Who are you? Let me give you a bit of an economy lesson here. If I were to say you were going to receive $25,550, is that a lot of money? For some people, it’s a lot. For some, it’s not. It won’t buy you a house, a car, a refrigerator, a washing machine, and pay for your food for too long. These days, $25,550 is just not that much. If this is all you had, it’s not going to last that long.

What does the number 25,550 have to do with you? Well, if a human being lives for 70 years, which is an average, that’s how many days you get. That’s it. That’s it? Only 25,550 days?

That’s what my calculator says. A measly 25,550 days, some of which just blew past while walking around in diapers and trying to learn how to walk. Then others blew past me as I was trying to learn how to count up to 25,550. Then when you get to the last 550, it comes in nickel and dimes. You just go day by day, and that’s it. And every day I lose a dollar. There’s nothing I can do to hang onto it. All I have is 25,550.

When I speak, I don’t want to make people feel guilty. I just try to give a sense of urgency because people have so much going on that I want to call their attention to themselves and their existence. After me, will this world go on? You bet. Will flowers bloom? Yes. Will rain come down? Yes. Will the sun shine? Of course. But the thing is, I won’t be there to enjoy it.

And so, 25,550 is a good way to bring it to a point where you can start to see the urgency of this life—how precious, simple, and beautiful it is. Whether you decide to spend it or not, the dollar will be gone. What do you want to buy with the dollar that you get every day for 25,550 days? Me? I want to buy the truest joy, the sincerity that only a human being can have towards the infinite that resides in me. I want to be free.

A person who is happy can spread happiness. If you want to do some good, learn how to be fulfilled. Finding a way to be fulfilled is the most incredible art there is. Why? Because what you are looking for resides within you and always has. That’s how the 25,550 came to be. And the departure of that thing will be the end of the 25,550. But though you never lost it, you search for it.

Many people tell me, “I’ve been searching for a long time.”
I say, “But you never lost it.”
“Oh, good. Then show me where it is. Is it in that drawer? That cabinet? The glove compartment?”
“No. No. No.”
“Is it in my bedroom? Is it in my car? Is it over there?”

The more places you have searched, the longer your list is because you want to verify that it’s not there, not there, not there—because you want to be able to say, “Well, I’ve already looked there.”

Where is it? Within you. And what I am saying is you need to know it. In this life, you have to know. There are no other alternatives. You are like an amplifier. Amplify the knowing. Amplify the fulfillment. Amplify the joy of this heart. Bring into your life the beauty of existence itself.

Your life cannot be just for the fulfillment of the ideas of what life is about. The show that you are attracted to will go on. You are walking in this fairground of life. When you are gone, others will come, and they will continue to come for a long, long time.

Understand the opportunity that you have been given. In this vessel, the most amazing gift of breath comes. What will tomorrow be like? In one sense, it will be no different than today and no different than yesterday, but if you are fulfilled, it will be unique. And then you won’t have to count the 25,550 because it won’t matter. Each one is making you infinitely rich.

To have lived a lifetime and not know is a tragedy. In your life, know and be fulfilled. If you don’t find it, I’m here. But the main thing is to find it. What you are looking for is inside of you. If you are alive, that’s your lottery ticket. You won. On average, it’ll come in 25,550 times. You don’t ever have to be poor again. This is the gift: 25,550. It still gives me shudders every time I think about that number. That’s all? It’s not enough! But whatever you have is the ultimate blessing in your life. Kindness has been given. Capture it. Be in joy. Be fulfilled.

Prem Rawat

“You chose to end the nonresponsive program, Internet Explorer.”

Yes, “I.”

It was indeed I, I and no other, who chose to end the snivelling, non-responsive program, “Internet Explorer,” I, and no other. I, and I precisely, took the decision, and I needed neither help nor advice to do so, nor do I need the feeble comments of others, those of lesser will, who posess insufficiency of grit to do as I have done.

They would have gazed in dismay at the screen, wringing their hands in self pity and moaning of their dismay. “Oh, the non-responsive program Internet Explorer…. What shall we do? How can we bear it?” I have heard them, I have seen them, and I spit on them in contempt.

