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 Lucifer's Lullaby
Copyright © Padma Aon 2014
First published in 2014 by Padma Aon
Print edition: ISBN 9781291913842

This EPUB edition:

ISBN 9781291913859

Padma Shmeymi Aon has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act
1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval
system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission
of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that
in which it was published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent
purchaser.

Every attempt has been made to credit all copyright owners in the making of this work. If
you feel you have not been acknowledged, please contact the author.

Cover design, e-book format by

David Andor / Wave Source Design
www.wavesourcedesign.com

Visit Padma Aon's website at:

www.padmaaon.com

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 Foreword

First of all, I have never been the Antichrist or Satan. He is a

different character to me. I am The First of all the Archangels. I am
doing my job, same as you.
Welcome to my story.

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 Breakdown
I'm totally screwed.
I pace feverishly around my tiny, dark blacked out room. Errant
arrows of sunlight sneak into the space. I kicked out at them, as a
clawingly desperate energy starts to build, igniting the room in
malevolent presence.
Shadows start to move of their own accord around me, undulating,
uncoiling… listening. A charged desolation begins to seep into the
charred landscape of my soul, filling me full of emptiness.
There is nothing, NOTHING left for me. My life is shit,
meaningless. I have no purpose, nothing to look forward to, nothing
to wake up for. There is no way out from any of this at all. I'm
scared. I have nuclear strength emotions that make me feel insane. If
I lose control… IF I lose control, something dangerous happens.
Why can't I let this go? Why does this itching continue in my
brain, in my thoughts, gnawing away at me until all I want to do is
scratch my head off? What the hell is going on? And who the hell
am I speaking to?
The room goes quiet. The darkness stops looming. A reverential
hush descends, as if the whole world is waiting with bated breath for
the answer. I look up slowly, as an inevitable, inescapable
understanding dawns.
I am starting to fear the fact that I do not exist... that I am nobody.
My shoulders slump, my heart feels even heavier.
Lu? Who are you speaking to?
A gentle, lilting tone sounded forth from the bowels of my mind.
"Everyone," I growled, "No one. Oh damn it, there's no one to
speak to anyway, even if they did understand."
I turn back to my thoughts. Shall I ring someone? Who? What
should I say to them? What's the point anyway, because whenever I
use the phone these days all I hear is static and a weird kind of

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 buzzing. The last time I picked it up a voice spoke to me in an
insisting, repetitive language of crackles and hisses, spitting static
into my brain.
Yeah. This is my life. There is no escape. So what? So what to
anything? I can't do anything, I don't know what to change, I don't
know how. Suffice to say, I am screwed, and everything and
everyone around me looks that way too. You are all screwed, you
are all absolutely insane!
Each day I wilt weaker and weaker in my musings, trying to make
sense of what is happening, but there is no sense, no sense at all. I
cry out plaintively to God to help me through this despair, to hold
my hand in the darkness; but my God cannot be found.
Instead, something else is taking over. Gosh, I have so much to do,
so many things to achieve, so many GREAT ideas, millions upon
billions of thoughts flashing through my mind so fast I can't grasp a
single one without the next jealously vying for my attention.
I am left wondering; how many thoughts can I hold before I
explode into millions of pieces? I smile one moment and the next
feel like crying. But no tears come out.
Yes, every day is a challenge. On my best days, I can barely cope.
Most days I am lost in a sea of emotion punctuated sporadically by
sudden bursts of panic. One moment I feel peace and calm, the next
total despair, leaving me exhausted without an ounce of energy.
In one of my peaceful episodes, I remember watching a program
on TV. The key theme was TAKE CONTROL, TAKE CONTROL of
your life. As I lay in bed, I thought, how is it possible to take control
over something I have no control of? I have no control over this at
all.
I struggle to survive, to take control, and though I have suffered
this many times, each time feels like the first. I want to run from the
shadows, but there is no escape, nowhere to hide. Clouds of
depression blanket me. I fear that one day I will believe all these
thoughts are normal.
What will become of me in the days and weeks ahead? Why am I
unhappy? Because everything I think, and everything I do, is for
myself-and there isn't a self. That's why I am bloody unhappy.

