Sleep apnoea - a simple solution

Martin Jensen, author of How to Get What You Want and How to Keep Fit Without Exercise has another hint for you.
My wife, Dr Jensen, had a problem. She has a family history of high blood pressure and currently takes a low dose antihypertensive to counter it. This worked reasonably well. But, inexplicably, the morning blood pressure stayed high.

Fortunately, we sleep in the same bed and I know how she sleeps - on her back, snoring loudly and with difficulty - the snores interrupted by inability to get air. Because of this, I turn her on her side whenever I wake and hear her. On her side, the snoring stops. But, next time I check her, she is on her back again and the cycle continues.

Now I  have no medical qualifications, despite working in drug companies for much of my life. And I can hardly tell my wife, a doctor, what to do. Not that that stops me. So I suggested to her that the hypertension could be sleep apnoea induced. After a particularly gruelling morning when her BP diastolic was 105  (yes, she keeps a small domestic blood pressure machine by the bed)  I told her that we had to try new methods.

What did we do?

We went to a local haberdashery store and bought a Tri-pillow - one of those "L" shaped things that people usually use to prop themselves up in bed when reading a book.

I also chocked up the head of the bed with two 4 inch high blocks of wood. This works fine for gastric reflux but that wasn't why I did it. I had the notion that elevating her head more might help.

We then positioned her with the L-shaped pillow on top of her normal pillow for extra head height. This also meant that she could sleep on her side without it hurting her shoulder. We placed the the second part of the "L" behind her to stop her turning on her back easily.  We added two pillows at her back to make flopping on her back even harder.

Her head was now elevated, in total, perhaps seven inches more than before.

The next night, she did not snore. Even when she managed to turn on her back, she breathed a little more heavily but did not snore.

And the BP in the morning? Normal!

And so it has been for the rest of this week.

As I say, I have no medical degree. But this work perfectly well for her. There is obviously something about elevating the head and lying on the side that does the job - and avoids the entire rigmarole of tests, masks, oxygen cylinders and all the other interventions she was dreading.  All you need is a $25 pillow and a couple of blocks of wood.

Now there may be nothing novel about all this. Others must have discovered it, too. But another voice in the wilderness won't hurt.

So I've set it all down here, hoping these simple changes might help others.  


Meanwhile, we go on our way rejoicing.

You'll find Martin's great 'HOW-TOs' on Buzzword Books.

Can science explain the cosmic mind? This radical book says such a possibility is approaching.

Can we apply quantum physics to the phenomenon of consciousness? An expert in the field, Italian astrophysicist Dr. Massimo Teodorani Ph.D. , has done so in a revolutionary new book, The Hyperspace of Consciousness, now published by Buzzword. STOP PRESS: This book will also be available next week in a print version published by Wisehouse-Elementa (Sweden).

The Author: Dr. Teodorani obtained his degree in Astronomy and his Ph.D. in Stellar Physics at the University of Bologna. As a researcher at the Astronomical Observatories of Bologna and Naples, and later at the INAF Radiotelescope of Medicina (BO), he has been involved in research on many types of explosive stellar phenomena – such as supernovae, novae, eruptive protostars and high-mass close binary stars – and, more recently, in the search for extrasolar planets and extraterrestrial intelligence within the SETI Project. He subsequently taught physics as a lecturer at the University of Bologna, Rome and Torino. Among his research interests there is also an active involvement in the physics study of anomalous aerial phenomena. He is an expert in military aeronautics. In addition to many technical papers in the mentioned subjects, he has published 17 books and several informative articles on quantum physics, atomic and nuclear physics, astronomy, astrophysics, bioastronomy, physics of anomalous atmospheric phenomena and aerospace subjects. He is a frequent guest on the media and has lectured widely. So his book is no mere speculation but an intensive study of the latest scientific discoveries and their relevance to a possible nexus between mind and matter.

The book: Elaborates the theories of Physicist David Bohm and the latest quantum discoveries, explores the role of consciousness inside a bigger cosmic project where mind and matter are linked As the subject is abstruse, we consider it best to let the author introduce his own work on this forum:


"What if the role of consciousness subsists inside a bigger cosmic project where mind and matter are aspects of each other and a subtle communication between all the living beings is constantly actuated using the quantum entanglement mechanism? The book postulates that information is non-locally stored inside the quantum vacuum, in the ambit of my “Big Library Hypothesis” (BLH), a new interpretation of the so called “Akasha” concept now interpreted in the light of physics and informatics. It also examines how matter is created and recreated from the quantum vacuum (being the seat of consciousness) and about extraterrestrial intelligence and potential methods to communicate with it using non-local methods (although fully scientific in the physical sense). Much in the book, although speculative in part, concerns the possible ways to violate the Laws of Nature and the possibility that the so called “magic” can be explained scientifically (using mostly quantum theory).

"There is also a discussion about shamanism, esotericism and “atavistic figures” of religion seen in a new light. Much in the book is dedicated to a scientific interpretation about what the spirit and the soul really are and about their immortality as a quantum information system. Finally, a special chapter is devoted to a detailed theory explaining the nature of some “anomalous unidentified aerial phenomena”, where physical science and ancient wisdom are equated. The book is not a collection of random ideas, but original thinking matured during years of study and research. The study is authenticated by ample documentation both in the text and in the extensive reference section where more than 100 sources are cited. A dictionary of scientific words that may be unfamiliar is also included.  The book – although being “visionary” – at some points, has nothing to do with New Age but with explorative and frontier Science. It is addressed to curious and forward thinking people of who believe both in the rigour of science and in a healthy (even courageous) openmindedness. And also to the many scholars – including philosophers, psychologists, spiritualists, parapsychologists and metaphysicists – who study and/or practise spirituality and the phenomena arising from it."

