Meet the Main Characters:

A Squirrel, a.k.a, Parsifal, a Greco-Roman idealist, and a self-proclaimed Nietzschean overman “Übermensch” is a pagan wayfarer beyond good and evil. Neither heaven nor hell were found suitable for him, but a wild wood of intoxicating powers.

Traveling back and forth in time, Parsifal is an unapologetic pantheist, an iconoclast, a pagan, and it seems that his zest could be found even among the swampy inclement elements of Mother Nature: for him, the wilderness seems to be more entertaining that the boring high walls of mechanized society.

Prince-Philosopher (an atheist). The philosopher is confronted with the impending collapse of civilization. Homo sapiens have created their own nightmare, and now the philosopher is in friendliest terms with a squirrel by the wood.
​
​Shanti, is a pagan princess lost in the woods of Transylvania, year 448, Europe). Shanti means peace in Sanskrit. Thanks to Parsifal (the little Squirrel) she is to be hooked up with the Prince-Philosopher in the future year 2010, New York City.

Of course, there are other places and characters, Josh Man-Son, Don Sebastian Cornelio, Rosalinda, Ana S. Man-Son, Ernesto Gutierrez, Sara Evangelina Sanchez, Jennifer Gem, Natasha Blavatsky, as yet waiting to be revealed…but let the story unfold.

Phoenix Bird, main narrator of the Shanti Story, from what we gather, is a Christian, but it is not clear whether he is a Catholic or Protestant.

King Nihilo- Hybrid Monster (The King of Meaninglessness). King Nihilo is born out of the shocking copulation of a snake (Lilith) sexually united with a lynx (Satan).

Madam Lilith- The Snake: She is the frightening Hag of our senses, distraction, deception and final doom: death.

​Places in the Shanti story:

The Fort Tryon Park in New York City, Hudson River, Inwood Hill Park, Santa Fe, Argentina, La Cumbre (the Peak) on the North Coast of the Dominican Republic, Kingdom of Agharti and Europe (Transylvania, year 449).

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Shanti Chapter 1:

The Squirrel Parsifal In the Woods (Inwood Hill Park NYC) With a Philosopher (an Atheist)

Parsifal: "So, we are finally united here, in true solidarity by the wood. A little while ago, I heard you ranting nonsense about my America: the Sublime and the Beautiful."

Philosopher: "Most respected friend, I beg you pardon, it is the fault of every philosopher to catch attention by some brilliant drollness to people out there, or, by some crazy twisting-twitching, and total reversal of ideas and fundamentals, procure what new ‘swing’ may History unfold for you and I to dance.”

Parsifal: "And so you, funny philosophers, may take such liberty so as to abandon the Wood of Henry D. Thoreau and the philosophy of Arthur Schopenhauer, the true fountain of wisdom, in exchange for that madhouse and post-modern society?"

Philosopher: "Have you read Aristotle? Are you a beast or a squirrel?"

Parsifal: "No my friend, I told you my great admiration for the Old America of Frederic Church, and how optimistic I was, to finally settle in peace with them, side by side with my cousin Homo sapiens.

I remember Maxfield Parrish and Ralph Emerson coming to this wild-wood, and we were not deprived of the most genuine boon, the pretty face of mother nature, for us to unveil her, a mutual delight."

Philosopher: "Human beings are not yet ready for the wood. They would soon exterminate each other; hence, we created the state-machine, to protect them from their fellow-creatures and other dangerous kin.

What is the state of man without the state-machine?

In the last analysis, we are all beasts of prey and survival...

--Don't you think so?"

Parsifal: "Not me. I am an innocent creature roaming this planet...still frisking in the wild wood.

How I survived other wild beasts, it is just a wonder. You may ask Charles Darwin. I guess my body is quite supple.

Look! I can stretch and hide and bend among the shelter-trees and, much to my delight, the bushes of survival are still greening everywhere..."

Philosopher: "Indeed, you are a wonderfully resilient creature!

I am amazed! That you have not yet become an extinct species may defy our sciences! Indeed, strong biological-dynamics are even at work in such feeble a critter like you!"

Squirrel: "So am I who I am!

The meaning of life is not just confined to thee Homo sapiens alone. Thy systems are going to wrack, but generous Mother Nature is always confident in all her perennial enterprises."

Phoenix Bird:

“After a reverential silence, both species resume their conversation. Parsifal seems to share instinctual forebodings, unknown feelings of brotherhood with this distant kin; for though they are separated by the shimmering sparks of reason and the state-machine, the question of survival may touch beyond their deepest biological-chords —beyond apparent differences...”

Philosopher: "Indeed, we, humankind face difficult challenges."

Parsifal: "What is intelligence?

Is it the capacity to cope with adversity?

Is it the capacity to compound relative facts and feeble concepts in your ever-piling silly paper-books?

Is it to see ideas and fleeting visions in the screen of your slumbering senses? And yet, you are shut up from without."

Philosopher: "It is the capacity to think. The capacity to recollect data and use them for specific purpose, goals and meanings..."

Parsifal: "What?"

Philosopher:"That's right. You cannot understand me. We are the only thinking entity roaming this old planet’s upper-crust.

We are rightly called Homo sapiens, the only thinking species."

Parsifal: (With pouting lips, mouth puckered in a most hilarious grimace, scratches his little head with his right downy paw)

​"You must be kidding your brains! You completely altered the whole realm of my wood, and yours is going bananas (excuse my post-American slang.)”

Philosopher: "Yes. We have changed many things for the better. The burden of existence is, indeed, unbearable in the wild wood.

Our necessities are too complex to conform them to a primeval, pristine, Edenean state of naturalism. Such Elysian worlds, however beautiful, innocent and idyllic, are said to be the habitations of dangerous predators. Nay, our bodies are not suitable for the fickle elements of unbridled Mother Nature —they would destroy us."

Parsifal: "I see. My friend, I recommend you to stop pondering into such profound things.

Your madness will eventually out-space my beautiful field and untamed woods, and who knows, if at due time, you may out-expanse the very heavens, and they would also break loose..."

Philosopher: "My dear friend, we love you.. That's why I came to pay you a cordial visit. We face the challenge of survival together..."

Parsifal: (Musing with a far-gazing attitude) "We squirrels love thee too. By heaven’s sake, go quickly, and bring me good tidings of your kin's love for me as well.

Let them share the joy and true revels amid existence, and perhaps we may survive the hereafter together. Perhaps we may reach that unifying love, that instinctual love which is beyond the bar of reason, beyond the very hinges of intelligence.

Please, follow me into the wild wood of yesteryears. I would like to show thee the twilight of living, where love goes beyond rationality, nay, beyond your state-machines..."

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The Great Challenge To The Philosopher With the Squirrel-Guest By His Side

Parsifal: "I wish I could go to heaven, but for me neither Heaven nor Hell were found appropriate, but this lovely wood the Almighty's good-will created so cheerfully.

And yet, I have seen many shapes and shadows, stealthily disappearing at the early Morning-Twilight. It is difficult to tell thee whether they were alive or dead, but for passing guests they seemed ever receding, if perhaps tangible to substantial conjecture and speculation.

All the same, guess them real my friend —no wise a mistake, as spectators aloof they show themselves but as common foreigners, good citizens, wayfarers from beyond to humankind.

Now pay heed, these entities are fond to put on shapes of common folks and friends, or, if they wish to remain incognito, they may put on other guises at will."

Philosopher: "Now tell me my friend, who is King Nihilo?

Have you heard this name, Madam Lilith?"

Parsifal: "We will touch upon those spirits at due time, and thus dispel those vexing doubts that now beset your inquisitive mind.

Not far from this wood, there is a river-girt Isle, as old as the dawn of history can tell, in its hazy shore we will find a hoary boat abandoned, whereon we may encompass and complete the whole circuit of this daunting circumference —but only on foggy hours it is advisable— when the steaming elements of nature are interfused with much exhalation, making this realm but a confusing whole, a boundless expanse of existence to scan but groping and fumbling.

At due time, you will reach the timeless path-way (X= Present Time of Kant and Schopenhauer) by the clammy-banks of Hudson River, and there test your mettle and tenacity, whether you are worthy of the ever-sweetly humming-singing Shanti's lips, or, whether you are but a no-way wayfarer, a coward roaming this planet aimlessly like a rat, an execrable corpse, a mere mortal, a downcast soul, a child of King Nihilo, cruelly lost in the Nest of Time.

