caried with it many sorted expressions too.
  ...To Harry, money was like a small bird held in the hand, if you
squeezed to tightly it would die, and if you held it to loosely it 
would fly away.  Harry tried to always remember that parable.
  ...The constant changing ratio was always like a pretty woman who
danced alone, turning twisting, never knowing where she would place 
her next step.  The progression as a progressive ratio, was almost
like a progressive series of parties, each different, each varied,
and carrying with them new and surprising acquaintances.  A progressive
love affair, one built as it advances, starting growing pausing, coming
close, going off; all of it seeming at random intervals, only to
succeed and be sealed at the right place and time.
  Life in its pursuit as lived, is like a constant fluxing ratio, a
ratio that all seek and few learn to understand.  A ratio of fabulously
arrayed progressions, life seems to be, built to warm, built to touch,
to kiss; built for one to find one's own self in...and this progression
never seems to end.  All in random intervals they come and go (lovers),
all seeking the answer, and once found, who would have imagined?
  ...The superficial world and its glimmer, parades its artificial
glamour in clumps of impersonal oddities, clustered and shown in
shallow fashion.  The artificial complexion, manners light sounds foods
flowers feelings expressions, all seem to have closed off the real
profoundness of the human being, leaving in its wake an array of
emptiness.  To the point that, the artificial becomes-in-command of
the real, as the realities of human wonder, development, perspective, are
then set aside in a stagnation of unused ability and to the collective
shelves and dust that covers them.  In this complacent configuration,
the human mind dwells in dormant passivity, creating a stagnation of
sloth, obstinacy, and smothering lifelessness.  In this torpid state,
indecision becomes exasperated with disorder and convulsions of
hysteria, bringing on spasmodic passions, which build into a rage of
human eruptions.  And then, the shock treatment comes around, be it
through war, terror, or outbursts, which in its explosive blast,
renders the mind to quicken and bridle itself in a composure of self
moderation, casting out the artiticial.  Artificial too, in the sense
of Mr. C..., who wanted an aritficial win.  Mr. C..., a man who had
lost contact with reality, and in his madness lashed out in his
obsession.  And as for leaders of the masses, some do the same, first
for self gain, and then for terrestrial gain, creating a war between
neighbors just to please that gain.
  ...It was late afternoon when he approached Savona...the soft apricot
colored walls of the hotel room seemed to relax him, and the sun was
slanting low upon the horizon.
  ...Everything seemed calm, such a nice corner of the world he had
found this night he thought, 'as he dreamed'.  In the distance looking
out the window, Harry saw the dark hooker greens of the trees in the
evening shadows, the sky now a soft blue with an occasional cloud,
birds were everywhere flying.
  ...The table of his room had a bottle of Chartreuse, a few glasses
and bucket of ice.  In the unfolding dream, he walked over to the
table, and looked into the mirror which hung on the wall behind it, 
and he peered at himself standing there naked.  He looked into his
eyes, their dark brown very dark, the creases on his face were showing
his age, and the grey hairs in amongst the dark and amber ones, were
growing in their transparency.
  As he looked at himself, he saw a face that he knew so well, one
that through all his life seemed a face that he had always had,
perhaps would always have for eternity.  A face that he felt 
comfortable with, and as he looked at the man standing before the
mirror, it seemed as though there were two, that is, he where he
stood, and also there within the realm of mirrored self.  It was almost
as though there was a mirrored world apart from his own.
  A breeze fluttered in the room, it was cool soothing, a calm quiet
breeze, soft, almost as a whispering being, a being that touched
reflected thoughts, thoughts that roved through the mind, thoughts
trying to form words, but words he did not hear.
  Glancing at the bottle sitting there on the table, Harry opened it
and poured a drink.  He lifted the drink to his lips, its taste was
strong, and he could feel the liquid surge inward warming his stomach.
Setting the empty glass down, he turned and decided to get dressed, to
go see, see the evening and what it would manifest.  Getting dressed
and leaving his room, Harry took the elevator down to the lobby, and
walked out into the street.  He felt refreshed as he walked in the
dream, and as he moved along the narrow street he looked for a small
bar, one that would have the feel of being with people, yet without 
them.
  Tonight Harry wasn't looking for excitement, he was looking as one
looks to their own thoughts and feelings, reflecting upon old memories,
memories that would bring up into the night, new impressions, faces,
surroundings, and maybe a warm and pretty woman.  A woman to express
and speak of things that he had yet to discover, things perhaps that 
he had never imagined.
  The Noble Bar was small and richly decorated with small tables and
candles, the walls were painted white, and with drapes hanging in the
corners that were colored a royal blue, and had thin golden borders.
He noticed on the walls many paintings of Knights from days of old,
and to his right was the bar with stools made of a light shaded wood,
their cusioned seats of a soft white leather.  The padding of the bar
was also white leather, and the bar itself made of the same light 
shaded wood as the stools.  The wall in back of the bar was all
mirror with many bottles, all arranged on a shelf.  There wasn't a
bartender, just a pretty young woman sitting alone on one of the
stools, her long blond hair reached down to the center of her back,
and her white dress clung to her body, radiating warmth and desire
within its silken folds.
  "Do you mind if I join you," Harry asked, as he walked up to the
bar.  She turned and looked at him, "please do," she answered.  The
woman had a clear soft voice, her features were smooth, resembling
those that one might find in the paintings of an artist.  Her hazel
brown eyes were clear, and as she looked away, Harry noticed she wore