Commentary: This book is a departure for Buzzword Books which has never considered publishing a scientific explication on this subject. It may interest you to read the author's brief summary of his chapters and their content:

Chapter 1 – The weird world of quantum physics

This is a very ample and complete presentation of the most important concepts of classical quantum physics, including some basic equations. EPR and double-slit experiments (and their implications) are also discussed.

Chapter 2 – Quantum entanglement and consciousness

This is a discussion of all the most important concepts about the quantum entanglement mechanism, in the light of Bohm’s ontological physics. Bohm’s metaphors and the concepts of explicate and implicate orders are described as well. Some basic equations – in which the concepts of “pilot wave” and quantum potential are introduced – are included and their meaning is deeply discussed. Much is stressed on the fact that matter and consciousness cannot exist the one without the other.

Chapter 3 – A quantum pilot for the body

This is a presentation of the most advanced ideas about quantum electrodynamic coherence and its application to the living being. Gariaev’s, Popp’s and Del Giudice’s ideas and findings are exposed. The importance of biophotons and DNA is discussed.

Chapter 4 – The quantum brain

This is a very ample description and discussion about Penrose-Hameroff’s theory (OrchOr) about “quantum brain”, based on the concept of quantum coherence of microtubules in the brain. The way in which consciousness moments are formed is explained in great detail. A constant comparison with Bohm theory is done, where consciousness (implicate order) and its neural correlate (brain) cannot exist the one without the other. A up-scaled comparison with a bigger “quantum universe” is finally mentioned (Zizzi’s theory).

Chapter 5 – A quantum spirit?

The idea about soul/spirit intended as informative systems (and not transcendent concepts) is introduced in the ambit of a model in which physics of information is invoked and where the spirit is the implicate order of the body. Immortality and syntropy of information is introduced as well.

Chapter 6 – The spirit and synchronicity

This quite important chapter describes the joint work by Carl Jung and Wolfgang Pauli about a mechanism (“quaternary diagram”) able to describe and explain the synchronicity phenomenon. A comparison with Bohm’s physics is constantly discussed. The Global Consciousness Project is also mentioned.

Chapter 7 – Multidimensionality and synchronicity

This deals with a speculative model of this author explaining phenomena such as synchronicity and premonition. The hypothesis of different dimensions of time is discussed too. Everett’s many worlds interpretation of quantum mechanics and superstring theory are discussed as well. Consciousness is hypothesized to be an entity living simultaneously on more dimensions. In this light an explanation of lucid dreams is given as well.

Chapter 8 – BLH – the Big Library Hypothesis

This is probably the most important chapter. The discussed hypothesis deals with a non-local informatics system where information can be constantly uploaded and downloaded to/from a “cosmic supercomputer”(located in the quantum vacuum and modulated by its virtual particles) via consciousness. In this light the spirit/soul is considered as an informatics system both as software of the body and as a memory storage system. The way in which the genius (Tesla example) can be triggered this way is also discussed. The process of acquisition of information using this mode is spontaneous and may regard everyone, including shamans and indigenous people: this can happen through hypnagogic/hypnopompic visions and/or through lucid dreams. The hypothesis that such a supercomputer is the result of a (positive) hyper-technology created by a very evolved exo-intelligence (“The Builders”) is constantly discussed. The concept, in general, is that the Universe was not born by chance, although having nothing to do with religious creationism, as the setup of my model is essentially agnostic/atheistic. The concept of “God” is very rarely mentioned.

Chapter 9 – A cosmic non-local threat

This deals about two kinds of “Builders” of the Universe (masters of the quantum information): the positive ones (the correct software) and the negative ones (the Virus). In this part the negative ones are mostly discussed, after observing how the world goes. The existence of people without spirit/soul (bio-drones) is hypothesized, intended as “aircraft models” non-locally remotely controlled by a distorted intelligence.

Chapter 10 – The evolution of the Grand Design

A long discussion about the possible violation of the Pauli Exclusion Principle is presented. An alternative hypothesis about the “abduction” phenomenon is ventured. The possibility of changing the plan of the material universe, by acting on the information on which it is based, is hypothesized. The concept of “creation” of matter from the nothing is introduced, intended as something coming directly from the information stored in the quantum vacuum. The concept of “Tulpa” and “homunculus” are discussed as well, in the light of science. The idea of “particles of consciousness”and their possible connection with the Higgs Boson, is introduced. A comparison between consciousness and gravitational interaction is done in the ambit of superstrings theory. A project plan to prove or disprove scientifically the possibility that exo-intelligence from other dimensions is controlling humanity is presented.

Chapter 11 – The necessity of duality

This chapter shows how the balance of physical forces making the material (micro and macro) universe is a sort of metaphor of the balance of good and evil in our own society. When this equilibrium is broken wars may occur at all levels. The hypothesis here is that someone else is planning to destroy this equilibrium in order to destabilize the human society in order to exert a total command on it, also using neo-religions, new age sects and religious and political fanaticism.

Chapter 12 – Visions and creations
This chapter shows very extensively how the non-local informative nature of the implicate order of our universe is strictly related with the process of matter creation (explicate order): information and creation are linked by a common means, being the quantum vacuum. Subsequently, the question of religious visions (BVM) may be explained as an unconscious access to the Big Library, which would create an hologram or a true being. Much is discussed about the possible nature of hypothesized visiting “aliens” on Earth intended as Tulpa-like creations remotely created and controlled here from a hyper-intelligence from another dimension. Again a possible violation of the Pauli Exclusion Principle is discussed (entering the walls, underground bases without making any holes, Filipino healers).

Chapter 13 – BLH and astrobiological non-locality

This is certainly the most scientific chapter (including a research proposal too). It deals about a new way to make SETI (Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence) research in a non-local way (from an idea by Fred Thaheld): algorithmic analysis of human EEG might allow to find possible signals inside the noise of the brainwave, being such signals sent using the mechanism of quantum entanglement. Non-local SETI (NLSETI) is constantly compared with the BLH (Big Library Hypothesis), having the first the capability to carry out scientific measurements and the second the role of triggering the human brain using icon-like images able to activate brain processes. Both (NLSETI and BLH) might be simultaneously operational both as a spontaneous process similar to the non-local connection to a “website” and as an intentional act coming from exo-intelligence. Again the physical and informatics-like nature of human consciousness is discussed.

