People existing outside of themselves, which could be defined as a mirror looking at our reflections, hearing others talk about us, in a photo or piece of film, or something that is written, we are asking ourselves, is our mirror image actual? In the deep mountains of perpetual snow, there are caves where people take a respite to reenergize from long journeys; they sit on the floor with low tables of stone, drinking light, it as a taste, the sensation of going down into one body has refreshed the traveler. What do such travelers see in themselves? Lonely, wishing not to be bothered by other people, trying to turn away from convention. What convention are they speaking about? There is no Anglo-America world there; such a concept would be too alien to them, none of the Eastern religions, nothing American. Who are they talking about in terms of strangeness? Perhaps the customs and culture that had developed over centuries? People run away from their inner souls, the birth they never wished for. Some societies in the mythical world are ridged, not possible for outsiders to define. Their cultures or our world, African, European, Asian, and the native cultures of America, seem exotic to the inhabitants of the mythical world, avant-garde strange, something to embrace and run away to. People are running away from societies with the leadership of matrons of elderly women of wisdom; some of them run away feeling that the women are keepers of traditions. These people run away, resenting tradition. Elderly men are keeping greater domination of society and wish to return to the world of their youth. Challenging such a world, they form their communities or groups to counter this; the sea is a sanctuary for them, living underwater. Other organizations take to the air, never wishing to walk the land again. People had gone to the place towers where they take over an abandoned city, rebuilding the buildings, erecting them taller than before to live in seclusion.
Perhaps millions of alternative societies exist in the mythical world with alternative life. As said before, the mountain’s “coffee shops,” where light is put into a cup to be consumed, are a place to reflect among the stones to listen to what they wish to talk about. The patrons of these shops haven’t returned to society for years. Among stone and light, they don’t only drink light; other combinations of concoctions are consumed as an experiment, juices combined with various forms of alcohol, anything is made into a liquid, experimented with, states of liquid rock, that is made safe for human consumption. Many experiments seem impossible and dangerous. It’s mainly coffee and tea that has the most favor with experimentation, considered after long conversations around the table, to some less of a risk, thus dull. The adventure in dangerous experiments was alluring and satisfying; people sat in this so-called coffee ship to help give birth to new societies. Once their time at the coffee shop is over, they go back to their rock-encased apartments to be alone to make things think, do art, and perhaps write. Caves exist that accommodate families whose communities had grown as non-conforming societies. They gather at shelters or coffee shops, prominent places with thousands of bottles of glass, ceramic, stone, and paper—shelves of liquid colors against windows of stained glass and translucent marble. The liquids react to people’s emotions and thoughts, and the keepers know the people’s feelings as the fluid oscillates, shivers and bubbles. In the back of the ship, there are rooms or places with pillars, the people who reside there are shady characters who seem to walk out of melodramatic novels or movies; they are probably individuals trying to find themselves. Again perhaps they are trying to destroy the world they were born into to change it. During the cloudy night, when there are curtains of smoke, there are non-human friends. On some forgotten tables, there are fish-like creatures with moving eyes that look at the patrons, a deep fear embraces everyone, but they remain ignored in the corners.
The ancient rebuilt towers are places where travelers and locals go to have drinks, hot or cold; some towers are connected to caves. Buildings are typical in the mythical world. It’s one of many ways to fend off and defend against marauders who take people and things by force. The towers are self-contained places, and food that is needed is grown on the lowers floors. Hermits or solitary individuals live in large, tall buildings. They are islands onto themselves. Ghosts reside in some towers. People of the mythical world tend to believe in spirits. The spirits are protectors of the towers and the people who live within them. Things had run around at high speed near and in the buildings, and no one understood what they were, people, children, and ghosts running, playing, and smiling at people who observed them. The children may have been individuals who died young in the abandoned towers. Nothing is known; no grave markers exist from those earlier times. Fear is essential to keep trespassers away. They say each building has a pool where things mechanical, bio, with an exoskeleton, yet not born, of this world and the spiritual one, yet somewhere else that could be.
The shops for drinking liquids are places with pools, ghosts, and other strange, exciting things; smoke issues out, not always from burning wood, ash, or material to smoke, perhaps incense that fills the air with a pleasant fragrance that makes the patrons dream of places other than where they are in one fraction of time. Being in the coffee shop is like living in the sky, with every wall images of night and day. There are many exciting artists whose media for creating pictures is the sky, the materials of eternity are used, and all the materials of the universe are investigated. Sitting on the floor is the custom of the people. There are lower places on the floor, circular in shape, and groups of people who believe they are special sit there, dangerous and perhaps violent, a place where those patrons in the coffee shop don’t tread there.