very little makeup, almost none at all.
  There were two drinks (neat) in front of her, neither touched, they
looked as though someone had just poured them, but no one except the
two of them were there.  He thought that maybe she was with someone
else, then she motioned for him to sit next to her and he did.
  "Would you like to share a drink," she asked.  Harry looked at her
and then at the drinks, "yes, it would be a pleasure," he answered.  
The two shot glasses were filled to the brim, their clear liquid
contents had a crystal clean reflection, and he felt a dryness in
his throat.  They both lifted the glasses together, both looking to each
other with a slight smile, then they downed the drinks.  The Vodka and its
rich sharp burn plunged to his stomach, sending a sudden cool and then
warm feeling through him.  Clicking his glass on the bar, he asked,
"another?"  "Why not," she answered.
  The bartender walked behind the bar and came over, he looked at the
two of them in silence.  "Kind of a quiet night," Harry said to him,
and nodding his head the bartender answered, "during the week,
sometimes it's like this."  "Could we have a couple more Vodka's,"
Harry asked.  The bartender nodded and reached behind the bar for a
Vodka bottle, and then poured them both another round into the same
two shot glasses, then he turned leaving them both alone, returning
to a back room located behind the mirrored wall of the bar.
  Glancing to the woman, her brown eyes were soft and penetrating in a
soothing way, they carried depth and reason with them, sweet reason.
Harry realized she was something more than just a pretty blond,
something more then just a young woman, one that looked and resembled
youth, innocence, experience, maturity, all wrapped together in one
white silken gown.
  Around her neck she wore a long gold chain, a necklace with a large
blue sapphire gem, a gem that sparkled, almost seemed to glow when it
touched the silk dress she had on.  Her hands were slender and there
were no rings, nor impressions that she ever had worn rings.  Her long
hair was swept to one side showing a sensually shaped ear, an ear that
curved and formed in a fashion that seemed proportioned to itself in
an exactness; lobes swinging down, then curving up, no errings.  Her
eyes were evenly spaced, not too far up in the forehead, or to close
together, and placed giving an appearance of someone with a blend
derived from a symmetry of equal knowledge and ability to interpret
everything she came in contact with, either hidden or plainly shown.
  She appeared to be a beauty in every way, and he wondered what turn,
what bend, or invisible passage, he had gone through to end up here
with such a creature.  "My name is Harold Locke, call me Harry," he
said introducing himself, and she answered, "I'm Melody Snow, nice to
meet you."  Looking at Harry, Melody asked, "do you come here often?"
"No, actually I've never been here before."  "Neither have I," she
replied.
  Then everything Harry saw around him began to fade slowly, as
though someone were dimming the lights.  The entire surroundings, bar,
Melody, all sound, went out completely.  Harry realized is was not the
surroundings but he who was fading, his conscious self...realized too,
and clearly communicated that realization to him.
  Recall turned on, present time and reality lit-up within his inner
self, and he knew, though real and clear as it was, he was actually
dreaming and still in his hotel room.  It felt like one glorious
sweep through another dimension of time, an endless timeless sweep;
with reality interlocking as it went, touching the mind like a breeze
upon the brow, as it (reality) linked itself to the thresholds of the
subliminal world within him.
  A blending pattern of accumulated impression swirled through him to
a melody of the being he was.  Timeless patterns etching descriptions
that mold and enfold, enfold the identity itself.  Like a caressing
moon that seemed to embellish itself upon its viewer with feelings
never old.  Like a cluster of foaming sand that formed and lumped together,
flowing freely with the sea, as everyone knows.  There were repeated
impressions too, that went round in his mind, like a dancing thought
caught in the conversations of many, many that shared its presence.
Reality, whirled in his mind, ever knowing its proximity was cast only
for realizing the one that he was within his total existence.
  ...A land given by another, a land imagined, a land shared, a land
very forgiving, a land very stern too, is the land that goes with a
word called...dream.  A land often unclear, yet teamed with many who
are there, there only in the sense that they exist and live within the
given few, a few who do strive to be living beyond the everyday
occurrence.  A land mixed to oversee that which is contained, a land
fixed to be that which is not seen, a land quick to not be easily
known, and like some fearful memory or plight, it is often left only
to the insight of those who pass quietly in the night.  A drifting
thought carries its weight called the will, and sets firmly upon the
land, the land of a word.  The word conveys the rippling thought, and
combined with the rippling real, a realness is born in the present,
and conveyed with the past, to build in the future.
  ...Driving along [this is the next day], Stilly supposed that
perhaps that was all a dream really was: the subconscious walking hand
in hand with its friend consciousness.  She also thought perhaps the
two (subconscious and conscious), together may form many things real
which were yet to be found.  As though both grew out of the needs of
the other, eventually meeting somewhere, and that's what appeared to
her on her staircase of dream.  Turning her thoughts to the present,
a momentary flash of her stairway emerged, and she wondered if she
should find a house with a fine staircase to lease for the summer.
Driving along she hoped that maybe her man of dream would also be
there; then up ahead she could see Monaco coming into view, and she
felt very good.
  Oh dear sweet melody, how like an ancient muse you seem, dear sweet
song alive and invisible, how you move and sway, sway the human, dear
sweet tune the power is in the spirited soul, unlimited and so often
lost or ignored...

~

[Next, chapter 3...Monte Carlo,
note: also this text is yet to be proof read.]

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