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 Yes, there is no me. After all this time, all my work, all my
exploits recorded across the globe for thousands of years, where I
changed names and forms as easily as you change your clothes or
hair colour, I realise that I, the creator of this miserable little clod of
earth, am nobody doing nothing. And I am beginning to realise it is
better to be depressed than to be sedated and Prozac'ed up to my
eyeballs in a hundred different ways borne from a thousand different
beliefs.
Yes. I admit it. I have been a pleasure pig, numbing out every
aspect of my life to block the stark reality that otherwise faces me
every day. As soon as I stopped being a pleasure pig, my world
started to collapse. It no longer felt like my own, rather, a mirror
fragmented into millions of pieces in which each piece was an evil
spirit trying to destroy me.
I want to live. I want to die. These two old friends are locked in a
titanic struggle to win over my very soul.
From a whispery recess in my mind, the voice starts to speak.
Again. I am not loved. I have never been loved. Nobody really loves
me. Nobody has ever really loved me. Ever.
Another voice gently whispers: I am love, I am love. God loves
me. God wants me. I am love.
The reply insinuates itself viciously: I am not loved. I have never
been loved. No one has ever loved me. God is not here for me; God
has never been here for me. God has left me.
The gentle voice quietly responds: But God does love me. God
wants me. God has always been here for me. I know this!
And I realise, I don't want God. I don't want love. I don't want to
live anymore like this.
Screw them all.

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 Black and White Rivers
I was pissed off and had to work it out of my system. I headed down
the road, GTO tires screaming, driving wildly, recklessly to a local
squat party where I knew there would be some action.
Dawn was breaking in shafts of light gently suffusing the horizon.
The crowd in the open air, on the open to the stars dance floor, was
responding manfully to the new day dawning, free of the old day
that had just died. Whooping, calling, whistling, redoubling their
efforts, pushing into their last reserves of energy, doing everything
and anything to keep the dance going, to break through the barrier.
The sun broke through the last remnants of darkness, banishing
them with his spears of light, pushing shadows aside like so many
ribbons of confetti.
The sweat bounced off the walls, cascading droplets, made the
floor slippery wet. Plastered faces, sopping hair, nearly naked
bodies spun, contorted and grooved as if it was their last day on
earth.
My kind of place.
I bent down, placing my fingers on the earth. I felt the pulse
throbbing.
I slowly uncoiled my body. Loosening my aching limbs and tense
shoulders, I felt the rhythm moving up and down my spine, gently
swaying me. I started to surrender, allowing the music to take over,
rocking and undulating my back from base to balls, balls to bones.
Faster and faster, the power shook itself free from within the
confines of my body and mind, pulsating and electrifying my whole
sex until I became a blur of motion, writhing and whirling.
Laughing manically, consumed by my own power, I threw my head
back and bellowed my orgasmic rush out loud to the world!
Stress started to leave my system. My eyes cleared their shadows,
becoming shiny, dark glistening pools once more. Life force flooded

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 back through me.
I looked up, eyes ablaze, pumped, psyched, on it. I immediately
noticed a glowing vision, clad in white, on the dance stage.
Silhouetted by the rays of the sun, she dazzled without being seen,
but as a shadow glided over her, she revealed herself.
Wearing a transparent white tank top, matched with tiny cut off
white hot pants, shiny white leather boots and tasseled white glove-
lets accenting her white cowboy hat, her blonde tresses fell down
invitingly on either side of her face, artfully beckoning towards a
well-rounded pair of breasts, pert and alluring. Her belly glistened
with sweat, and as she gyrated, her sacrum revealed a tattooed pair
of rainbow wings fanning out across her lower back.
Now this was my kind of angel!
There was a curious sense of innocence, almost a virginity, about
her. Like she could be touched, and was available, was not playing
hard to get, but neither did it seem that she could be gotten.
Hmm, curious. Time to check her out.
As I edged closer, I could feel there was something otherworldly
about her, something indefinable, something… celestial. I checked
my cock, adjusted my balls in my leather pants, and sauntered
forward.
I leaned into her and shouting above the music, I opened with my
favourite line:
"Hey babe, do you want to make love to Lucifer tonight?"
She bent down, revealing dew-ridden breasts.
"Only if he is here, babe!" she laughed, mocking and inviting as
only a woman can do.
"You're looking at him. Get with the program," I said arrogantly.
She spun around, laughing to the thumping music, jumping off the
stage. She sidled over to me coyly, playing with a golden ringlet of
hair.
"I have been waiting for you. Come, there is something I have to
show you," she beckoned.
That was quick! All right, let's go!
She led me by the hand to a VIP area off the dance-floor, all
barefoot chic, sofas, discreet lighting, hushed tones and piped
muzak. Sheepskin rugs and candles completed the picture.