Chapter 14 – IPH – The Intelligent Plasma Hypothesis

This chapter is partly scientific and partly speculative. It includes a long research proposal using measurement instruments. It deals with Hessdalen-like lights (on which this author did several technical publications and talks). Such plasma-like phenomenon is amply described and discussed (results obtained by this author so far and other researchers). Then a very strong hypothesis is ventured and discussed in great detail about the possible “intelligence” of some of such light balls, where plasma and its particles may acquire characteristics of quantum coherence and, like microtubules in the brain, its particles may host a form of consciousness, including possible souls of deceased persons and/or animals hanged to the plasma. This theory might explain ancient beliefs that light balls are “ascended spirits”. This hypothesis can be proved or disproved scientifically by carrying out experiments using a Laser beam and recording everything with photometric and spectroscopic instruments. The idea of BLH is amply recalled all over this chapter, as a non-local connection with a cosmic databank piloting such light balls through the remote action of exo-intelligence.

Chapter 15 – The Hierarchy and cosmic evolution

The highest evolution of sentient beings after death is hypothesized, in the ambit a project of spiritual perfection.

Conclusions

Notes

23 technical notes.

References: 106 cited.


View The Hyperspace of Consciousness now in the Buzzword Books General section. 

You can also visit the My Youtube Channel to watch the video at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yOlK3We-pcY 

And the My Fandalism Channel at  https://fandalism.com/totemtag
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Islam - Attar and the inner life

In the twelfth century, the Persian Sufi master, Farid ud-Din Attar composed a profound allegorical poem called The Conference of the Birds. This masterpiece takes the form of a conversation between thirty birds that set out on the quest for truth and their guide, the Hoopoe. From the Invocation of this magnificent work we have selected one telling passage. The translation is by C.S. Nott - still the finest rendering in English. The original publisher was The Janus Press, 1954. The edition we are transcribing from here is the Rutledge & Kegan Paul reprint of 1964.

When the soul was joined to the body it was part of the all: never has there been so marvellous a talisman. The soul had a share of that which is high, and the body a share of that which is low; it was formed of a mixture of heavy clay and pure spirit. By this mixing, man became the most astonishing of mysteries.

We do not know nor do we understand so much as a little of our spirit. If you wish to say something about this, it would be better to keep silent.

Many know the surface of the ocean, but they understand nothing of the depths: and the visible world is the talisman which protects it. But this talisman of bodily obstacles will be broken at last. You will find the treasure when the talisman disappears; the soul will manifest itself when the body is laid aside. 

But your soul is another talisman; it is, for this mystery, another substance. Walk then in the way I shall indicate, but do not ask for an explanation.

In this fast ocean, the world is an atom and the atom a world. Who knows which is of more value here, the cornelian or the pebble?

We have staked our life, our reason, our spirit, our religion, in order to understand the perfection of an atom. Sew up your lips and ask nothing of the empyrean or the throne of God. No one really knows the essence of the atom—ask whom you will. The Heavens are like a cupola upside down, without stability, at once moving and unmoving. One is lost in contemplation of such a mystery—it is veil upon veil; one is like a figure painted on a wall, and one can only bite the back of one's hand.

Consider those who have entered in the way of the Spirit. Look what has happened to Adam; see how many years he spent in mourning. Contemplate the deluge of Noah and all that patriarch suffered at the hands of the wicked. Consider Abraham, who was full of love for God: he suffered tortures and was thrown into the fire. See the unfortunate Ishmael offered up in the way of divine love. Turn towards Jacob who became blind from weeping for his son. Look at Joseph, admirable in his power as in his slavery, in the pit and in prison. Remember the unhappy Job stretched on the earth a prey to worms and wolves. Think of Jonah who, having strayed from the Way, went from the moon to the belly of a fish. Follow Moses from his birth; a box served him for a cradle and Pharaoh exalted him. Think of David, who made himself a breast-plate and whose sighs melted the iron like wax. Look at Solomon whose empire was mastered by the Jinn. Remember Zacharias, so ardent with the love of God that he kept silent when they killed him; and John the Baptist, despised before the people, whose head was put on a platter. Stand in wonder at Christ at the foot of the cross, when he saved himself from the hands of the Jews. And finally, ponder over all that the Chief of the Prophets suffered from the insults and injuries of the wicked.

After this, do you think it will be easy to arrive at a knowledge of spiritual things? It means no less than to die to everything. What shall I say further, since there is nothing more to say, and there remains not a rose on the bush. Oh Wisdom! You are no more than a suckling child; and the reason of the old and experienced strays in this quest. How shall I, a fool, be able to arrive at this Essence; and if I should arrive, how shall I be able to enter in by the door?

Oh, Holy Creator! Vivify my spirit! Believers and unbelievers are equally plunged in blood, and my head turns as the heavens. I am not without hope but I am impatient.

My friends! We are neighbours of one another: I wish to repeat my discourse to you day and night, so that you should not cease for a moment to long to set out in quest of Truth.

COMMENTARY BY BUZZWORD BOOKS EDITOR, D. S. MILLS: At at time when Islam seems reduced to a political tool to justify murderous factions and brutal Jihads, it is important to remember that the original core of this tradition, preserved by the Sufis though contemporary Mullahs might decry this, remains priceless.

GETTING RID OF 'WEBSEARCHES'. ONE MAN'S EXPERIENCE

Author Jack Cross had a problem. A rogue search engine and advertising dump site had taken over his browser. Read what he had to go through before he found the solution. No, we don't usually include semi-technical articles but this one could help the uninitiated who are, like Jack, not clued about dealing with web predators.