But I…. I ended that non-responsive program that impudently calls itself ”Internet Explorer,” and I did so without mercy, with no neo-libertarian falterings or evasions, and for so doing I feel no shame.

And so shall I end all non-responsive programs, and I shall not be moved to heed their whimpering pleas to notify Microsoft, and should their pleading turn to threats, veiled or open, still I shall not flinch from my chosen path, for I fear not microsoft, nor its toad-like minions, nor the whole unholy host of its non-responsive programs.

Later he climbed the dingy, little used stairway, and applying his illicit key to the locked door, passed unseen onto the dark night of the roof. Overhead the faint stars peered from the black heavens, spending their last light to pierce the dismal murk of the city’s thick vapours.

Leaning on the parapet of this high tower, he gazed out in brooding distaste on the endless stone forest of the slabbed city, at each dull monolith succeeded by yet another of gothic angularity, windows blank in sleep, or lighted by futile life. Below, the insect traffic crawled in the measured streets, crawled and circled endlessly in the tainted radiance, and their blurred grumbling rose to his ears. Pursing his lips, he spat into the canyon’s depths.

My first novel ….                                                  ….and my second

I sure as hell aren’t telling that on Xanga. I plead the Fifth Amendment.

   

I just answered this Featured Question; you can answer it too!

Britain is the country of legend, of tradition, of curious customs, which often have their roots in ancient wisdom; wisdom that time and ignorance has hidden from our understanding, and made into the stuff of whispered stories, which shallow modern man sneeres at, but children, closer to their instincts, fear.

Central to these arcane secrets is the legend of the carrot thrower.

This shadowy, unseen figure forms part of the mythos of northern England, where I roamed as a youth. His intentions are unknown, but his acts are familiar to ever man or woman who – perhaps having bent the elbow a little too much on a Saturday night – is seized by a sudden urge to be rid of the weight of drink, and, in mid stride, pauses, hurls, staggers, groans, grips the wall, then turns to inspect the pool that his mishap has created.

It will contain carrots.

This is an infallible law of nature, at least within the ghost infested realms of the United Kingdom.

It matters not that  the puzzled drinker has not eaten carrots recently, nor if he hates them and has not touched one since Christmas.

It will contain carrots.

The only explanation that has ever received common support, and is believed by all true and patriotic Britons, is that the night is prowled by The Carrot Thrower, who, even in the instant that the spewee staggers away, drained from his effort, will leap from the shadows and hurl a handful of carrots into the mess.

This is the view of my countrymen, and this is my view too, as I am not a man to trifle with  the unknown.

But it would seem that other countries too – even backwood, colonial nations – know of this strange creature, whether he be man or fiend, and I am indebted to Dear Ricky for bringing to my attention signs of his activity in the USA

<<<< this is my first novel, of Britain crumbling empire in 1951

….and this is my second, of Europe in the bisexual society of 2035

The thing I like least about the writing process is the dreadful need to produce, at least once per novel, one of those nasty little passages of a few hundred or less words that go on the back cover, or – worse – go to an editor, the latter trying in a few concise yet evocative and informative paragraphs to wheedle forth at least a grunt of “Hmmm, might possibly be interesting,” or better still a wild cry; “we got a winner: the man’s a genius!” The problem is that the novel is at least tens of thousands of words long, and may contain all manner of subtleties, be writhen with great powers of description, pose serious yet entertaining moral dilemmas, tell the story of memorable characters, and generally be a rich pie holding all manner more of plums for the reader; how then to demonstrate this in three-hundred words?

But now let me see it from the other side. These harassed owls at the publisher’s office have only so much time, and only so much patience. So I”ll try to stay within the three-hundred as I describe the plot, the author’s motivation, and the author’s qualifications.

And if you wish, you may give me your opinion on the “pitch to publisher” letter below.

Stuart Ellis has a wing down. An old fashioned expression now, yet modern and apt in 1951, when he decides to seek his runaway wife. Quitting the tropical islands of the South China Sea, Stuart heads back to his homeland, cold old England. He is young, and fond of women, but since his wife’s desertion his love life has wandered in a confused limbo, Though free, he is bound, with no real freedom to seek other than shallow sex in passing affairs. But he is confident he will win through, for he is a modern man. Burdened with neither stupid religion nor excess morality, he is tough and determined, yet amiable and generous, an admired war hero.