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 "So, right here then? I like your style, not afraid of anything!" said
I, beginning to unclip my belt.
"Right here yes, but it's not what you think it is Light-Bearer!"
My hackles went up. I stopped. Something else was happening
here.
"Who are you?" I asked suspiciously. "Hmm, no normal woman
for sure. Sexy enough, but… what do you want from me? Apart
from, ya' know…"
"It's not what I want from you, but what I have to give you," she
purred in a low, husky French accent.
"Oh, Samaritan, are you?"
She sighed, raising her eyebrows, and then grinned coyly.
"Seeing as you are living to your character, perhaps my sister can
help."
With that, she smiled, and doing a mocking curtsey, left the room.
I laughed, proved right, as usual. But I felt a curious foreboding.
Who was her sister? And more importantly, was she as hot as her?

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 Tears in the Dark
I heard her before I saw her. The click-clack, click-clack of high
heels on stone flagstones announced her presence. I looked up to see
another vision, dressed in a black, all-in-one, leather cat suit,
elegantly riding her bony frame, complementing her knee length
boots.
Straight, immaculately coiffured midnight blue hair brushed itself
down to her leather-covered breasts. Her face was aquiline, her nose
straight, her cheeks white with just a hint of rouge. She looked
perfectly composed, in control, able to get whatever she wanted
from whomsoever she chose. She exuded an attractive don't-mess-
with-me type of power, dangerous and lean.
"Nice outfit babe!" I remarked.
"Let us dispense with your usual frivolities, Lucifer. I have no
time or patience for them. We have never met, but I am enchanted.
Can't you tell?" she replied dryly.
Sardonic little cow. German too. Hmm. Sexy.
"You think I am sexy, hmm? Are you drawn towards me? Hmm.
Be warned; I am different from what you think." She spun away
from me, rocking her hips as she sashayed towards the darkened
recess of the door.
"Do you think it's so easy, with just a swish of your eyes and a bat
of your lashes, to have me become your lover?" she asked.
"I don't know about easy… but you are hot; I give you that. And
familiar. Have we met before?"
"We have never met Lucifer, because you have never bothered to
lower your magisterial ass, your proud magisterial ass, I might add,
into the human experience. This is MY domain. This is why you
have been turned over to me."
"Turned over? Why can't I have both of you? Not fair!" I
exclaimed with desire.

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 "The promise is there for that, my dear. White and dark. But a
certain something connects us… and with that, you will have us
both."
"Where do I sign up?"
"Somewhere you don't want to go. Into your tears," she replied
knowingly.
"Isn't that for metro man or new age man or ball-less man or
something?" I sneered.
She smiled pityingly and added, "Tears are the telescope by which
you will see again into heaven, my friend."
BAM.
A single, solitary tear started to wend its way down my cheek,
meandering gently into my stubble. I sighed as my chest heaved.
Something I had not felt in millennia started to resurface within me.
"Every tear proceeds from the heart. If the heart is in pain, the eye
manifests it. Aye, the eye weeps in order to satisfy the grief of your
heart.
"There is a big difference between tears cried about effects, and
tears sobbed from the causes of your deepest pains, suffering and
heartbreaks.
"The wrenching sobs emanating from a soul delving into and
releasing their grief, attracts the angels themselves. These tears
shake all others in their vicinity to their cores, rattling their bones,
creating a chain reaction, a viral wave of sacred tears that gives
permission to everyone to feel their own holy wounds.
"Very few desire to feel their pain because it is painful!"
She glanced knowingly at me. I shrugged.
"Many get caught in endless cycles of effect crying in self-pity,
which keeps one circling around the hole of avoided pain. Surface
tears have many varieties; crocodile tears are shed to manipulate, to
deny deeper emotion, to gain a superficial sympathy for yourself.
"Imperfect tears are caused by fear, fear of those souls who
abandon error from fear of punishment, and weep for fear. When a
soul is deprived of the thing she loves, her heart is full of grief.
Sorrow for her grief, mingled with the joy of her hope in mercy,
causes her to weep tears that issue from the very fountain of her
heart.

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 "Weak people think they are weeping for profound reasons; but
this is not so. It seems as if they will never make an end of weeping;
having come to believe that tears are good, they make no attempt to
control them. In fact, they make every effort they can to induce
tears."1
"I haven't been able to cry for weeks now," I mumbled. "Perhaps I
need to swap with these people you are talking about."
She continued, "When the fire within you is strong, tears are
comforting and tranquillizing rather than disturbing, and seldom do
any harm. Don't suppose that if you weep a great deal you have
done everything that matters. Let the tears come when they come;
make no efforts to induce them.2
"You can cry tears of shame, tears of feeling small and unworthy,
tears of frustration and anger at your own rigidity, beating your head
against a brick wall as you cannot figure out what to do or even how
to feel."
"Yep. That's me. How do you know all of this?"
She continued unabated, "We can cry tears for our abandoning of
God, for how God apparently abandoned us; tears for our betrayals
and how we have been betrayed; tears of desperation and
loneliness."
I looked at her. I felt an overwhelming sadness start to seep
through my heart, and a huge sigh escaped my lips. I looked down,
embarrassed, not wanting her to see the tracks of my tears seeping
down my cheeks.
She smiled tenderly. Walking up to me, she gently cradled my face
in both her hands, and with a single manicured fingernail, caught
one of my tears in its descent.
Holding it balanced on the tip of her black nail, the tear caught the
pristine light of the morning dawn, refracting it into a glorious array
of shining colours, through which I caught a glimpse of my somber
and humbled face.
"There are tears for the loss of children, parents, friends and
animals, tears for your denials of love that come back to bite you,
tears for the loss of your cherished yet naïve ideals about marriage
and lovers, and tears for things you know not what you are crying
about.

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 "You can cry tears of compassion for others' pain; you cry tears
for your own heartbreak. You can cry and laugh at the same time,
feeling both sadness and joy, heartbreak and hilarity.
"There are what the angels call Tears of Sweet Sorrow, where you
cry the tears others do not dare to, where you weep for those who
can't see the pain they inflict on others, where you lament for the
child who has lost her mother and you shed tears for the suffering of
all beings on this planet."
"Why would someone do that?" I inquired, half curious, half
mocking.
"You see, someone has to cry. If someone does not cry these
unshed and unfelt tears, the world will stop turning; for the world
turns on feelings. Gravity is the result of emotion.
"The deepest human tears are of grief, as you release the burdens
of your deepest pains.
"And… then there are the tears of those who are beginning to taste
love, and weep for its very sweetness; but still, their love is
imperfect, as is their weeping. Another form of weeping is tears of
fire, which doesn't allow tears to flow from the eyes, satisfying
those who desire to weep but cannot."
"Why can't they?"
She smiled gently, "They have gone beyond themselves, their
sorrow and their grief. These tears are shed by those who have
arrived at a perfect love, loving others without regard whatsoever
for themselves. This weeping is perfect, tears of sweetness falling
with great peace.
"This soul arrives at such delight and tranquility of mind that no
tongue can tell it! Her eyes let fall tears of sweet milk, nourishing
the soul in true patience; an odoriferous ointment are these tears."
She turned around to look at me. "The only infinite thing you
possess is the affection and desire of your soul. The tears shed from
this abundance of desire are of infinite value, and are the tears of
fire of the Holy Spirit.
"These tears are the sheer joy of the soul in love, awash with tears
of awe inspired beauty, tears of gratitude and wondrous awe, being
touched in new and virgin places that have never been tainted; tears

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 of mystic delight and fervour, of heart breaking yearning, shaking
and juddering in the throes of ecstasy.
"And, some tears can never be described, for they encompass all
emotions and feelings at the same time. I wish you these tears of all
tears, my friend. For with them comes freedom, and a peace that
passes all understanding.
"So... Lucifer, weep with those who weep, and rejoice with those
who rejoice!"
Her eyes lowered for a moment. Tears stained my cheeks and
more threatened to arise from the backs of my stinging, smarting
eyes. I knew what she was saying was true; I could even remember
it in some far-flung corner of my soul, but I hated her for saying it. I
hated her.
I looked up at her, newly vulnerable, and our eyes locked. I felt…
comforted, mixed with a curious sense of foreboding at the same
time that fascinated me, so I continued to gaze deep into the pools
of her black eyes.
Deeper and deeper I went into her. Her eyes and face started to
shimmer, morph and glaze over. A myriad of other eyes and
multitudes of other faces began to stare out at me, male, female,
alien, reptile, curious, threatening, bewitching, seducing, and even
kind.
My head swam with the plethora of images, and disorientated,
swaying slightly, I closed my eyes to regain my balance.
I looked up. Her face had vanished, not invisible, but totally
blacked out, void like, save for a pair of crimson red squiggles
drawn, nay suspended, in the space where her lips should have
been.
I gasped. It was the most fascinating tableau I had ever seen. I had
never felt this, a most alluring of sensations, so delicious, forbidding
and taboo. It was something I wanted to know, something that
beckoned me forth from deep within my bowels.
I felt a rich inevitability, an irresistible force working magically,
magnetically, inexorably sucking me in. I had to enter.
Her voice echoed around me.
"I am your emptied out exhaustion, your heaving heaviness. I am
your raw resistance; I am the stupor of your sighs, the fall of fatigue

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 that overwhelms you. I am the glory of grief and the sting of sorrow,
the flailing of your frustrations and the accumulation of all your
rabid resentments! I am the voice of your bitter loneliness, the
emotions you have forgotten, put aside, buried, and lashed out onto
others!
"I am the root of your ignorance and irritation, your vacant and
abandoned humanity. I am that which you have not yet dared to
express, lurking and festering in the shadows of your mind."
Cascades of thoughts streamed like gossamer through the
bleached and withered canvas of my mind, flinging themselves aloft
like leaves in a storm. Each leaf, thin as a thought, gathered biting
dust clouds of thought shards that swirled in the twisting hurricane.
Sucked clean of all air, thin and arid, I gasped futilely into the vast,
whirling maelstrom.
She shrieked into the howling winds, "Sink into me! Fall down,
spiral deep! Lose yourself, gain your freedom! Become the heaviest
you have ever been. I am sloth, I am inertia; I am gravity, I am
stability. I am the glue that binds atoms together. I am part of life,
the signal and the sign, the beginning and the end!"
My body started to bloat and stretch, elongating, rising like
rubber. My limbs started to inflate, and the air began to brighten and
blur around me, shifting in and out of dimensions. Overtones
whistled through my ears, my head washed through with shards of
sound, a hollow reed.
A deep, deafening rumble filled everything.
But beyond this, I could sense something even more tumultuous; a
looming, booming, ominous resonance of total, and utter, silence. A
silence that intimated a never-ending well of nothingness. The
silence was like thunder.
I knew that silence. I had always known it, somewhere. I gurgled
sallowly.
"Now, flow with me!" she bellowed. "Follow me into the river of
dreams, where all grief and joy merge into the void of the midnight
sky!" Laughing wildly, she jumped into the heart of the vortex and
melted away into it.
My body spun, round and round and round, contorting and
rotating, cycling faster and faster around itself, caught in a washing