It was the good will of heaven, as you saw earlier in that beautiful bird soaring, with outstretched pinions, to appoint thee two Twilights: one hour in the early morning to meet the noble shapes of bygone American dreams; the other time, a terrible hour, at night profound, the Walpurgis Night of Goethe, thereat you will reach the Stygian demesne of King Nihilo, terrible lord, the horrific spirit of meaningless."

Philosopher:"What you say to me I take to heart with unswerving resolution, and I will not retreat in shameful ignominy, nor in mortal fiasco, but to face every shade, shape or formless thing or entity, whether beast, angel or spirit for the sake of Shanti's rosy cheeks, I will tread the bottomless Pit of Hell, or rummage every thicket of the wild wood, or plod through many a miry swamp, or make my ways through the city-square (Manhattan) of the living dead, or descry every nook and cranny of that legendary Isle."

Parsifal: "Good man, do not be afraid, angels may camp round those souls who shun evil; wend your path straight, through justice always, and good-will for all --nothing evil shall touch thee.

Come to meet me here round 5:45 AM to-morrow, before fugitive Aurora pours forth her enchanting cheers and wild laughter to the recalcitrant children of Adam and Eve.”

Philosopher: "My ever-seeking friend, my faithful companion and most illustrious master, deep in my mind and heart I will ponder all your wise sayings, and I will prepare path-ways to meet you here, as it is wise to see the master here again, being this wood so full-fraught with many a scampering squirrel, high groves and subtlest rustles, thus making this place a most difficult enterprise to meeting my guiding Morning-Star, my Lord and Master, my Good Shepherd, yet in the semblance of an innocent wight."

Parsifal: "Your servant I am, in humility we stand together."

An Angel Is Heard From Heaven

Phoenix Bird: (While Parsifal was speaking, a sweet voice from heaven was issued, amid scudding clouds, yea sparkling golden hues and lovely glittering beams; then it was conveyed into a most beautiful golden bird, gently traversing the sweet welkin (sky) and then up again was lost in the bluish haze of ethereal distance).

An Angel: "A propitious Good Morning to those who find their strength in the mystery of Christ; the Son of Man will wake you up early, and thus weigh the fundamentals of existence.

And even as Aurora finds her delight in early morning's refreshing dews, so does the Sun-Christ of Life shine forth his blessed light upon the broad-wayed plains of creation.

Like the sturdy venerable Pastor of Old, who would wake up by the tickling stroke of rosy-fingered Dawn, so let us today stir our spirits up, indefatigable, strong, productive, tenacious, courageous and perspicacious.

Let us grant the Prince of Sudden Dawn the strength and widespread pinions of the fabulous Pegasus Horse; and with Him, let us all rise up to the blessed heaven of a soul living in full possession of her terrific creativeness and inspiration (afflatus), and from such divine impetus (puissance) let the Son of Man enjoy an unforgettable adventurousness (a riveting jaunt) into the wild woods of Shanti in Transylvania.

​And like divine Odysseus, we may summon our crew ready for the task of life, to prepare the swift ship in the ever-journeying experience of life, and may heaven grant us patience, tenacity, long-suffering endurance, to safely reach the Stygian demesne of King Nihilo.

A dreadful spirit is he, and no mortal with firm limbs may dare tread his eerie mansion without losing the gifts of common sense, naturalism, intuition, discernment, perspicacity, and above all, that indispensable alertness, presence of mind, to escaping the mortal blow of that Hideous Spirit.

This is the Terrible King who makes Adam's progeny forgetful of Mother Nature, forgetful of heaven and forgetful of the ever-rolling ocean of true mariners.

Let us pray to God that we may scape his irrational principles..."

Philosopher: "How to wake up the dormant man within me?

Did you hear that sweet voice, as if winged from heaven's obsequious boon, angelic harmonic bloom!

Now the gloomy spectacle presents itself with greater vigor, beauty, clarity, vitality!

Early in the morning I will seek the master, the time when my faculties seem to find their lost strength regained redouble; they will carry me on, to apprehend with greater perspicuity that capricious woman, whether Shanti or Fate, let her be my gain.

Yea, in that timeless Here-Now, my memories will reverberate with greater longing, adorable muses for me will sing their mellifluous strains anew —at the entrance-gate of the Fort Tryon Park— I shall hold me happier than a duke.

Thus I will mount that Sweet Hill, to find my spot secure, in possession of myself, the quiet place I once lost, in grim passions so low overcome: that mortal blow which few mortals could hardly evade.

Indeed, I shudder at the terrible thought of human mortification, that cruel woman: whether Lethargy, Delilah or Lilith, I never met so cruel an embittered spirit, the Wailing Woman (La Llorona) hellbent on her vindictive path, to destroying men along her path.

She is an elusive shade fleeting, the cruel ghost who had brought me so near her alluring spell, weak, despairing, my bosom thus charmed, in deceit betrayed —to her sweet passion I hopelessly yielded.

Woeful and shadow-struck, nearly half-dead at her cruel lap I stooped low in cowardice, defeat and resignation; and then the poor soul felt the tip of that cold spear, like a sheet of ice, piercing, cutting sharp through the bottomless depths of my heart’s innermost being.

In that hideous morgue of forgetfulness, O God! my soul almost surrendered her priceless treasures: purity, inspiration, intuition, love, joy, hope, immortality!

Oh my Illustrious Master! My heart contracts within my awe-stricken bosom, and day and night, I would ponder, deep in my heart, how every soul must fight her way up to the Music of Heaven!"

Parsifal: "But let me remind you, that barbarian lass you would not possess unless you prove yourself worthy a blue prince, and fearless to face other worse beasts —victorious reach your cool girl. For, in comparison to other monsters crawling and creeping this easy wood, I am but an angel.

Beyond this realm of your illusion, inquiries and disillusionments, there are other terrible entities, ghastly, fleeting shades nocturnal, mysterious beings of night profound, horrid, eerie, wild monsters, which foggy days seem to suspend obscure —to torment the mortals of Adam's progeny they are the more ready.

Life is, for the most part, a phantasmagoria!

Thus engulfed, bewitched, spellbound, and enchained in the deceptive figments of a mind benighted, these haunting spirits, in cahoots with the fallen angels of Satan, could plunge us all into the Pit of Hell.

They are often reported amid impregnable mist, lonely roads, abandoned places, gloomy vapors suddenly surging, hither and thither, drafty chilly winds amidst ether immeasurable, woes, congenial to them at night.

When fickle Mother Nature, however pregnant with mysteries, appears exhausted of diurnal light impregnated, she more delighted would retreat back into the wilderness, to put on other deceptive veils and gowns, and thus, in yonder spot, look out!

Watch out! There, in the dark quarters of the woods, lurks defiant a haunting specter, Madam Lilith, always resourceful with shock and awe, may introduce us other entities of night profound, horrific, gruesome, creepy.

Pay heeds, no less real they are my friend, and yet beyond your tangibility expect them not too willing in peaceful reciprocity; for grisly tinged they seem but haunting wayfarers, shrouded in sombre hues, their appalling visages, half-lit, shafts of lights, ever-screening, as though surging from another dimension, may reveal lurid eyes inexpressive, dimly-lidded, to horror rather inspire.

If you don’t believe me, it is because your heart has gone dead, numb and cold to the indispensable thrills of life lived through the wood of yore.

Mother Nature, the amphitheater of strangest paranormal phenomena, is always teeming with other erratic veils and gowns completely drenched with the sluicing forces of magic and the fantastic (peruse Arthur Schopenhauer, Will in Nature).

As hoary and awfully interfused the Hudson River's waters tinted, in cloudy days relate other hazy stories, with the welkin mixed, steaming and receding afar, somehow wafting awful delights amid fearful expanse and boundless penumbras, so these Daunting Shades frolic and revel in that Terrible Hour, the timeless instance, the Miltonic Twilight, which could make any mortal cower, grope and hold this reality but a silly fantasy..."

(So went on saying Parsifal, and the humble philosopher silent ever listening, and yet, procures other doubts to dispel without further sufferance).

Philosopher: "Most illustrious master, faithful companion and my ever-seeking friend, everything you relate to me is too great a frightening challenge, a mere mortal I am, in doubts always consumed, and yet, no less a coward to retreat in shame your minor kin, for I am Man, in God's image made.

But tell me, could I thereat meet some amicable shades, perhaps issuing memories remote, and yet sweet to hear them near?"

Parsifal: "O soul! thereat so many great patriotic American people and other unknown folks strange, to greet and meet them, in delight will be permissible; but better wait the prudent voyage unfolds the coming-days, your curiosity full-fill at intervals; and at due pace, more exciting the path-way marks the exit-ways to endless penumbras.