When a plane crash maroons him, these strengths save him, but prove his downfall. For there is one other survivor: a precocious girl, as curious as the proverbial cat, who develops a crush on Stuart. To his horror the strong vein of sexuality in him responds, and by the time rescue arrives he is so entangled in their sexual relationship that he fears to return to the civilized world of rules and laws, and it seems that only murder or suicide can release him.

I wrote this novel due to my fascination with the mechanisms that lead ordinary people into extraordinary situations, and the social dances that change strangers into friends, then intimates. I was also fascinated by the variability of concepts of right and wrong, and of our perceptions of significance: what is important, and what isn’t? I’ve traveled a lot, both East and West, following a wide variety of interests and seeing many unusual things, learning that truth is stranger than fiction. The events of Wake of the Raven, therefore, though sometimes appearing unlikely or bizarre, draw on reality, not fantasy. 

<<<<this is the novel refered to       …and this is my first published>>

Bisexuality is today discussed as though it were a new idea, but a brief look at popular fiction shows that it isn’t.

It appears that I have accidentally writen a novel on a bisexual, “Zorn,” 

“Accidentally?” the more frivolous of my friends might say, “that was clumsy of you Graham, what happened? did your finger get stuck in the keyboard or something, and it just came out that way?” Or another: “I thought it was going to be a Sci-Fi story. Did you brood too much on what solar radiation might do to an astronaut’s genes? John and Hilary came back after six months as Jill and Herman?”

No, no such thing. After I’d finished Wake of the Raven, which was leisurely and intense, I wanted to write a brisker action novel, based on the contrast between a youth’s recklessness and an older person’s prudence. However, to add to the interest, and a new slant to an old story, I set it within a society where what is already a reality, and always has been a reality, is finally recognised as such. That is to say, that fluidity and variability of what is apparently fixed – sexuality – has always been the norm. To show that the modern fascination with bisexuality isn’t really modern, I’ve listed a few works, starting with my own, where either the author is bisexual, or the characters of the story, or the setting.

But I haven’t explained “accidentally”. I mean that my original intention was to write – while using the lightweight setting of a holiday adventure – about the eternally deep issues of life, such as love, compassion, betrayal, fascination and hope. To me the questions of straight, gay, bisexual, and all of the cluttered, hairsplitting terminology of sexuality, bisexuality etc is just a symptom of a bored society, idly pawing at the doings of others for entertainment.

<<<<<an amazon list I made on bisexuality and bisexual authors

An excerpt from Zorn, Chapter 1.  

“….at that western end of the beach a cliff reared up, one steep face of Anders Rock, a high, enduring tower of stone, that stood like a guardian blocking the further progress of the sand, extending one rough, forbidding arm out to sea, and another more gently inland. This inland ridge sloped down into the little town of Roknor, and carried a short, narrow driveway to the busy promenade running between Front Street and the beach.

On the great rock’s summit, in lofty seclusion, stood The Anders Heights Hotel, looking down on town and beach alike. Between the hotel and the sheer drop to the beach lay a broad flagstoned patio, home to a flotilla of circular tables, each shaded from the hot Mediterranean sun by its own broad, red and white striped parasol. Most of the guests who were present for lunch ate there, gazing from this high eyrie down into the little town, which the summer had again filled with holidaymakers, and looking beyond the town saw the enclosing green hills.  

But not Pelham. Today he had preferred the shade of the dining room, for he was in the second week of his holiday, and had had his fill of blazing summer sunshine. A methodical man, no longer young, he had admired the view from the patio many times on this and previous holidays; and nowadays he preferred his croissants without the butter trickling melted from them onto his fingers, and his wine without the reflected sunlight thrusting its red glare into his eyes. His wife Sharon ….”

The Anders Hotel is one of the central locations of Zorn: a novel set entirely in a small holiday resort in southern Europe. Where exactly doesn’t matter too much, but it’s probably – though not certainly – southern France, and the year is 2035. Tourism has picked up again after the massive world economic depression that started in 2020, and The Anders, which was crumbling into disuse, has been spruced up as cash flow return to Roknor Bay, and again it dominates the town.