My default browser is Firefox. And several weeks ago, when I fired it up, I discovered that the home page had been replaced by the dreaded websearches home page. Not only that. My computer was being swamped by rogue programs I didn't want. Yes, I could quickly switch to the Firefox home page. But that didn't cure the infection. Strange sites and services continued to download when I was working on other sites or surfing the web.

Why? I had tried to download an innocent enough free program from one of the many sites that provide them. It was clearly not the site to go to as now malware was dumped on me constantly. I checked my other browsers. All were infected with the websearches home page. All, that is, except Safari, which, I believe, has a different basic code.

So what to do. First, I checked on the web. Many sites had solutions for the scourge. You went into the browser and deleted rogue apps. You deleted all your cookies. You searched your program files for interlopers and removed them.

I did all this, constantly. I also checked my C: drive for suspicious downloads and deleted several items from my computer registry. I used the Window virus system checks, the Spybot checks. And I kept doing it. But the unwanted dumps still came and the browsers were still infected. I restored the browsers to their defaults but that didn't work either.

I tried to remove the rogue search engine from the Firefox list. But, apparently it is part of the default and the remove button didn't work.

I got to the stage where I dreaded going on line. And, of course, I had realised by then, that many of the articles about the problem that I read were obsolete. Because the websearches mob had apparently disguised their methods since.

Now I am no geek. Just an amateur with computers. I thought of one last ploy. I deleted Firefox and Chrome entirely, then reloaded them.

Problem solved! (So far.)

Don't ask me why. But, to date, I have had no more troubles. In the process, I have learned a few things about protecting my computer. Trial and error for me. But possibly a help to you.

The takeout? Be very careful which sites you download from. No, I can't remember the name of the one that nobbled me. If I could, it would be here in large type.

TECHNOLOGY VERSUS ART

Buzzword Books Commissioning Editor, Dan Mills, muses on the information revolution:

Here is a quote from a recent essay in the New York Times Sunday Book Review by Leon Wieseltier: "As the frequency of expression grows, the force of expression diminishes".

Where are we going?
First let's examine where we have been.

I have on my bookshelf an enormous, weighty leather-bound tome filled with photo plates, maps, illustrations and pull out views of landscapes in colour that is the first in a two volume set. It is two inches thick.

The title is ARMENIA - TRAVELS AND STUDIES. The writer is H.F.B. Lynch. Lynch was author, historian and explorer. His vast book (Volume One is titled: "The Russian Provinces") was published by Longmans, Green and Co in 1901.

It was published in an era when even such a limited interest and comprehensive work was considered a marketable proposition - or at least as fodder for the back list. While I was examining this huge book the other day, I found this in the Preface:

"Why does one write a book? I find it difficult to answer the question, which, indeed, demands a knowledge of human nature greater than I possess. There are societies and individuals who, I feel sure, would offer a price if the potential author would agree to keep his material to himself. The sum might possibly be augmented by the contributions of weary students; and a revenue could be collected from these various sources far exceeding any royalties received from publishers. Moreover, the author would escape the foreboding of condign punishment, which he is made to feel suspended over his head. On the other hand, there is the fascination of feeling possessed by a subject stronger than yourself and elemental. And there is the joy and the impersonality of the work reacting upon the personality of the writer."

The situation has not altered since 1901. The more things change, as Karr wrote, the more they remain the same. The publishing business has vastly altered. Quantity and the accessibility of quantity has vastly outstripped quality. Frenetic digital distribution of books has done nothing to improve intrinsic worth. As Gilbert wrote: "When everybody's somebod-ee then no one's anybody." This, then, is the fact.

Against all this remains, still, the thin trickle of excellence achieved by the genuine scribe who is sincerely touched or affected by a confluence of experience and talent. Real books will still appear. Worthwhile writing will still develop. It may be lost in the deluge but it will be there. 

So where does this leave the genuine writer? Will you write if you know no one may ever read you?

Is the endeavour still worth the candle? Should the bread still be cast upon the waters? 

If your wish and will and substance decrees it - what else will you do?

You have heart the truism: No good deed goes unpunished. Here is another: Writing is its own reward. It is also generally its only reward. If that bothers you, you are not a writer and should immediately take up a more rewarding avocation.

If you can't, persist. And remember that it's not what you do but how.

WHY MOST WRITERS ARE SICK PEOPLE - AND READERS ARE A DYING RACE. AN INTERVIEW WITH CLINTON SMITH

Ex-ad man, Clinton Smith, has won over 30 awards for commercials and another 14 for fiction. He has had many books and short stories published, has sold screenplays and had theatre work performed. But his opinion of writers is low. Here's Smith on the obsession of writing.

YOU'VE WON AWARDS FOR LITERARY FICTION. SO WHY DID YOU PUT SO MUCH EFFORT INTO THE THRILLER GENRE?

It's blokey stuff. Fun. Meaty. Engaging. I find most "blockbuster" thrillers slow-moving and dreary, so try to write something fast-paced, quirky, absorbing. The aim, as someone once remarked, is intelligent escapism.

YOUR DESCRIPTIONS ARE ALMOST FILMIC.

After a lifetime writing TV spots and docos, you learn to visualize.

YOUR CHARACTERS AREN'T STOCK TYPES. YOU HAVE AN UNUSUAL TAKE ON THE THRILLER.

Although thrillers are plot-driven, I prefer interesting characters. And despite sexual, religious, race and political differences, people are people.

HOW LONG DOES A THRILLER TAKE YOU TO WRITE?

Up to three years. I don't have to knock out one a year. I'm self-funded, long retired, can take the time to do it as well as I can.

FOR INSTANCE, A BOOK LIKE 'EXIT ALPHA' MUST HAVE BEEN A HUGE RESEARCH TASK.