In cups with three to five levels, the different liquids mix, forming into one to drink from; straws or tubes for drinking emirates create the mixing level, which a group of people can drink from. The concoctions are never the same or different. Every time drinks are ordered, it’s not because of the coffee maker; the liquid dispenser creates a drink to order, and it comes the way it is. Around such a drinking device are people with a lobster mask; it might be a kind of helmet, and the antennas move, yet that could be a device. Gathering around the tower drink has become a cult. Maybe it’s developing into a spiritual way of the secret liquid thing. This is considered an adventure in consuming nonalcoholic drinks has a sense of the bohemian in the mythical world. However, everything would be regarded as bohemian in this type of world. This experimenting world of evolving traditions starting all over concepts, embracing what is new, is the vast world for the earth shaker and bohemian.
The tower coffee shops are places for rain shakers or wind raiders. They chant in the rain, speak to the raindrops, and reside in rain tents that receive rain. They believe that the raindrops give them power, answers for problems are found, the philosophy stated, the gathering of wind raiders. When they come to drink something, they are never wet. Their clothing and hair are dry, and they drink tea from fruit, vegetables, stones, and edible sands, the fruits created by experimental agriculturalists. A drink was made that’s called the Rain of Forever. The liquid rejuvenates the mind, relaxing the body; when the glass is in the cup of colors of the light blue morning sky with the orange-reddish-greenish hue that refreshes, then partaking of a drink that continues to change.
Spiritual forces are for humans; they revolve around humans, not the other way around. Narrow-mindedness is never approved of trying new things, and experimenting is the way there is no spiritual chauvinism; every spiritual concept is valid.
This is the belief of the Wind Rains. They ask for their perfection of themselves; never the Wind Rains bother with society. They are part of the inner natural world, and once read into the debts of their inner darkness, selves bringing in the day of reality that gets the most profound dark truth, depression pervades everywhere. Events circumstances are unclear; the Wind Rains reach down into themselves for the tools of nature. The rain that runs from the earth emanates to the sky; Wind Rainers bring their technical skills to create such a shower. The Wind Rainers sit on the floors around a circular table. They remain by themselves, talking and remaining alone without others bothering them.
He walks for miles; he is perhaps called a searcher. He finds life in other parts of the world, writing notes to be said about other people. Is he an educator, or nothing, never finding anything? Directives in the multitude, he doesn’t carry too much with him. Are there notebooks hidden in designated places? Then he returns. A butterfly is said to come to him when he sits at a table, observing things, people, and exciting beings. Yes, notebooks were in large handles, then they faded away as he walked, just disappeared, tiny butterflies swarmed around. Were they census takers, surveyors of the land, mapper, and navigators of the land? There were large sheets he opened, using a compass and pen. He created maps of cemeteries, places of ruins, areas to be for a traveler, and houses of night, all appearing with human-made people, made of light to attend to the exhausted traveler. They walk alone in their world with concepts; at times, they remain alone, then others of their kind will be seen. Navigators of the land that is what they were called, ships of the soil and rock sailed about the ground, there were no sails, and the vehicles were constructed of connecting rods with carved plate forms conforming to many shapes. They move by an unseen power on the wind with sound vibrations. As the ship sails on the ground, they use those wandering navigators to guide them, or they could be devices that navigate over the land, nothing to do with radar. The thoughts of the navigator guide the land ships; many are called living dwellings without a place to be.
Serene high pillared ceilings, glistening pool reflections reaching the alabaster white tops imparting a sense of rest to travelers, extensive pools of water, clean and blue without visible maintenance. On the high walls are circular disks with design patterns moving in a circular motion; there is a bit of a tremor, and sounds emanate, perhaps a kind of strange music or wailing. People ask or ask what’s the function. None of the walls are tarnished with anything; they remain new and alabaster white for years. During the night, strange people reside there. As light comes, they fade; are they the cleaners? Is this structure of the high pillars of reflections alive? A place for reflections of pools to reside, to oscillate its creations? Nearby stones arranged in artistic ways appear every morning in previous unrepeated configurations on dry rivers with white cracking surfaces. The place of High Pillars of Reflections is living; it’s a person and a location to be away from the world. A place an individual could live in their dreams or imagination to make it real, to touch imaginative physical things. The conversation is created when people come together in this place; others in another part residing among the pillars would feel only quietude or their voices, never of others. It had been a place used for meditation, understanding themselves, and taking an objective look at the world and their own lives.
Perhaps insane people living in a world of their creation are not insane; none can see what they see; it’s a true world. It’s the temple of sands that they live, similar to the Serene High Pillars; the difference is pools of water and floors of sand, the ceilings of a sky between night and day, a moon, partly of a sun. The people and scenes are genuine as they live and react to unseen events. As they imagine their world are walls of wind and light where they live in that reality, they return to what is considered everyday reality; no one bothers or has a little thought that they are insane.
It never seems that people living in tree houses are interesting; in the mythical world, the people of tree houses are whimsical tribes who compete in dressing up their homes to form the strangest things. High up on the topmost pine tree is an object that looks like a mask; it’s a dwelling with colors protruding, artistic contrivances that could be anything, an interior of many floors and stairs, all beds with many windows of odd shapes, never beyond the imagination of the dweller creator.
These are some of the descriptions of the strangeness of many worlds I have created.
Robert J. Matsunaga