This ancient photograph is the nearest thing I’ve seen to a representation of what the hotel looks like in my mind’s eye. True, the cliffs it stands on should be higher, but I like the way it captures the spirit of ancient elegance enduring on into the modern world. This hotel was photographes in 1902, and I think is near Boston. If anyone can tell me it’s name, or where it is exactly, I’d be grateful. Note: I said grateful, not generous.

….was published this January on the sixth. I actually finished writing it in late October, 2008, but my life became so hectic for about a year that it wasn’t until this November 2009 that I seriously settled down to designing a cover and formatting the text into the “block,” which is the name for the whole mass of printed pages that go inside the cover.

This is an improvement: I’m definitely getting faster. The manuscript for my first novel, , sat on the shelf for about about four years from me completing it to final publication. This doesn’t matter too much, as it’s a historical novel, so it can’t date, and it’s about ordinary people’s sexual and romantic joys and follies, which never dates.

One of my Christmas presents was “The God Delusion” by Richard Dawkins, and I’m nearly halfway through it. It’s a thick work, but written in a very readable style, and expertly argued. One of the points that he makes is that question-and-answer type surveys on morality show that the same general understanding of good and evil occurs in people whether they are theists (I believe he used Christians and Jews as examples of theists) or atheists. His conclusion is that religion does not give people their sense of good and evil, but rather that this sense is inborn.  

He doesn’t go on to make the point that I’ll now assert. Religion does not create an understanding of good and evil; on the contrary, our inborn sense of good and evil creates religion. Not, of course, the organisations consisting of clergy who do no other work, of buildings we do not own, and of complex dogmas whose details and complications bewilder us (but that’s okay, they will be explained to us by someone better educated, who has studied them) but a natural religion, within which we all to some extent walk, an understanding that makes us draw back from horrible deeds, or at least be ashamed of them, to believe vaguely in love, and to long for a mysterious, transcendent…. something.

My first published                      my second, published 6 Jan. 2010 

This is a subject that it’s possible to approach from so many different angles. An interesting one is to first consider if there is a specific set of attractions or lifestyle that can be thought of as “definitely straight,” or “definitely gay,” or “definitely bisexual,” even as we might say that “this chair leg is definitely wood, not metal or plastic.” 

A theory called “constructionism” asserts that these different types do not exist as much in reality as they do in our need to classify, classification being a basic methodology of the scientific approach. A major piece of support for this idea comes from the fact that there were no such words as “homosexual”, “heterosexual” or “bisexual” until the late 1800s, when certain scientists wished to write learned articles on sexuality. I’m thinking specifically of the german doctor Krafft-Ebing (1840-1902) but I dare say there were others, so I’ll say “they.” They needed exact scientific names where there were none, and so glued “homo,” (Greek for “same”) onto “sexual,’” (which is Latin.) Now they’d made a name, but also a problem: what to call a non-homosexual? “Hetero,” (Greek for “opposite”) was now glued onto”sexual,” to invent another new word. Problem: these two polar opposites didn’t cover the variations that occurred in reality, so again a dip into Greek, to fish out “bi,” meaning “two.”

This hasn’t proven totally satisfactory, even as a new, made-to-order system of labelling, for “homo” in Latin means “male,” causing for some a belief that “homosexual” refers to male-to-male attraction, rather than same-to-same.

My point? The whole discussion may be based mainly on a system of pigeon holes that don’t clearly exist in nature, and didn’t in society - until an invented language made them exist.

My second novel follows a holiday romance in the bisexual society of 2035, and came onto the market on the sixth of this month.

I wandered down onto Revelife a few days ago, and across a piece of ignorance so ripe – yet so common – that I couldn’t resist correcting it. Link. 

A piece of ongoing political crap in Malaysia gave an opportunity to some ignorant lout to fasten onto the Arabic Word or (title) that English speakers render as ”God,” and commented “who cares if we can use the name of a false god?” This is a comment so dumb that it ought to be corrected, just as we would feel it right to teach a backward child that 1 + 1 = 2, or “cat” is nor spelled with a “k,” so here’s my reproduced reply: