Story & Conversation
This Writing is a direct result of reading, and being enlightened by, the very specific information Peter D. Francuch (see Epilogue) received about the origin, scope and human nature of 'evil'. I take it as an 'updated' creation story. I felt the desire to offer the hitherto unknown facts of our human beginnings and derailment into our present isolated state in the form of a story. The conversation with the Source of the information accompanies and carries the Narrative.
Pieter Noomen, Th.Drs Los Angeles, 1994, edited for www. 20018 Email: firstname.lastname@example.org Copyright © P.N. 2018
"Yes, of course, it's Me," He/She said, beaming. Not that I 'saw' Her/His face. The chair opposite of me next to the fireplace was as empty as mine had been a few moments ago till I sank in it with a notebook in my hand.
"You know it's Me," He/She said.
(Some people are good in imagery. Pictures in their mind take on a life by themselves, like hallucinations on command. I envy them. I consider myself of the potato or rice variety, ruefully underprivileged in ESP and other haute cuisine of the mind.)
I didn't see, or hear for that matter, anything specific. Nothing changed the normal atmosphere in the room. There was no buzzing or any unusual sensation in my head. Still, He/She was there, spoke to me, and on some level or another I perceived that and could communicate.
I was aware of soothing baroque piano music from the CD player I had forgotten to turn off. "I like the music," She/He said. "That surprises you?"
(I have long learned that nothing surprises me about the 'I AM' , ('God'). Especially not when He/She is so down-to-earth. What keeps getting to me, however, is how ill-prepared I am for Her/His level of communicating with me. Usually He/She makes much too much sense for my twisted taste.)
I nodded, because I also like that kind of music. Yet my nodding was more a confirmation that exactly this kind of leveling with me that She/He did, added proof that He/She was there. In other words, the simplicity of Her/His speaking with me affirms for me the normalcy of His/Her presence.
She/He said: "Through your ears I hear. You grasp that? Through the perceptions of all in the universe I can hear how sounds are heard. Let me tell you that, elsewhere, sound as such is music. It's always beautiful."
I felt we got sidetracked. I had a task cut out for me. "So here we are," I said. "It's why You and I are sitting here, isn't it? I'm going to act as an artist, 'catching' Your presence and speaking and make it into a story."
(For weeks, I felt the need to do so. I talk about relating information about the origin of us human beings on this planet in the form of a story or allegory. I think that piece of the puzzle of our past needs its proper place. We often have the most bizarre assumptions about how life on earth started. I felt getting pushy, as I am ready and eager to start addressing this issue.)
"Yes," He/She said simply. Her/His smile was comfortable. (Why did the image of a bartender flash through my mind, who with one sweeping gesture cleans the counter in front of him and asks whether you are ready to order?)
It really would start now, I realized. Things would be on paper.
I looked at my notebook and wondered how to proceed. Should I make notes, have a sort of interview, or go and sit in front of the computer and take it from there?
While I considered my options, another thought pushed its way in. It said - or maybe He/ She said while She/He watched me, "You only can think because of Me. Because I am your source of life and I am in the workings of your brains right now. My presence is in all that exists, everywhere."
(I sense the absoluteness of this fact. The unpleasant implication of it is that my thinking is not private. It's observed. Its main function may be that it provides a learning opportunity for creatures in other dimensions. In my case, I'm afraid those will fast learn how and what not to think!)
He/She didn't say, "Do this or that." I felt She/He waited for my next move. I could go to the study where the computer is. There's no door between the two rooms. "I can use the computer to write down the story and our conversation," I said aloud. "But where will You sit then? If you're willing to look over your shoulder while I type, we can stay in contact." It sounded incredibly silly. But, well, I said it. He/She sat relaxed in the big chair. Like a thousand times before I wondered, 'Is this whole setting a projection, a fantasy?'
(As far as I know, we all continuously talk to ourselves; to us, it's as natural as breathing. Do I now manage to place one of the 'talkers' from my inner dialogue outside of me, and, voila!, that part plays the role of a wiseguy or even God - now as a separate person out there while normally he or she speaks as just one of my inner voices?)
I decided not to worry about it now. She/He sitting there, clearly ready to work with me, was more than I bargained for.
(During my daily conversation on my morning and evening walks, I had told Her/Him how I struggled with finding a format for putting on paper my new insights. Well, this was the time to give it a shot.)
I went to the study. I passed His/Her chair. Should I acknowledge Her/Him with a hug? From experience, I know that hugging a sitting person is awkward. You either fall in their lap or strain your back.
"Don't make an issue of it," He/She laughed. "We have been more intimate than this, haven't we?" So now I'm sitting in front of the computer. "How to go from here?" She/He said, "I'll be here regularly. You can proceed with this whenever you take time for it. The story itself you know already."
(That's true. The content of the story is not the problem, I think. The form of the presentation is. It's clear to me that it should not be presented as an article or a lecture. It must be a story that can be told. The problem is that I'm not a storyteller. I can't even tell a joke! I'm a Moses needing an Aaron to speak for him.)
Anyway, here it comes, the story of human life from its very beginning, presented as the experiences of one human family.
Father and mother watched the sun closing the day.
They held hands; their fingers transmitting love.
They felt so close, as if they merged into one body.
Without words they expressed it:
'Yes,' everything is going to change.
But 'No', we have no doubt about our being right.'
The children had reacted marvelously; they had listened.
The discussion had been lively, bubbling with questions
The frankness of their offspring tickled the parents' pride.
They had explained their decision and
pointed at the consequences facing them all.
First, the oldest son stated his position. "If you're going to ask me to volunteer, Mom, Dad, I'm not going to feel good about it. I deeply respect your concerns, but I don't see myself in any other role than in what I'm doing now, which, as you know, is very gratifying to me; and to you also, I hope."
This was more or less where also the three others stood.
The oldest daughter said, "You're such sweeties that you want those things explored. But I've no desire whatsoever to leave you. I love raising my family here and I'm excited about all the projects I'm involved in."
The other son, who considered himself the intellectual of the family, came with, "Such a logical question you raise! What will happen when I or any of us kids take off and make a living away from here? Theoretically, we can figure out what could happen, but we'll only know for sure if and when someone actually takes the step and leaves us. Well, I'm not interested in doing that myself. If only for the obvious reason that going far away has the potential of not finding the way back home."
"And that," his younger sister jumped in, "we perhaps wouldn't mind, smarty!" She squeezed her Mother's hand and pleaded, "We don't have to decide now, do we?"
At that point Mother spoke. Her words came slow, precise, and crystal clear:
"Being with you children gives us great joy.
Raising you was a wonderful challenge.
Watching you grow increases our pleasure.
All of you add to our common happiness.
And so it will be."
Then her voice softened: "If one of you children would settle somewhere else, would we love him or her less? No, because your Dad and I will keep treasuring what our love created. We will respect your decisions.
"Your Father and I discussed what might happen if one of you would move away. It's an unpleasant thought. But as you know, the principles by which we raised you contain that built-in chance. If we would forbid you to go, we would violate your freedom of making your own choices, and on top of that, the fear that it would happen anyway would keep hanging over us as a cloud.
"Therefore, we decided that the unknown needs a chance to be experienced. It will mean that we'll have to hold our breath for a while, so to speak. And 'theoretically'," - she tousled her second boy's hair - "we as parents will also be tested. What will it do to us when we let one or more of you go, perhaps for good?"
(You have to understand, dear reader, that our family and the people working for them are the only human population on a fairly good-sized island. The need to explore other territories wasn't there, because their land had an abundance of all the goods nature offers: woods and valleys, streams and open land, beaches and snow-topped mountains, you name it.)
Father and Mother had told the children they had been 'everywhere', had traveled extensively, yet considered this their permanent home.
The children used small neighboring islands close to the coast for many of their activities. The oldest son, for example, was involved in vast agricultural experiments. His sister, with her helpers, manufactured the most exquisite fabrics from rare material. The younger girl often said that she definitely would like to see more of the world as long as she could sleep in her own bed every night.
"So, who is volunteering to pack up and move?" the oldest asked, looking around. "I can see where Dad and Mom come from, but I'd rather not get involved."
Here, his Father interrupted. "We're not going to ask any of you to leave us. The four of you already established yourselves beautifully. No, we're thinking of your little brother and sister, the twins". (The twins, a boy and a girl, were just toddlers at this time.)
"We'll explain to them the option of leaving.
We'll teach them the freedom to choose.
We'll equip them with tools for surviving.
We'll entrust them with all that we know."
Mentioning the twins caused much consternation:
'Was it fair to burden the little ones?'"
'Would they have a say in it?'
'What if they refused?'
'Where and when and how would they go?'
Those were just a few of the questions their brothers and sisters raised.
At the end of a lengthy discussion, however, all four deeply respected their parents who showed such a sincere concern for the twin's welfare and for their unique chance to make it away from home.
What an open and adventurous frame of mind their parents had!
Most impressed they were with the indeed crucial impact on the whole family the twins' mission was going to have. If this question about the freedom to go away, with all its consequences, was not addressed, it would uneasily linger among them. It would mean that something unknown and potentially unpleasant could keep waiting in the wings. To be honest, they themselves in the deep recesses of their minds had suppressed thoughts going in the direction of 'What is out there?' 'Why do I stay with my family?' 'Could I make it on my own?'
They admired Mom's and Dad's courage to face the hazard of breaking up the family and now were going to answer that question once and for all. It must not come easy for them, they realized. They knew how much their parents loved the twins.
That night, the children went to bed excited and also relieved. Actually, it felt good to be off the hook.
To them, the idea of being separated from the rest of the family contained nothing appealing. They agreed with their smart brother when he ventured, "Who wants to go into voluntary exile?"
After the children had gone to their quarters, Father and Mother sat still for a long time, hand in hand, seeing the night preparing another beginning.