There are so many portal-ways along the banks of the Hudson River; and at a certain time in the Morning Twilight, they you will see; nay, you may converse with them a gusto. Yea, before Aurora pours forth her enchanting spell and wild laughter to the skeptic children of David Hume.

I, myself, while sauntering the clammy banks of this River, have been surprised to see so many fleeting shades receding, and some watching me, seem to be the more perplexed and amused with me..."

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​
Phoenix Bird:

“The philosopher still not yet convinced of such striking possibilities lying in the veil of Mother Nature, pursues further inquiries into the nature of reality, self-awareness, dreams, illusion and the nature of time and space; and whether he is not the victim of a ghost; or whether the mind, in itself, is capable of creating such mysterious phenomena, phantasmagoria and chimeras...?”

Philosopher: "Perhaps I am deluding myself. I might be getting out of my mind, for how can this beautiful innocence, and yet feeble creature, confront my understanding?

Is it a ghost, or, is it my own mind-reflections in the form of a squirrel?

Hmmm! Perhaps this is an another trick of Mother Nature, or perhaps a treacherous subterfuge of my own mind’s wild imagination, seeking answers where there are none; and yet, my own echoes I seem to hear in the wordless language of this little fellow.

This has to be a fantasy, a fairy tale, a mere chimera.

—Is this little squirrel a ghost, an imp, an elf?

Am I out of my mind? Have I eyes? Have I mind?”

Parsifal: "The veracity of this reality is but a flawed requirement of self-awareness in the present-now; and ye Homo sapiens, sordid brutes, are dubious of anything existing without this precondition of time-and-space in relationship to these concrete matters and silly tangibility —the transient witnesses of thy slumberous, sensorial perceptive powers, well-known to be erroneous with head-scratching delusions, hubris and chauvinism.

—Can we really trust this realm for a greater appreciation of reality?

So often ye are dazed and perplexed by this narrow path of thy linear trajectory, factual sense of continuity in the tickling clock of wakefulness and fixed relative-time; afterwards, the screen of thy existence seems to emerge as a fictitious trick of elfish pranksters in the Twilight of Being: a mere, fleeting impression of ye having come across but with other ghostly shades!

Who is the ghost here my friend, thee or me?”

Phoenix Bird: (The Philosopher closes his eyes in astonishment, as if shadow-struck with doubts, confusion, befuddlement, and with clumsy hands, touches a nearby rock, resting his cumbersome load of piling papers and skepticism).

Parsifal: (up the gnarled tree he climbs friskily, and then clenches his little fist in mortal defiance)

"Aha! Thou are now closing thy slothful eyes, touching there for further proof?

Touch me if ye can! Is this thy life in the penumbra of being or not being?

Was him thee but a ghost, one who actually found me by the same inter-weaving line of thy mysterious mind and silly conjectures?

Mind the serious conundrums of life, how many a manifold path-way may thread and link the missing X = Present-Time.

Past, Present and Future are all-human-too-human silliness and chimeras.

I rather would like to give thee a truly Einsteinean Tour, whence ye may hear sweet and yet gloomy voices from beyond, ineffable things thereof, and yet neither in Hell nor in Heaven we will meet The Hour, but amid dim shades we may find each other, trapped in the Nest of Time."

Philosopher: "What?"

Parsifal: "That's right. I will ferry thee across the Styx-like, dark eddying water of the Hudson River, where ye may hear echoes, poetic voices issued forth from the Dawn of History; and by the clammy banks of the eddying river we are the more united in memories; and thus we will saunter together pensively, reaching up to an Earthly Heaven, a sequestered place uphill, a florid woodland that kindly distills delectable ambrosia for ye; the propitious sentiments for true wayfarers not yet murdered by the insidious powers of King Nihilo and Madam Lilith.

Thereat, the barbarian lass Shanti for you, the wonder of your fine inquiry is waiting alone. A divine terrible beauty she is, no less marvelous than that intrepid mind who is capable of apprehending her tightly, in mutual tenderness she is reciprocal to soothe thy heart and wipe thine rheumy eyes.

​Therefore, what-where-why-how-ness and other silly propositions leave behind my friend, and now let thy baffled mind for her retaining: at the early twilight she is thy boon and boom!

She is gorgeous beyond description to muse thy music up to heaven-ways secure.

Indeed, she is a beautiful barbarian! Find her at that hour when she is the least reluctant to yielding her secrets, rosy lips of her feminine caprices and twinkling eyes, the reserved delights and mellifluous yes that could make any mortal forgetful of mortality..."

Where Is Shanti?

Phoenix Bird: (Shanti trapped in the past).

“Nevertheless for squirrels, nothing is more cheerful than to adjourn any meeting and then take a mercurial leave through any available passage-way.

Darting squinting eyes sometimes on the floor, sometimes on the thickets, sometimes on clumps of beautiful lilies and daisies; the lithe creature, deftly leaped from branch to branch.

Jumping and hopping, he moves on in many an airy somersault, clutching any twig, splinter, tuft or foliage, for even here, drooping leaves may serve his downy soles for pathways.

And now downward the brisk fellow lops his supple body, to tread the exhaling ground of Mother Nature’s healing potions, the indescribable euphoria of these steaming powers, the rolling genies of well-being in sheer essences, luscious scents redolent of early morning’s apple-breaths of pure air and zest!

Now let him prove his point, that he is everywhere the same denizen, the same unswerving critter, never overcome by ennui, torpor or laxity.

Forthwith, he thrusts himself into a nearby shady bosom of lovely bushes and flirting roses, the esoteric gambols and secretive winks, herein hidden, amidst exquisitely shaded shrubs that beg for revelation.

Farther in view, the rarest flowers that are the due for feminine beauties, the flushing smiles seeking sight, and perhaps they may enchant a Blue Prince?

Herein my friends, they are revealed in these innocent veils and florid hues, always regaling the ecstatic beholder, the blooming stories of those pure maids of rosy cheeks, yet wildly arranged in an array of sundry forms, a myriad of delicate tints in curious motley, delicious extravagance, the luxurious exuberance that obey not restraint —and yet, here, in the wood, reserved in tacit looks.

Here you may find some violet pansies athwart the path, also some demure daffodils: ladies awry, and yet, waiting for the gentle touch; on the other side, with their ruddy lips the tulip-girls!

There are also many pretty daisies of strangest kinds and jovial visages; yea, stunning flowers that seem to frolic among other smiling hyacinths and coquettish jasmines. Certainly, these are Mother Nature's prettiest and flamboyant ladies, always mugging and competing for attention and beauty!

Nevertheless, it seems that Parsifal was not born for this station of candid blossoms, the genial buds of easy life and success in diurnal celebration. And thus he darts his mercurial eyes beyond those hermetic shadows and impregnable brakes, seeking other intoxicating delights —secret powers in the jovial cheeks of Mother Nature.

For, this is not enough for a wild creature thus trained in the rough wood’s imponderable mysteries. More than just beautiful sceneries, let there be a barbarian thrill in this old wood, enthralling but exciting stories, if perhaps sibylline ones, the incomprehensible and erratic moods of Shanti, an unspoiled soul overfilled with all the awesome feelings for life.

Fortunately, beyond the fringe of pine and linden trees more far-off slanting views, amidst the dewy dales and vitreous streams the stealthy mirage wafting, ever receding to the ethereal welkin, along this sun-bathed passage-way, ever-stretching, the Glorious River of Old (Hudson River) ever-sprawling and gilded in a most beautiful, gentle, lovely glimmer of slickest golden hue, wounds its ways farther, and farther, into the fabulous stories of a dreamtime.

Far in view! The mountain ranges, such huge archives of the ponderous passage of time, filled my heart alike with awe —a deep-seated respect— and profoundest reverence for the beauty of life.

This is the grand spectacle that invites for high thoughts and aspiration, the destiny of great souls, the wayfarers whom are the happier in boundless horizons and far-off, bird-perspectives.

Yea, like free birds, aloft, seeking the heaven above with the soaring eagle, their pinions ever-spreading, they are said to be the happiest souls: sufficient reason for this restless existence of joy and surprises, the creature's ever journeying ways, which in hazy distance may still proffer infinite zest!

Yes, far, far remote, into that hazy distance, where the sky and the ocean may enclasp each other in eternal love nuptial, the lovely union, downy clouds and mountain-tops may finally come to embrace each other in mutual tenderness and understanding.

On the other side of this old wood, my goodness! one is transformed at the touch of the caring mists and breezy sighs: herein cherished and caressed, like a prodigal son’s homeward return, in those lugubrious groves and shrined bowers —most sacred places to my soul— perhaps offering libations, prayers and petitions to heaven.