It was. I had to find out about systems and survival in Antarctica, Catholic Church hierarchy and doctrine, Pakistan political life, C-130's, nuclear aircraft carriers, airships, weapons systems. Then there were arcane subjects such as electrocutions, poltergeists... It takes enormous checking and the help of many experts. You do your best to keep egg off your face - not to slip up too much.

WHY THE ESOTERIC EMPHASIS?

I'm interested in comparative religion and what interests you comes through.

YOUR FIRST THRILLER, 'THE FOURTH EYE' IS EXTREMELY DARK. AND YOUR SECOND, 'THE GAME', DISTURBING.

So is the evening news - which the networks have reduced to the distraction called entertainment. By the way, free to air TV is now struggling - driven by available footage and celebrity obsession. So coverage there has no relation to levels of importance. As for newspapers - they've become living skeletons, can't afford in-depth reporting and are always a day behind events. If you want news, listen to the radio. Of course, pick a station that agrees with your bias.
    But back to the world. It's often brutal. Should we ignore that? Note that they've tried to attribute Titus Andronicus to everyone but Shakespeare but there's good evidence he wrote it and academics have to deal with it.'The Fourth Eye' was mostly social commentary. But 'The Game' was a romp - described by the publisher as  'a romance for men'. I agree with him. 'Deep Six' was a techno-thriller that took on the military establishment. The latest, 'Project Thunder', is another male romance set mostly at sea.

HOW DO YOU WORK?

Patricia Highsmith said that writing a book is a process that should be interrupted only by sleep. I have a life of minimum distraction. Wife and children gone, pets dead. Freedom. Writing is rewriting and I endlessly rework.

WHAT'S IT LIKE ADAPTING YOUR OWN BOOK TO THE SCREEN?

Demanding - a distillation. For instance, a feature won't work unless you stick strictly to the three-act structure. And you have to throw away most of your novel, reinvent, start again. Bit of a wrench but you get over it.

WHY DO YOU WRITE?

It's a character flaw. Writers are obsessive/compulsive and their excretions are their daydreams. Writing attracts anal retentive, egotistical monsters. Some naive people still believe that writing is not only easy but - God help us - an occupation! They, of course, belong in a home for the bewildered.
    As for collectors of books - bibliomania has long been equated with a perversion of the sex instinct.
    Then we come to that decreasing and threatened category called readers - those who wish to escape, be entertained, to ignore a world deconstructing around them - to be told through calming fiction, such as crime novels where the detective always gets his man, or romances where the guy ends up marrying the girl, that everything will come out right. It's the same lie that the parasites called politicians foist on the public each election.

YOU DON'T SEEM TOO POSITIVE ABOUT THE FUTURE OF THE BOOK.

In the 21st Century, reading for entertainment or escape is a dying occupation. There are far more strident distractions - visual, electronic, chemical. So now endless desperate writers pursue a dwindling number of readers. And, despite all their self-promotion, they are increasingly talking to themselves. That is - to other writers - not readers. It's a self-referential feeding frenzy where all involved fall into the pit.
    Of course, there are kinder ways to put it. Writers write for the intellectual joy of constructing an imagined world that's concrete, meaningful, real. That's valid, too. But the writer, alas, will eventually become the only person to inhabit his fandangled world.

PRETTY GRIM. SO WHAT ADVICE DO YOU HAVE FOR WOULD-BE WRITERS?

Find something more sensible to do. I started long before the net. And it took me forty years to get a book up. I dumped three in the garbage one sad day. If you can be discouraged, you won't make it. If you can't, you won't either. And if you get published - equivalent to the chance of being struck by lightning - your book sits on a shelf for six weeks, then it's pulped. With eBooks, everyone can publish. But, as some sage once said, most eBooks will now be read by fourteen people. In this post-literate age, writing is becoming an anachronism.

SO WHAT'S YOUR TAKE ON THE WORLD?

It's in chaos. Obvious enough. The population explosion's made us locusts - stripping, denuding the planet. But we're so self-obsessed, we still see ourselves as apart from nature. The problems we have caused - destruction of biodiversity, pollution, lack of resources - mean that continuing this way is unsustainable. That means we're unsustainable, that we're becoming the only resource.     
    Soon we'll be farmed like cattle. You can see the indications now. Entrenched conglomerates disseminating misinformation to protect their franchises. The subversion of education by business. Drugs and the corporatization of crime. The corruption of professions, institutions, governments.
     We're victims of our own violence, inertia, mental slavery and greed. I'm not making anything up. These are hardly new ideas.

AND YOU'RE TRYING TO HIGHLIGHT THESE PROBLEMS?

I'm not trying to ignore them. Some forms of corruption are too dangerous to tackle directly and fiction, being at one remove, can lift these into awareness. There are brilliant examples through the years.
    For instance '1984' is with us. The only mistake Orwell made was imagining it would be overt rather than covert. Popular fiction's often predicted the future correctly. And it probably has a better strike-rate than most economists, futurists, historians. It can also have a devastating critical punch. For instance, 'The Good Soldier Schweick'.

BUT SURELY WE'VE HAD IT GOOD IN THE LAST HUNDRED YEARS? THE GENERAL STANDARD OF LIVING IN WESTERN DEMOCRACIES IS...

Despite all it's faults, that euphemism for self-interest rather laughingly called Democracy has had a grand run. It's still being kept afloat by advances in science and technology - but notice how each new solution spawns a dozen new problems? Progress is a myth. We're moving in circles. Everything eventually becomes its own opposite.

CAN YOU GIVE AN ILLUSTRATION?

Which century would you like? Christianity spawning the inquisition and the crusades?  The war to end all wars? Communism reverting to hierarchy and decimating the masses? And, in our time, religions engaged in Jihads and the sodomy of minors? There are examples on all scales. Antibiotics that cause more resistant bugs. Claims exploitation that makes the cost of insurance prohibitive. Cane toads destroying Kakadu.
    But people cling to the notion of progress - because the alternative is despair. What is forgotten is that civilizations die and ours has been terminal for years.
 
ARE YOU SAYING THERE ARE NO SOLUTIONS?

No. I'm saying direct means don't work. Violence, which is generally ignorance, provokes the equal and opposite reaction. We think we can do something but we're symptoms, not the cause. Real doing is self-change. But that's almost impossible. Real change isn't on the level of general life at all.

I'M NOT QUITE ACROSS THAT. CAN YOU EXPLAIN?

We need to transform our values. Nothing less will make any difference. That begins with a new kind of wish and a new direction and refinement of attention. But we're so unbalanced, ignorant, destructive, we've no inkling of our inner potential. We're atomized, in pieces - hearts, bodies, minds disconnected. If we could move toward an inner unity, the inner would transform the outer. And that would be real action. Not reaction but response.




YOU CAN FIND CLINT'S BOOKS ON BUZZWORD

Australian Short Story Anthology scores another gong

Clint Smith has had many short stories published over the years but his anthology, Songs of a Second World contains some of the most exceptional. Individual stories in this collection have won two VFAW Awards, a Moomba Award, an Alan Marshal Award, four FAW Awards, a Shoalhaven COE Award and a Lane Cove Literary Award. He has also won the inaugural Mary Drake Award and a Bicentennial Literary Award for other short fiction. Making the The Lane Cove shortlist of eight finalists is his most recent accolade. He is pictured here with the Judge of the short story section who called him 'a beautiful writer' although Smith assures us that an uglier looking author would be hard to find. Ballarat Dreaming is available as an eBook from Buzzword. And the short story from it that he entered, Let Them Be Far, is the substance of this week's post:

LET THEM BE FAR

A mountain, exuding eucalyptus, dreaming in the sun. A cone of untouched bush, isolated, abrupt. Mount Buninyong, they called it. Dreaming in the sun. Close enough if your bike had gears but far enough from town to be ignored.
    Nothing there. Five houses. Leaning fences gapped by shrubs. A blank-faced shop with loose weatherboards scissored on the side. An overgrown park with a rotted entrance-arch. The stump of a water bubbler. Trees propping lantana spears. Central bench in shin-high grass.
   On the bench, in winter coat, an old woman sitting erect.
   An abandoned park.
   A woman dreaming in the sun.

Porcelain eggs and parlour maids and pearl buttons the oil lamps made shine. Croquet on the lawn and tea and jam on silver trays. Silver stirrups hanging from high saddles, hooded carriages. Troika bells. Scrollwork white and gilt. Uncut books and lithographs of saints.

'She sits in that park,' his mother said. 'You say hello. She stares through you. You feel mad. Then guilty, damn it. No way she'll let you help her.'
   His father said, 'Why guilty? She's got to be on a pension. She'll survive.'
   'There was an auction van there last month.'
   'She's leaving?'
   'No sale sign on the fence.'
   'Couldn't sell that place. No one wants it next to that park. House falling down. Worth the land value. That's it.'
   'Keep feeling I should go in. But she'd say there's nothing she wants—like she did when her husband died.'
   'Russians. She's a recluse.'
   'You know her coat? Winter coat with the fur collar? It's in the second-hand store. I'm sure it's hers.'
   He looked up at his parents. 'Is she poor?'
   His mother said, 'No one knows, dear.'
   His father said, 'New Australians,' and pulled a face. 'You know how, if you hurt an animal, it's scared of people all its life? Well she's like that. Scared. God knows what she's been through.'
   'She lets John play in there,' his mother said. 'He's the only soul who's been in that house.'
'To see the parrot.' he said proudly. 'Just one time.'

Sour cream for the herring. Strips of volba to suck. Diamonds and lace. Gold studs. Top-boots, corsets and shawls. Maples, birches, lime trees. Jasmine climbing on the wattle fence. Sochi and Rostov. Rice porridge and the Christmas tree.

He played huntings in her garden. Her garden, his special place. She gave him lemonade. Lemon-sweet that didn't fizz.
   He heard the parrot squawk one day and asked to see it. She took him to a lofty room. Heavy furniture, tall mirrors, damp and dust. The drapes on the curved-topped windows hung from curtain rails thicker than his arm, and had wooden rings as big as quoits. That impressed him a lot. The room's dark grandeur seemed from a time he'd never known, a time nothing to do with the mountain and the street outside.
   The parrot's cage hung from a stand. The bird's talons, with delicate care, enclosed a bar. Its hooked-beak-framed tongue seemed more alive than its button eyes. She crooned, 'Yuri, ya ljuble tebja. Ya ljuble tebja.' She said it was very old. It was bald.
   She let him pour seed into its scoop. Some fell to the floor and studded the velvet-grey dust.
   He'd asked about the parrot since. Last time, she'd said it had died.
   For months he hadn't seen her much. Just sometimes sitting in the park.

Her silver and leather toilet set. Her dog sled. Carrying icons to the school. Her writing table and wash-stand. Her brother in the cadets. Her Russian father's insistence that his wife handle the family funds, a concern to her Estonian mother who thought that was a husband's task.

The cat's meow was a gasp. As it rubbed against his leg, he felt its ribs. Huge eyes, caked fur.  He lifted it. It stank. He took it home.
   His father said, 'It's sick and pregnant. Put it back where you found it. Now!'
   His mother wouldn't let him feed it. 'No. We'll have six kittens next.'
   He took it outside and put it down. It leaned against his legs. He searched in the bin for last night's chicken, found the carcass and thrust it into his shirt. Then he lifted the cat, which smelt the chicken and tried to claw his chest. He hurried to the old woman's home. There was a spot for it under the tubs.
   Through the gate hanging by one hinge, to the house draped in shrubbery and vines. The wide verandahs were imposing still, but sky glared through holes in the curved iron. He trotted around the rotten board-walk to the laundry shed at the back.
   He dropped the cat and opened the pocket-knife he'd swapped for a potato-gun at school.    He cut the last shreds off the carcass which the starving animal gulped.
    He found a box and placed it under the tubs on its side. He found a tin, filled it with water, put it by the box.
   Her back door was shut. Perhaps she was in the park. He looked through the gap in her fence. An empty bench.

Cards, billiards, dancing. The aroma of cigars. Her fat uncles telling stories as they smoked around the spittoon. Dashing reserve guards officers kissing her mother's hand. She, peeping from the conservatory, then tip-toeing back down the hall. The slow tick of the grandfather clock. The howl of wolves in the woods.

Many moments she had lived—hours of moments, years. Her mind was the archive of those years, her flesh their fusion, their epilogue, her heart. Of those years, the stretch of her time. Nine by nine.
   She sat in the park each day because the leaking roof made the house dank. The sagging plaster depressed her. The park matched the ruin of the house.
   She sat, acknowledging no one, resenting neighbours who tried to help, tired of miseries, needs, hopes, failures, deceptions, retreats. She didn't fear the last sacrifice. How could one fear such relief? She prayed,
   'Let others be far from me. Let them be far.'

Next night, he stole into the kitchen and cut two slices from the leg of lamb. In his dressing gown, feet bare, he unlatched the back door, crept outside. The street was alabaster and the mountain herded clouds against the moon.
   The woman's garden was a grotto. The laundry light didn't work but a small rasp-like tongue licked his fingers. Out in the moonlight, he cut the meat into squares. Head and neck jerking, back legs shaking, the cat gulped.
   'Good cat.'
   He wanted to give it more water but there wasn't any in the tap—as if the washer hadn't released. He thought, next time I'll bring milk.
   'Vat are you doing?'
   He jumped.
   She stood by the back door, disembodied head and pale hand.
   'It's a cat. It's starving. Going to have kittens.'
   'Vy you here middle of night?'
   'Cos they won't let me keep it at home. Cos they say I'm not to feed it. So I have to pinch stuff and come when they're asleep. Wus goin' to tell you. Honest.'
   The ghostly head, cheeks triangle dark, didn't move.
   He said, 'It's yours if you like. Now the parrot's dead and all. I can keep it here, can't I?'
   'No one vant a cat.'
   'It's thirsty. But the tap's no good. Nothing comes out.'
   She hobbled forward. She had a kettle. She poured water into the tin. Her wrist shook. Her fingers were bones.
   He said, 'Can you help me feed it, then?'
   'I not help. You do by self.'
   'Well can she stay here, then?'
   'Can stay. But you feed.'
   He pointed to the shed. 'Your globe's bust. I could get one from home and put it in.'
   She said, 'Globe vork.'
   'Switch's bung, then.' He wanted to help but couldn't fix that.
   She shuffled to the back door, went inside. She didn't put on a light, as if she could see in the dark.

Her father's death. Sober voices. Relatives she hardly knew. Hats with crepe. Funeral pancakes. The procession through the market square with the hearse wheels rattling on the cobbles in fifteen degrees of frost. And the long journey to Estonia, where her mother's family had a farm.

She'd paid rates as long as she could. For years, she'd starved to pay. Dangerous to attract attention. Once they knew your business—tshuk! You were taken away to some place, kept in a bed and drugged. And they sold your home. But they'd never get that. She wanted nothing from this country except to be left alone.
   She had managed it so carefully, terrified they might take her away. Now no more money and nothing more to sell. In this land of her foreign husband, his photo yellow, his clothes moth-shreds, his boots white mould. She refused to sell his clothes.

The peasant charm of the farmhouse with its thatched roof and beamed walls. Climbing on the old stone fences and collecting mushrooms by the stream. Rice pilaf, fried sturgeon, red beet salad. Selling potatoes and carrots at the fair. Potatoes kept all winter in the cellar. And, in Autumn, when cabbage was plentiful, pickling it in barrels for the winter. Preserving fruit in interminable jars.

No power. Now no water. Some tea remained, four tins of beans, some cheese. Each evening she filled the kettle from the park tap and found twigs for the wood stove.
   She still had the mattress, blankets and her husband's leather wing chair. The chair faced the window in the lounge-room. She opened the window and sat.
   A woman in a patulous chair. Long casements open to the moon. The chair's wings dwarfing her frame, its back casting a long shadow in the dust. She raised her eyes to a sky of indigo painted on glass.

The farm commandeered by Russians. Staying with her aunt in town. Tallin, with its ancient buildings, high towers and narrow streets. Polishing the parquet floor by dancing with old socks over her shoes. To the public sauna each fortnight. Marble seats and decorated tiles. Waiting to use one of the two baths in a queue of the dispossessed.

She sat like this for hours, staring at the moon. Blanched. Still. Everything a mystery. Explanations a card-house in a gale. Death, the antidote to memory. Or would some ghost-life steal that blessing too?

Her feet always cold. Burning furniture for fuel. At the flea-market, bartering for food. Horse-meat. Cucumber pickled in brine. The body of her aunt, lying for days in the bare best room. The beggars outside St Basils, their hopeless faces gaunt. And the young man she'd met at the station. The young man who became her first love.

From a gap in the heavy drapes that hid the shame of the empty rooms she watched, each night, the boy feed the needy cat. Each night he brought it something. Each day paper and bowl were licked bare.
   The boy trusted her with the cat. That, one couldn't betray. Betrayal. Unspeakable. Betrayal of a child?

Her mother sent to prison because she refused to clear the streets of snow. Not knowing who was friend or informer. Her uncle interviewed.
'Your grandfather in Crimea. He had eighty cows. Was this not so?'
'I've never been there. I never knew him.'
'Eighty cows. Don't pretend you don't know.'
 Her uncle on the black list, suddenly gone one night—riding the train for three months between Moscow and Petersburg, to hide.

She ate the last beans in the last can. Soon hunger turned her limbs to weights.
   That night, she watched the boy leave, then went outside.
   She leaned on the shed to recover, felt along it to the laundry door.
   Rabbit pieces in the moonlight, still with meat on the bones. She could have reached down to take them. The boy would never know. The crab in her stomach was already nipping at the food.

Travelling to Moscow in a vandalised carriage full of lice. Sewerage carts. Frost-blackened railings. Lamp-lighters in the morning dark. Horse trams in yellow slush. The smell of borsch and tar. Pie with unsweetened curds. Frozen potatoes thawed in soup.

The cat crouched near its scraps. Moonlight bleached the shed floor. Half-stooped, saliva in her mouth, she saw slug-like moving shapes, fresh-licked, teat-seeking, helpless in the box.
   The cat opened its mouth, hissed, exposing needle teeth, sensing a second hunger and ready to defend. Its blind kittens over-crawled each other, smothering weak ones underneath, craving warmth, milk, air—impelled, condemned to live.

People starving in the streets. Cholera. War. The Famine Fund. Black beetles. No fuel. She eight months' pregnant. Ill. The only medicine, vinegar and water. Ventilators stuffed with rags. Rags, dirt, freezing weather. Huddling together to survive.

She could have eaten the scraps, and let the kittens starve for milk. As her baby had starved. As the old man had starved for her. The old man—starving to keep her child alive.

'Here is food, Elena Ivanovna.' Bone-thin hands unwrap the paper. Brown bread, once sweet-sour earthy, now iron-hard with the cold.
The smiling hole behind the iced beard. 'For you and the little one within.'
Her blurring tears. 'Where did you get this?' She has not eaten for three days.
'I traded with the devil. Bread, little mother. Bread.'
Almost a quarter of a loaf. He presses it into her hands then shuffles out, old man in layers of filthy clothes he is too cold and frail to remove. He lived under the stairs, in a nest of old paper with the rats.

 The animal, a starving mother. Its kittens needed milk. She ignored the gripe in her stomach, straightened and stepped back. The cat ate, watching her. How simple life was in the end. It was not her food. She must starve.

'Here is food, Elena Ivanovna.'
He unwinds the soiled rag. Slivers of meat, miraculously cooked. Floorboards missing on the landing and new ash in the stove explained.
What is it?'
'Meat, that's all. For your baby. Eat it now.'
Again, the blinding tears. And the scraps pressed into her hands.
 
Perhaps she could eat some grass. She pulled some out and took it inside, cooked it in a pot until it became a sodden mess. She couldn't swallow. She wasn't a cow. Grass. Had she come to this? Better to be strong. Water now—till she died. It wouldn't be long.
   The world was the shadow of something, the flower blind to the seed, the seed blind to its inner pattern, the pattern blind to its life. She passed the spectre in the mirror. The girl once ripe with life was now this?
   In two days, she couldn't feel her feet and her balance was disturbed.
   Now her body was withdrawing movement, even thought. As it devoured itself the thought of food shrivelled with the flesh. She would starve, she thought, as had her child. She would touch her child this way.

Cold, utter, bitter. The baby nudges her dry breast. She stumbles outside with the child into great, wet flakes of snow. She cries for help on the street, falls to her knees in the slush. Flat, stony peasant faces. Sullen soldiers. Endless queues. When she returns to the building, the old man lies dead beneath the stairs. She collapses on the landing. The wailing child is blue.

Through pain she was born. Through pain was taught and grew. Survival was pain. The approach to oblivion was pain. Sometimes she was conscious. Mostly, she slept.
   Cold spread through her body until only one part of her stayed warm. As if no chill could penetrate her womb.
   She warmed herself at that small hearth, no longer feeling her chilblained feet and hands.
   How tentative that warmth was, disturbed by any movement of the spine. Needing refuge, she sat motionless, attending to what she had found. It was like an animal that might, at the slightest thing, take flight.
   She struggled to the park and filled the kettle one last time and placed it beside her mattress on the floor. Painfully, she propped herself against the wall.
   The warm place was now as dear as a child. A dearness of body and tears. An adoration more than flesh. This my body, this my blood. This tenderness melting skin. This foetal universe. She wished to prostrate herself before this melting thing, to submit. Her throat sighed soundless vowels and gold dust sprinkled her limbs. But the joy that enfolded her was cheap compared to this. How can this be, she wondered? It's as if I am loving myself.
   This place, unmoved and moving. All of life resolved, merged in this exquisite nothing, cradled by dispassion without end.
   Pain resolved. Resolved, the loss of her child. Years of misery, fear, resolved at this impartial place.
   She felt she was dying with tenderness. Was this dying then? How could all bitterness be made sweet at this everywhere nowhere point? A delusion? A mere pulsing? Could sensation convey so much? Could sensation be intelligent? She knew in the experience alone.
   Heart, throat, spine, breath, opening to receive, adore.

She could no longer find her sepulchre, was too listless to keep herself clean. She couldn't attend to the warmth or look after herself any more. She lifted the spout to her lips and tasted copper on her tongue.
   It was days since she'd watched for the boy. But she refused to die messed like this in the rotting house. Sometime during the night, she crawled over the front verandah to the ground.
   With her last strength, she dragged herself to the gapped fence and across the park to the bench. The coarse earth felt as soft, as cold, as numbing, as snow.
   It was dawn when her head hit against the seat. Unseeing, she dragged herself up. It came when you sat straight.
   They found her braced against the seat, stick-thin body beneath the coat.

A mountain, exuding eucalyptus, dreaming in the sun. At its foot, a few houses. A park abandoned, overgrown. A bench in the centre. Trees propping lantana spears. Summer-murmuring of bees. No person, change, time.
   Only and always, the mountain. Dreaming in the sun.

Ballarat Dreaming is available as an eBook from Buzzword Books.