In this manner, we seem to enjoy this holy communion with the propitious fogs and unrolling filaments of haze and magic, wafting promises of new dawns and daybreak…

Perhaps in that remote distance Shanti is also contemplating this broad-wayed plain of creation?

Beyond the horizon, new scenes unfolding and beholding, the exhilarating prospect of this life, more beautiful when one understands one's inmost delights and thoughts, the innermost self found in that shady depth and veiled distance: the ‘en-Shanting mysteries,’ where everything seems to blur into the fantastic, the fabulous, the divine…

In this manner Parsifal descries the ever-rolling hills, the ever-fleeing valleys and yonder mountains —those true celestial icons of heaven's generosity!

—-Where is Shanti?

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​Shanti and the Riddle of Time

The Phoenix Bird:

“…Meanwhile, the cheerful day has revealed the meridian hour of bliss and joy, unfolding a glorious, all-encompassing magnificent spectacle, where Light Triumphant and Imperial, ere lowly rising amid exhalation and balmy vapors, was upward striving to win the charge celestial to heaven.

Now, the blaze-clad, crown king has reached the zenith of Parifal's contemplation and marked aspiration, whereof the fiery globe rising and glittering overcomes the very power of sight, thus impelling the brisk creature's countenance to resign the task above seeing glowing, while prodding-rays here below on earth may warm the mind's loft —the works assigned to our days and diurnal duties to attend ready.

With presto steps to seek the poor lass quickly, for he knows the where-and-how to finding his good friend round the woods with little trouble, yet well reserved, his hide-about procures to find.

He is just temporarily strolling the Fort Tryon Park, making path-ways to bring good tidings to that adorable creature, sweetly-humming Shanti.

Lo and behold! The pretty lady has grown to a full bloom-flower, a smashing beauty, and now she is twenty-four-year-old, ripe for the ambrosia of passion, willing to contemplate the legendary pellucid Walden of Henry D. Thoreau, and thus give herself completely in the ripples of love by the reflections of rapt reveries.

Fortunately, a handsome, doughty Prince has been found for her, a handsome, dapper, sharp-as-a-tack duke, a philosopher and yet a romantic visionary who is willing to undergo the wrath of King Nihilo and the grim jealousy of Lilith.

Madam Lilith is an evil woman who abhors Shanti, the nocturnal hag who haunts the Nest of Time, tormenting men with futile, hopeless desires, while alluring them with deceptive withering flowers and fleeting forms.

In that darkly realm, on the Other Side of Time, Lilith is constantly wandering back and forth, descrying and inspecting the prospects of people's lives, and then she would ensnare them to a final ghastly doom.

O dreadful ghosts of night profound!

These Awful Spirits roam the starless plain of existence with unquenchable fury and malice, fiercely roving beyond the Curving Line of Time and beyond the Bound of Space...

But now the good lass Shanti is to be found in another fabulous wild wood (Transylvania, 448) back in Time and History, when Mother Nature was willing to extend her domain without restraint, subduing and covering every parching desert and horrid moor with delectable gurgling streams, eddying brooks and amorous groves galore; transfusing treeless hillocks and bare outcrops with lush sundry lovely verdures; very bounteously thriving everywhere with loviest thickets, imponderable brakes and secluded bowers that are the fragrant bosoms of pleasantest gums and scents.

In this manner, making the entire earth's orb a huge paradise, even more beautiful than a dazzling Maxfield Parrish's landscape, let's say ‘Daybreak;’ even more gorgeous and breath-taking than a Frederic Church's Landscape: Heart of the Andes!’

The far-gazed landscape when seen through the innocence and breath-taken awe-feelings of Shanti, may bring our baffled minds into a suspended ecstasy, a wondrous standstill —above the struggle of transitory existence!

In this manner, we are the more willing to thank that Scribe of Time for such colorful stories, yet herein related in this magnificent splendid canvas, the ineffable brush-strokes of Mother Nature's timeless hieroglyphics!

But pay heed my friends, frisky squirrels unlike human beings, although now innocent wights, they are ubiquitous to themselves, and can unravel x= present-times, time-vortexes and other fourth-dimensional puzzles with stunning naturalism and ease!

Indeed, they may roam the Wood of Time, as natural and deftly, as human beings could find their homeward path-ways, by simply following the route of their mapped roads and marked destination.

Yes, at the Fort Tryon Park buy your priceless ticket to meet Shanti: a few of these Time-Traveling Ditches are to be found here and there, under bushes, behind shrubs and foliages, between the narrow clefts of rocks.

But this secret, as yet unrevealed to an automaton of civilized society, is only known to these few ever-seeking friends, only to those fortunate fellows, whereat they may find these natural Time-Tuning-Passages at will, a simple, and yet, a riveting jaunt into the History of Time..."

Shanti A Terrible Barbarian Beauty

Phoenix Bird:

"...After having traversed one of these mysterious ditches, the Agharti's underground tunnels that may lead the wayfarer to other times and places in history —according to the physic of Albert Einstein, Parsifal now finds himself in an another timeless-wood (in the fourth century of our Christian Era, 448 AD), where pretty Shanti is to be found.

The stray barbarian girl has grown to a most wonderfully poised woman, humming amidst gnarled trees, wandering like a nymph amidst mossy rocks, loveliest glens and eddying streams that could slake the soul’s thirst for the refreshing wellspring of life!

An adorable woman she is, having the fine qualities of the wild soul unspoiled, crowned with the noble manners of a lost princess in placid reveries, she seems, indeed, the prototype of a second Eve!

For not even the divine British artist Frederic Lord Leighton could have ever conceived such terrific lady on his dazzling canvases, let's say gorgeous ‘Flaming June;’ nor could have the pre-eminent French artist, Adolf William William Bouguereau, in all his angelic nudes ever matched this barbarian beauty in exquisite erratic behaviors, and thus let the great artist faithfully limn Shanti's delightful poses, rosy cheeks, tulip-lips and flushing smiles —the natural breath of apple-innocence and juiciest fruits!

This is the terrible lady who makes the whole wood ring and shake with cheers and thanksgiving to heaven!

​And when she early rises in flowers-clad adorations and libations, the limpid air is perfumed with breathtaking ambrosial aroma. Thus, every now and then, Shanti would seek Mother Nature’s fine linen nuptials gowns and holy trousseau, galore, all these flowers and roses drenched in luscious dews and balmy spices.

Thus when Shanti dances her zest for joy amidst the woods, every living creature would fiddle their cheerful muzzles with allegro music (caught up in frenzied jubilance) and unbridled euphoria!

At this point, every swamp would become an enchanting yes-path-way for a delicious taste for pristine life."

Parsifal: (descrying and skirting round Shanti' shins, shanks and gold-studded sandals, as she unravels the knotty hieroglyphic of this wild wood, and this is one of the few instances when the mercurial creature is willing to slow down his pace for things so marvelous and beautiful).

"Shanti! I bring thee good tidings for today, a heaven-sent message from New York City, November 10Th, 2009 at the Fort Tryon Park."

Shanti: "Oh Parsifal! Where were thee, my dear creature of lovely tricks?

So many frisky squirrels round this wild wood, I could not recognize thee amidst numberless wooers, and yet ubiquitous they are most ready, unless with melodious speech well endowed he comes to me."

Parsifal: "I found your Blue Prince! He is a fine, comely sensible gentle-man who is fond of sequestered places like Henry D. Thoreau!

He is willing to rummage all these shrubs and thickets for your lovely crimson lips and rosy cheeks; nay, he is willing to tread the domains of King Nihilo, of course, if thou may wipe his dewy tears, and with caring hands attend thy darling; perhaps thou can assuage his heart with mellifluous strains and supplications.

He needs thy tender touch. A post-modern man, most downcast in a web of doubts and gloomy premonitions; the post-modern man is ever consumed in Wertherian monstrous dreams, and philosophical contradictions ever beset him pessimistic.

He believes Homo sapiens have neither meaning, nor goals, nor happy endings in any enterprise, and they are but hopelessly damned for recurrent nihilism, fiascos and failures.

For him, the human race is doomed. Like execrable rats and odious vermin roaming aimlessly, back and forth this old earth, to their yawning graves returning, human beings are currently digging their own graves.”

Shanti: "How can I see my beloved's face, and thus limn my morning's dews and sweet gums by the lake-shore of hope and joy my gift?"

Parsifal: "Yes, I will show thee his inquisitive forehead and sparkling eyes.

There, at the vetrious stream of self-contemplation and reflections, he is to be found very pensive and brooding —right now meditating— the world is but a recycle of scattered junks and bygone civilizations in the unpalatable annals of human history.

He is thy soul-mate my dear!

And thou knowest this mystery, souls are timeless, no matter whether they are in this wood, no matter whether they are in the hurly burly city-rushes, if perhaps they are lost in the Nest of Time."

Shanti: "O my goodness! But I am also trapped and chained in this ashen mansion, the Nest of Time, the fetters of this linear trajectory, yea, with little chance or hope to ever escaping this wild wood, aging like those peevish and sullen hooting owls.

O pity on me! I am but a poor beauty forlorn, with no reciprocal eyes for congenial understanding.

I am but a vague mist, a passing wayfarer, like those scudding clouds above greeting me aloof, a transitory dream waxing, waning, ever-pining in morrows and longings, like those yonder scattered autumnal leaves, drifting away by the hoary river of oblivion."

Parsifal: "Be of good cheers my dear, thou will seest thy fine soul again, and thou will weep of joy, for neither this wild wood, nor Hell, nor Lilith or Nihilo, will keep thee asunder from your lovely due.

Today make pathway to see thy handsome Prince in heaven, at the Fort Tryon Park..."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
​
Shanti-Soul

Phoenix Bird:

"...If in sadness the twin eyes could speak to each other in silence, and wherein dewy tears and joy could be shared with equal measure of understanding, and thus they would have delight in their telling, but also in their weeping, likewise the help is timely ready; and perhaps both united would feel the sorrow as one-soul, how tolerable would be our few days on this earth.

In this attentive manner, we all could reach out the other heart propitious, ready listening the wordless story.

Unfortunately, this is rarely the case, the soul only meets her own resignation in solitude and silence, till one day she will meet her final adieu in cruel oblivion; and then her ashes will be blown away by the fugitive winds of time.

In this dense forest, a sequestered cave, her dwelling place procured lonely Shanti to stay, hidden from easy sight and prey, when danger nearby prowls around to strike.

Over the years, Shanti has grown a sensitive woman, a hunter warrior, a hardy soul, ever ready to facing death or beast alike with dogged tenacity and presence of mind.

But take heed my friends, the strong soul is still the same vulnerable lass, ever beset in premonitions and struggle with Mother Nature.

Indeed, she is at her best when cherishing the dear child from within, the infantile memories of her bygone days, the sweet time when Mom and Dad could provide the caring hands, the loving dandling and doting affections, the parental hands that sweetly nurse the little creature's well-being.

How capable is the soul to enduring her fate in such dismal travails?

Can you imagine a princess so beautiful and yet so destitute?

But Beauty and Innocence still shine the loveliest in her far-gazing countenance, the sparkling eyes who speaks of holy heaven above, but also, the courageous heart to confront the truth of suffering and struggle.

O my! What a training for the human soul!

A side-glance in profile: (With far-gazed countenance) What is sensitive to a fine human, in Shanti's face glimmers with unique candor and modest pride, the poised stance of great souls fearless. But, pay your respects, she is so wonderfully adorable in feminine sweetness.

Now the poor soul is so willing to give free vent to her reeling thoughts and ever-rilling tears, the true fabric of her bosom, for love is at stake in the question of comprehension: the loving-yes beyond philosophy, and yet the missing hugs and reciprocity, whereof the valiant prince of all her inquiries, could only grant her more willing —to fulfill the needful being.

Whoever knew some one really great and yet vulnerable by the lake-shore, whom like Shanti!

The noble lady weeps in those fine emotions and delicate intermissions, the unspoiled visage of womanhood in the freedom of being, and in being herself, a good companion caring, let her complete her happy-end in the other arms receiving dearly.

And in those loving eyes, due returning looks may find, reciprocally, the other mirror of the soul, nature seeking, yet here reserved, with her in union hold together nexus, the mutual consolation of veiled secrets, sharing divine symbiotic embraces.

Thus, let her give the best part of her daily singing, with joy and gladness victorious inspiring; the sweet humming, the golden heart that speaks of forgiveness, feelings rare, and yet, felt so vividly with Mother Nature; melodious in endless questions, she most marvelous being, the lady-quest to ask and ask —but she is, indeed, herself, the very wonder of walking revelations!

But let us now listen her fine bosom, the more beautiful complaining and weeping; with coy looks of honesty and indignation, the rosy-cheeks glowing feelings warm, filling yonder rivers with human emotions, glistering sparks and bubbles genial; the turbulent waters of many a unconquered thought; and in asking and asking, the inquiring mind in precipitant agitation herein waxes tender, submissive, and yet, reluctant to yielding the story of the human heart!

O paradoxes of existence! Though downcast, the soul strives to win the charge celestial to heaven.

—Will she make it?"

Shanti: "Parsifal, listen to those errant, wailing winds, how they bring my being to breathe the meaning of this short life perplexed?

Mysterious Scribe whom amidst the fugitive winds of time and space may essay such wordless stories, how you come to me so pensively by this lovely stream, to cherish my melancholy leaves, to assuage my started emotions.

Thou come from afar, to heal my grief with that Great Hope, the good news which my heart set aglow with new yearnings and tears, for in me this human weakness I have thus endured for years long.

Sometimes I rise early in the morning to seek my Master. Behold! He seems to be waiting for me at the threshold of my quivering thoughts.

I knock on the door, lying scarcely ajar, flung open, it would show me a most beautiful footpath, a pleached alley, cast in beaming shafts of glorious heavenly lights; but my soul, nonetheless, is still weeping.

At that moment, my Master seems to beckon me to come further unto His snug sheltering arms, and forthwith I am activated as though by an upsurge of resurrecting powers, feverish candor, vim, pep and verve, which, like supernatural powers, could stir my spirit up, and I, forthwith, feel congenial with the blissful elements of Mother Nature.

Nevertheless, there are the cloudy days, alas, when my soul seems to journey heavy-laden with a cargo of sorrows, and my inner paradise is suddenly transformed into a bleak world of brambles, thorns and thistles.

But again, despite all the horror and dread of this wilderness, the wild world could set my spirit afire with a deep-seated reverence for the mysteries of this life!

Look at the autumnal leaves! The thoughts that kindly mottle my understanding with gloomy hues of rapt reveries, to appreciate my yesterdays in those drifting forms and gentle ripples."

Parsifal: "Shanti, dear child, why thou pursue thy sadness so vehemently in those fleeting shades and meandering streams?

Set thy tearful eyes to heaven above, the starry place where thy prince is waiting for thee."

Shanti: "Yes, when I look at those downy clouds how I tremble in strangeness, unearthliness, and insignificance; how I shudder when beholding the arching heaven ever receding to any human comprehension.

Everywhere I feel like a lost wayfarer, a no-where wayfarer, one who simply neither knows whither she came, nor where she is going.

And yet, the nightingale sings that lovely air to me, at intervals the melodious echoes lull my existence into deepest thoughts about the meaning of life, and I can barely hum his cadence, the many a night profound that promise new mornings without him.

And when gazing far-off into yonder distance, I would often weep to finding my soul so overcome with wonder and strangeness:

Who am I?

So much to behold above inaccessible, and yet a mere mortal to scan the infinite haze of distance, the all-ness immeasurable in my languid gaze, the purpose of being beyond my ken, thus sealed for a finite mind.

—O mystery of my brief existence!

These awesome feelings ever pursue me, and like a ghost I haunt to and fro this woody hill of yore, from joy to sadness.

And then, at that point, when I think me in possession of these priceless feelings, fleeting bubbles of joy, bursting forth in the bottom of my heart, I would retreat in resignation, to seek my being with these withering autumnal leaves my consolation."

Parsifal: "O Shanti! What would be this wild wood without thee?

Thou are the joy of every flower to bloom her beauty sweet, the enchanting tints and scenes in thee the more meaningful.

We squirrels love thee so much. Thou will not die in waning morrows and tears.

Take heed, thy prince will wipe out those dewy eyes, then thy soul will sing a new song, the sweetest kisses and loving caresses, ever propitious in doughty arms loving, like those errant winds and echoes, yet in human form to comprehend the inmost joys, the other eye in thee to lose himself most ready waiting."

Shanti:"I look forward to meeting my prince, thy sweet words as though from heaven's raining blessing came down to me, to hush these eddying streams in ever-rolling hisses and gurgles, most pleasant sounds, in loving endurance they sing the song of creation!

Now I would fain saunter in thy hope, in lighter steps to make my path secure, and as the deer panteth forth for these cloudy-mirrored waters, so my soul thirsts and waits for him above."

Phoenix Bird:

"...Shanti bids the squirrel bring good tidings to her Prince-Philosopher in the future.

As a promise-gift to her awesome man, the good lady entrusts and sends forth the frisky creature with a curious necklace, the rarest stones that resemble diamonds or topaz, if to gems or pearls they could be compared —glittering stones not yet known to the lapidary.

These exquisite beads she smooches (kisses) with musing adoration, a pretty countenance that has been laved with balmy dews of hopes and love: and up they look again, those twin eyes tenderly bathed in lovely tears and pellucid lakes streaming from her pure soul.

This is the precious neck-lace of Perseverance and Inspiration.

The amulet of precious gems may ward-off evils or any night-roaming beasts that prowl around. But it has to be worn by souls worthy of its radiance and brilliancy, that is to say, only for princes and princesses of loftiest minds and noblest hearts: the great souls who expect to endure triumphant in the long night of trials and tribulations."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Phoenix Bird: “Meanwhile, on the other side of time, in the Nest of Time, the Philosopher has been assaulted by monstrous dreams —Wetherian dreams of meaninglessness and wizardry; two huge hounds, but also a scary snake, that cease not to accost him while he procures to sleep:

“O terrible animals of our subconsciousness!
​
Who could know your rankling tooth?"

One odious hound has a shaggy coat, black as coal, tenebrous as a mass that moves at intervals amid ivory night, a low chroma specter, a phantom which neither Rembrandt nor Caravaggio could have ever conceived in their impenetrable chiaroscuro.

Hideous in many a distorted visage, the dog thrusts his dim eyes through the avenues of obscurity and treachery, prowling and panting assails the mind subjective —baffling reasons for a dog or jarring cur, solely born for such absconding activities.

On the other side, behold that Ancient Snake, assuming the form of a smashing beautiful strawberry blond, behold Lilith, so wild and a savage with heart-wrenching tresses.

Who could have suspected those sudden revels and shuffles, those surprising escapades at midnight?

Who could, by any might of human or angelic reasonings unravel that malicious hag's modus operandi, that heart-throttling lady of honeyed lips, ever ready for such filthy nightly orgies?

She has a sleek fleece, a nauseous hind and buxom buttock, which, when caught in her lascivious abominations, may bounce-off dim reflections amidst the pervaded obscurity of the night.

And lo! All of a sudden, the infamous bitch, once so self-invested as a beautiful blond, would transform her accursed natura into a vile sneaky phenomenon, a serpent, self-coiled and intent on attack!

Thus, when to light exposed, the wily snake would flinch, and hide and writhe, forthwith, would hiss a lethal warning:

‘Back off, I am Lilith!’

Endowed with the gift of shape-shifting at will, the snake would now put on a pretty face of innocence.

Little by little, her scaly hides assume the soft plumage of a white turtle dove, an adorable beautiful lass of modest mien and reservation, thus concealing herself to be but a crafty snake!

’After all, I am not so bad.’ So she would croon in a most euphonious cadence.

​Nevertheless, her inner malice could not keep her confined, nor concealed in the simple form of a dove, and forthwith, she would relapse into her former self: a crafty snake.

Squiggling, wiggling and writhing, Madam Lilith, would go on to display one thousand marvelous rings, the portentous signets of infernal powers, unfolding, and interweaving in a most frightening display of craftiness, mischief and remarkable resourcefulness to stumping our comprehension.

Perhaps she is good to be kept captive in a cage for impure spirits, a dwelling-hole, Hell, wherein she may lurk for a little while.

But no sooner than fear herself strikes us nigh at night, and our throbbing hearts may feel the weight of premonition, when yonder in view, lo and behold! a scampering entity of time, a demon, Satan, now a man, then a woman, may sally forth in pursuit mysterious, headlong striking aims and goals beyond comprehension (1 Peter Chapter 05:08),

And in such living forms detestable, mischief and treachery, these demonic entities, have thus assumed their foul intentions manifest, in serpentine corporeal manifestations.

And where is the sting of Premonition and Foreboding?

O Heart! How precipitous thy pangs and tingling unfathomable thy throbs!

Who could peruse them either by word or dull scribbles of human dint or sapience?

Therein, one thousands feelings strike us off guard, premonitions which neither bard, nor language, nor bosom, nor mad romantic conception could have apprehended thy bottomless profundity!”

Shanti:" Oh Parsifal! How much it pains me to see my sweet heart thus engaged in cogitations deep and inquiries incomprehensible. He definitely needs my caring hands and lips propitious..."

Parsifal:" I told Thee, the post-modern man is always consumed with these monstrous dreams and mental vacillations.

The man sometimes has been tormented with these and other foul dreams: the nihilism of Nietzsche and the ranting of Sartre, an existence that is not scanty of mysteries and surprises..."

Shanti: "I can scarcely comprehend his endless soliloquies and sudden meaninglessness, the snoring grumbling in nocturnal squirming, that fantastic madness in occasional convulsions, the sudden paroxysm that speaks of other dreads in an agitated bosom….

—What is all this he is saying...?"

Parsifal:" It could be a nightmare my fair lady. Don't worry, he is not always in that sullen mood. The Prince will be fine."

Shanti: "Poor creature of solitude and philosophy. Here, gird this my precious necklace of perseverance and inspiration, twenty pearly beads for every virtue won.

Carry this promise-gift with thee when thou meet my Prince, the man so bizarrely attractive, albeit not so handsome in physical constitution.

Let him know how much I love him. That he is not alone, that many a night his face was limned dearly in my thoughts and visionary reveries."

Parsifal: (Parsifal puts on the glittering necklace, and to his surprise, it fits him well!) "I surely will my good lady, but tell me this, where can I find a swamp propitious and therein thrust myself into the other side of time. For, in many a gloomy a night, a fearless squirrel like me would take leave through places dank and damp, a solitary place where I may meet a delightful silhouette, the other stories of life..."

Shanti: "I send thee forth dear tireless creature! At the skirt of this lofty hill, a goodly swamp thou may find much engulfed in exhalations and intoxication, for every height has its up and down.

Fear not, for neither evil nor shadow could deter thy steps when ye carry my promise-gift and this necklace of golden virtues..."

Phoenix Birds: “The lithe creature thus leaves through the path of our subconsciousness...the wondrous swamp of the unconscious mind.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

(Europe, Highlands of Transylvania, Wednesday 16, Year 448)

Phoenix Bird:

"...This is an unforgettable night of September 16, in the year 448 A.D. A serene but occasionally agitated wind has continuously caressed the sluggish branches of fir, linden and pine trees; nostalgic groves issuing forth the most ineffable, lamentable sighs and soulful whistles, as if wailing forth far-echoed requiems, as if straining forth indescribable elegies to the poor human soul —quasi human voices and echoes— yet sung amidst those drooping leaves and sinuous twigs.

Strangely mournful, daunting far-away echoes that seem to remind us that perhaps these errant winds are the haunting feelings of bygone spirits: the unfulfilled yearnings and promises of those unfortunate beings cruelly left behind —those forgotten hearts— in the wood of oblivion and ingratitude.

By now the pensive moon has reached the plenitude of her somber, adagio voyage; the coy lady bashfully revels in this chilling welkin of one thousand questions and enigmas —the Wonder-Sphinx of all our inquiries:

What is the true meaning of this short life?

This wood has a disheartening silence, barely interrupted by the occasional hooting of a dour owl... or the other doleful warbling of some wretched nightingales, those lonely beings (peruse Josh Manson and Don Sebastian Cornelio’s love-stories, Shanti-Chapter V) who probably loved too much in this cruel world, the Demesne of King Nihilo, a world full fraught with misunderstandings and malice.

However gloomy, the indigo-tinged sky seems forever receding to any human aspirations, thus overcoming the very power of our curiosity, a curiosity that led the squirrel to further descry the grand landscape of that dear child..."

On the Human Heart (harbinger to Chapter V, Jeremiah 17:09)

Parsifal: "The Gentle Night welcomed my tired feet to saunter this dismal forest of one thousand unknown feelings, beaming emotions striking me at every step in this Shanti-wood.

I was hopelessly at a lost to finding expression to these sudden shivers, those chilling thoughts which are indeed my only night-guests —the thrilling shudders and sensations that test our intrepid hearts.

And yet, the august trees were more amiable than I expected. Their ghastly silhouettes and stature didn't scare me, nor spoiled a reciprocal rapport of congeniality, thus upsetting our rendezvous for a mutual fright!

Some thoughts were welcome as delightfully gloomy, albeit always lofty.

We marveled whether Hell or Satan really exist?

—Do ghosts haunt those groves and bushes?

The night was pregnant with daunting puzzles. The Moon shed her silvery beams upon other spots, and softly bathed these beings, brave sentinels of the night-watch holding a vigil, whom, day and night, may thirst for light…

​The murmurous gale was not so ruffled as to disturb my inner peace; and it caressed the Autumn Leaves as they fell one by one on the floor.

O my! How they tinge the footpath...resembling lost souls, wretched spirits whom couldn't find the way out of this wild wood, or, perhaps could not stand The Hour!

In this manner, I wend forth my feeble steps through this mysterious existence, as if guided by an internal sotto voce, or the other sighs of destiny that are not always free from premonitions and foreshadows. And yet, Shanti bade me farewell:

'Move on my sweet heart, seek further whither and thither.'

She has promised her Prince-Philosopher a new seashore, enchanting days, a new existence. Honestly, I wish I could fulfill a few of her meaningful longings in this wild wood.

And who is the author of her madness and melodious humming in the mornings?

Sometimes, during foggy days, in New York City, by the banks of the Hudson River, I stretch my clumsy paws into the misty air, and in deep cogitation may look up to heaven, and then I would wave me a farewell: a timeless, terrific thought that may pursue me forever in the Here-Now.

Like a silly child, I would entrust Rosy Dawn my few appurtenances (belongings) and trifles.

Nevertheless, I have promised Shanti to give her Prince-Philosopher this curious necklace of exquisite gems. And thus bring good tidings to a Prince in the future —yet in a form of a squirrel from a distant past, a lithe creature girt in this neck-lace of precious pearls!

What a mad creature! And yet, it would not be difficult to recognize me. Let me find him before Aurora blurs and effaces the other fickle shades that haunt this tenebrious night."

An Interlude of Danger With A Lynx

Phoenix Bird:

"....So went on the fearless denizen through the wood, and the moon was pleased with him. But take heed, the lonely path was not always free of danger and other ghastly challenges.

His lithe body growing luminous by the night with the magical princely necklace, has scandalized the other critters of the wood, the other beasts who may range late in the drooping hours of the night.

Following Parsifal's spoors and waving tail, a malicious lynx, with leery eyes, has kept himself hunkering down, every now and then squinting, and scratching his head in disbelief at the sight of a little squirrel wearing a princely necklace. At this, the wild cat would contrive evil in his heart."

A Lynx: (Askance) "Aha! What a marvel is this?

A silly squirrel glowing golden in this wild wood! I have never seen such a silly thing! Not only does he glow presumptuous in haughty gait, but with a curious necklace, this ninny of endless reveries seems to defy the very gloom of this wood.

—Who does think he is?

Is he claiming rank above the other savvy cats?

—Is he a romantic poet?

​Let me put this crazy fellow in his place. I can't stand this ridiculous squirrel. Wait until he feels the weight of my claws on his breast, and then he will understand the depth of his obstinacy, his nonsensical fairy tales..."

Phoenix Bird:

"...Mind you, the lynx, is a canny, agile wight, having the audacity to skulk quickly into the shrubs of intrigue, the bushes of misunderstanding and unpredictability, thus camouflaging his tan, supple body where natura seems to breathe the loveliest sighs, the gentlest rustles and autumnal leaves.

These are the sad surprises of Mother Nature, the periodic shocking episodes of all our wanderings on this earth."

(Very quietly, the jealous creature, the Lynx, couches on some blades of grass, to contemplate Parsifal, and making hideous faces and odious grimaces, the fugitive quadruped is hellbent on pursuits destructive and ghastly.

Once again, he squints in grim-visages, licking his fore-paws in fixed counterfeits of flattery and hatred).

Lynx: “By heaven's sake, in all my wanderings in this wild wood, I have never seen such a ridiculous caricature, a lunatic, a poet, claiming kingship with the lion and the moon.

—May he dare claim kingship with me?

—Shall he go on and on, forever and ever lost in reveries?

O boy! He seems to enjoy a promenade beside himself, frolicking back and forth, sashaying a princely stature, the silly squirrel would dare crown himself the king of the jungle.

Thus in so gloomy a night, the mad poet has embarked in a fabulous journey, fantastic, legendary.

The best method to be pursued, is to torment this poor creature with some periodic rustles and daunting silence, thus patiently waiting until the insane romantic, having exhausted all the power of his fancy, and having lost the brisk creativity of his colorful alertness, the dull mind may succumb to the spell of profound sleep and forgetfulness.

Therein, Ms. Lethargy may hold sway of his slothful faculties; the poor creature lying most vulnerable in idled hours, dozing off, yawning and sprawling in these blades of grass —like a worm— the stray poet will meet a sudden ghastly blast like me."

Phoenix Bird Author:

"....And therein, my dear reader, we are the most vulnerable and easy prey, and the subtle beast may strike us off guard.

Parsifal well acquainted with dangerous beasts, procured a place clear, a lofty-nest, perhaps a gnarled tree somewhere, a place where he may climb and thus have a better perspective of his prospects and projects in the wild wood."

(Footnotes: Herein, I juxtaposed Charles Dickens' versus Schopenhauer's assessment of the human face and human nature: the lynx represents manifest-intentions in couching probability, while the other asp-snake represents: concealed natura in potential raving and raging in fixed probability.

On the other hand, the squirrel represents triumphant reason and temperance over both beasts of prey. Nevertheless, according to Byron, we all have this awful "sostenuto" in milieu and society).

Now Hatred is by far the most pleasure:

Men Love In Haste, but They Detest at Leisure (Byron, Don Juan, can XIII, st. 6)

Parsifal: "O Moon! I feel like a prince, for thy light is like a twig, a lofty place where no beast could prey, and thine sweet beams, like dewy laurels shedding, tonight may clad me in a wreath."

Lynx: (sneering and snickering). "O Fool! Tonight I will make ye a pap in my maw, and thou will know thy pertinacious madness."

Phoenix Bird:

"...Meanwhile, the squirrel's body has continued to shine most beautifully golden, the more stunning, as he hops and hops from branch to branch, climbing to the tree's utmost crest, for his thoughts were set on things celestial and lofty.

Parsifal: "O Moon! I feel like a prince, thy sweet light has slaked my yearning-thirst for immortality."

Phoenix Bird:

"...By now the creature seems radiant like the Will'- O'- The'- Wisp! yet in the form of a squirrel, a happy rodent tapering his tail in great cheerfulness!

Unfortunately, waving his rump in crazy jollity, the frisky squirrel has by now provoked the whole wood's indignation. And the brutes of this forest, ever jeering in disapproval, were not as happy to see this little fellow strut around with haughty steps. Some perceived such recurring gambols and tittering as a challenge and a farce in the jungle.

Now, not that far from the goodly tree of Eve, an asp-snake has been drawn nigh by the Squirrel's waving light, which from afar, his brilliant necklace resembles a mysterious hovering torch, a Beacon of Hope, a fire that seems to last unconsumed in the obligated hours of the night."

Asp: (the hideous critter with odious crest and piercing eyes attentive, yet lightly reared off the blades of grass, her lethal sting may display at intervals).

"Hemming and hawing! Am I out of my wits! A squirrel glowing on a tree!

This is the last farcical thing, I could have expected a dog, but a silly squirrel claiming kingship with the moon and the snake!

—Could he claim rank above the agile reptiles?

—Who does think he is?

Let me put this crazy fellow in his place..."

Phoenix Bird:

“…Minding you, the asp snake is a very shrewd creature, she has mastered the art of subtlety and patience with stunning silence and prudence. Most rodents are very afraid of her. This audacious animal may relax while planning mischief and surprising supple attacks.

Devoid of expression, her countenance scarcely hints any strained features of pain or pleasure; and yet, her deadly seriousness may send the chilliest shivers down our spine..."

(Notes: simply stated Conscious vs Unconscious mind).

Footnotes:

How can a simple squirrel escape such terrible beasts?

Herein, I have juxtaposed Charles Dickens' versus Schopenhauer's assessment of the human face and human nature: the lynx represents manifest-intentions in couching probability, while the other asp-snake represents: concealed natura in potential raving and raging in fixed probability.

On the other hand, the squirrel represents triumphant reason and temperance over both beasts of prey. Nevertheless, according to Byron, we all have this awful "sostenuto" in milieu and society).

Parsifal: "Are these brutes below trying to intimidate me (the dint of reason?).

—Who do they think they are?"

One possibility could be this one:

The squirrel (the shimmering sparks of reason) would have to provoke the lynx (unbridled fury) to lose all patience, thus breaking the golden bond of clever predators: silence, composure, the expediency of time and circumspection.

The lynx (couched-manifest-intention-in-fixed-probability) can climb trees as well as other rodents, and yet his lithe body, although so supple, may not reach to the utmost of the flimsy twigs and drooping leaves —the very lynx's bounds.

Moreover, he cannot "taper" so far as to reach the "cutting-edge" without falling, and thereat lies the effective (pathway) fleeing-ways of the squirrel!

Nevertheless, the savvy lynx, in all likelihood, is aware of such natural limitation. On the other hand, he could still wait patiently, or, he may take his risks and charge his mark with potential happy results.

But don't forget, on the other side of the goodly tree, the asp-snake (envy) or (concealed-natura-in-potential-rage) lies attentive on the blades of grass, in fixed cogitation, quietly self-rolled and entangled in thoughts aloft and foul.

Are the lynx and the asp aware of each other (consciousness vs subconsciousness)?

Mind you, Freud's psychology of twentieth century is antiquated. Today we have genetic-psychology, but still Homo sapiens may defy their own psychoanalysis and methods.

Knowledge is out-dated with new discoveries, self-conscious efforts, the keyboard of epistemology with new methodologies and techniques.

High knowledge, by necessity, may require to be sealed, “esoteric,” that is to say, hidden from the lynx and the asp (the masses) otherwise, every move could be predictable.

Perhaps at some point in time the two aspect of being, “conscious and unconscious,” will catch sight of each other!

​You may say that "concealed natura" is highly more lethal than "manifest-natura," but the wild cat can handle snakes as well as long as he knows where lies the sleight of her sting and fang.

--How will the squirrel escape his sured doom?)

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Interlude With A Sullen Owl Hooting:

(Perched on a shooting roost, and opposite to Parsifal)

Hey Ye Night-walker!

Thou keep thy tread in less hasty pace.

Unravel the meaning on this gloomy gaze.

And hear this sad grunting my guest nightly shades.

Don't leave this my forest without sorry hooting,

The shadows hold sway in clouds distant looming.

And how I keep watch in late hours brooding.

Let sorrows bring echoes in gales restless roaring.

And how they make sour, my soul ever scourging.

Ay! The blast really hurt!

Can thou bear the brunt?

No love for my being alone, an owl is forsaken.

The wind howling doleful, the soul is thus shaken,

Where is the lamp's flickering hope?

Its light has been snuffed.

Who is to blame guilty?

The moon is left in shame.

Interlude Between a Raven and Starling Bird Perched On the Tree of Wisdom

(The Brilliant Squirrel's Life is at Stake, a Lynx and an Asp-snake under the Tree of Life)

Starling Bird: "...I have never seen a frisk squirrel out-shining the birds of heaven!"

A raven: ”What is light?

It is quite a wonder that we cannot explain the Squirrel's Luminosity, a daunting phenomenon, however impressive, a golden glow that could be inferred but in direct relation either to uncreated night or the moon-light's source.

Does he have the source-light on his own being?"

A Starling: "What is darkness?
​
Your answer to this question, may shed some light into the other and vice versa, but I cannot attribute a dull silly Squirrel with such lightning powers.

Look! For heaven' sake, I have never seen a squirrel with such flaring flame!"

A raven: "I agree with you. This is the more striking as no moon-light is seen gleaming in heaven's spacious vault, but dark clouds imperial reign at this Solemn Hour.

Do you surmise the creature might have extinguished the moon-light's torch?"

Starling:(with a sarcastic grin and looking up to heaven)

"That is a plausible possibility. The portentous animal, if left to himself, could shake and tear to pieces the very axle of heaven's circumference, and trust me --it would break loose.”

A Raven: “Amazing! That's a ludicrous exaggeration.”

A Starling: “What is he doing up there? Half-opened mouth, the poised creature seems willing to sip the ever rolling sea of the firmament!”

A Raven: ”He may be quaffing Eternity's Inexhaustible streams of life. I heard him saying: 'Eternity Be Mine Tonight.' Thus implying he can also out-space the birds.”

Starling: “Ha, ha, ha! Not only does he glow pretentious and unreachable, a lightning Squirrel with purpose and meaning may out-soar the eagle's flight, and then he will build castles above the high aeries of ravens, starlings, plovers, falcons, hawks, kites, larks, snipes and all the illustrious birds that day and night wheel this ivory tower of creation.

Are we not placed high above every crawling and creeping creature?

We are an aristocratic species, hierarchical, a noble caste of high-ranking birds, free thinkers in the ascending scale of Mother Nature's topmost echelon.

​As lords of the welkin, we rule unchallenged the upper abode of the gods. As such, we are meant to instruct humanities from the endless errors of aeronautics, landing, ascending, descending and all the tactics of aerial pursuits.

Above all, avoid a too linear flight, and occasionally, shave the air sometimes circling, sometimes aslant, sometimes wobbling up and down but with fixed focus of sight remote and yet near.”

A Raven: "Indeed, we fly at the speed of sight, but we cannot glow like that squirrel. We must deem this wonder-squirrel an imminent threat to our high kingdom amidst the clouds. Therefore, he must die, for in due time he will conspire not only against the lynx and the snake and the lion, but against the ravens and the starlings.”

Starling: ”Let the wrath be upon the squirrel. Let the asp's fang for him the venom. And then he will learn not to compete with birds.”

A Raven: "Yes. I will cast my lot on the asp-snake.”

Interlude (Fight the Good Fight)

Raven: "...O soul! Tonight test your mettle, for terrible was the fight, and I saw it all from a sequestered roost --and not with due delight-- such beasts of prey coming into each other's throats. But so was the Starling Bird there, and a Dour Owl betted on the lynx the victory, but the Starling Bird and I put our confidence on the Asp Snake. For in all honesty, we were also scandalized by a daring squirrel tapering his bushy tail on a gnarled tree.

But the night had been cast in big shadows and silhouettes, and even the waving flame started to dwindle by the vigor of the darkness; or perhaps, it owed its splendor to the action or reflection of the moonlight.

Therefore, we deemed this wonder-squirrel a prodigy of the devil, another irrefutable proof that nature and magnetism may defy conventional ideas of cause and effect, elasticity, contraction, rigidity and flexibility, attraction and repulsion.

Many days later we were still wondering what kind of devil could have thus challenged the entire wood?

It is my personal belief, that the squirrel in question could have been extinguished by his own fire, but the Starling Bird rejected this conclusion as nonsense and absolutely divorced from the phenomena in question (as perhaps lacking in all scientific integrity) for the squirrel had been seen glowing all nightlong, and yet, without ever being consumed by its own light.

A Starling Bird: "One plausible theory is this: that the animal in question could have received his splendor entirely from the moon's magnetism and the action of its light; and yet it is still unclear, how he could have achieved such fiery a gloss and unparalleled dexterity of its limbs?

Or, either the animal's appendages might have been commingled with the twigs and splinters, or perhaps the squirrel's body had became one with the tree's topmost upper crest?

But more striking than his mysterious light it is this astonishing fact: the prodigious rodent could remain motionless for hours long, as if fixed in cogitations deep, scrutinizing the heavens, and we could not deny that the animal or devil was, from every perspective, a terribly amusing phenomenon of speculation!

What kind of devil is this squirrel who could hold the entire boundless expanse within his bosom?"

Footnotes: (It is very likely that the creature could have survived the wrath of the wildcat and the snake.

How he did it?

We may have some clues, and it would be a futile goal to pursue his feeble spoors and fingerprints in this wild wood of one thousand possibilities and enigmas. "
​
Will Homo sapiens escape their own nightmare by a trick of Mother Nature?

More likely yes. In my next story I will bring you back to the highlands of Transylvania year in 448= 4+ 4+ 8= 16= 7 of completeness.

The squirrel (the dint of reason ) as you may have expected could have provoked the utter debacle of both beasts (the conscious vs subconscious). But we must be aware of other daunting challenges:

--- What is self-awareness?
Can we think above the flimsy nerves and tapering filaments of the brain?

Nietzsche would say no...really ?
Is she (the asp snake) out of her wits?

The Gnarled Tree represents our sciences, branches and knowledge --very defective indeed.

How far can they reach up to the moon?

Our cutting-edge knowledge coupled with our human nature could be our downfall

With due respect to Genesis Chapter 3, men have brought in their own predicaments...

​Can we escape this triangle?

Yes. I do think so. With the Will'-O'-The'-Wisp many things are possible. The Squirrel will not be consumed by its own fire.)

Continue, Chapter II - the Forest:
​https://www.eddiebeato.com/shanti-chapter-ii---the-forest-transylvania-year-448.html