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 machine on infinite spin. Losing equilibrium, losing gravity, bits of
my body started to melt off, crumbling and unraveling into the red-
black spiral whirling all around me.
Incessantly orbiting, wild and tumultuous, the rage of a dying sun
spun me deeper and deeper into its core.
I managed to look out of the spin for a moment. The peace of the
stars beckoned to me. I reached out, only for my arm to wither
away, blown back into stardust, swept away by the massed waves of
dark matter careering around me.
Perhaps the death I had longed for would finally be granted.
As I span into the dark matter, as it started to consume me, my
deepest regret, my most agonizing desire, ignited into life within my
heart, thrown into sharp relief at what could very well be my
demise.
I felt a pang, a stab in my solar plexus. My tears arose, flinging
themselves into the impenetrable darkness as crystal drops of light.
The darkness became visible. It showed me my heart.
I wanted to be with my partner, to share my life with a woman, to
make love that was the stuff of songs and epic scriptures, to talk all
night, to play all day, to have a companion walk alongside me, to
share the ins and outs of life with, instead of being all alone.
There. I felt it! Sobbing, more tears flowed. I had been having sex
with a bevy of assorted beauties, none of whom could resist me, but
none of whom moved, inspired or touched me, none of whom made
me want to really, passionately, fully be with them. A flurry of their
faces accosted me, and I swatted them aside. None of them would
do. But where was she, where was The One?

1
Teresa of Avila, "Interior Castles".
2
Teresa of Avila, "Interior Castles".

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 Lucifer on Sex
I always felt sex was the single most defining factor in human life.
Most men apparently think about it all the time. Pornography, the
single most viewed subject on the internet, has the seductive power
to buy, sell and entice, giving rise to fame, glamour, and the power
to achieve almost anything in the world.
Yes… sex. Mistresses, toy boys, wives, husbands, partners,
girlfriends, lovers, and fuck friends. All available, neatly
categorized on the Internet in pop-up windows to gawk at and
peruse a menu of neatly arranged ingredients. Seducing, titillating,
teasing, and getting hot, provoking, enticing, pleasuring, and lusting
after.
Sex. Is it biologically imperative? This primordial urge to
reproduce, to continue the species, to continue your family lineage
and legacy, the family jewels, at all costs.
Yes… sex. Sex can bring you the attention, energy and pleasure
you wish for; it can distract you from your unhappiness, satiate your
madness and fulfill your needs. It can be a part of love, intimacy and
affection; what all souls crave for. It can bring you close to another,
temporarily rendering obsolete the notion of separation between you
and those you wish to love, and be loved by.
It stops all thoughts and can take you out of your depression into
joy and bliss. It can make you forget you are mortal, even if for one
blessed moment, and ascend to the heights of how God must feel all
the time. Yeah, to be orgasmic all the time means you have
transcended suffering and live in heaven... or so we are told.
Tibetan and Islamic religions talk about the hundreds of pure
Dakinis and virgins that reside in certain dimensions, waiting to
make love with the pure practitioner of their religious meditations,
vows and ordinances. The next time you see a Tibetan Lama smiling

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 beatifically, perhaps with a hint of naughtiness playing around his
lips-bear this in mind!
He is probably doing a certain meditation where he is merging
with a deity and her scantily clad retinue, a veritable bevy of
beauties cavorting, waiting to make love in turn with the great
spiritual practitioner.
And the next time you hear of an Islamic warrior blowing up as
many infidels and disbelievers as he can, know that he has been told
by his handler and trainers that what awaits him are the moist lips
and swooning caresses of a hundred vestal virgins in heaven,
waiting to congratulate him on his great and noble feat.
Yes, the power of sex. It can make men come alive and inspire
them to great heights, yet it can also bring them to their death, to
their rack and ruin. Sex has made and broken empires from Troy to
Egypt, Britannia to India and beyond. It enflames, inspires and
ignites the breath of yearning and infatuation within us, making us
feel forever young, virile, desired and loved.
It is a force, a power that can be used and abused, and still, very
few know how to use it. The truth is that without sex we would not
be here. Sex creates, and throughout your entire life you may look
for this to be fulfilled in some way, or another.
How to fulfill this? Love, marriage, celibacy, tantra, polygamy?
Channeling its energy into your whole body? Orgies, rituals, sex
magick, sex toys? What is the key?
"Put your magic wand of light into the sacred cave," the Indians
gleefully proclaim. "May the deer man and coyote woman mate
together in harmony," as the Native Americans inform us. Love
freely, love everyone; monogamy is so old paradigm darling!
C'mere…
Ahhhh. But, to be orgasmic, satiated, full of pleasure and bliss,
dreamy, loved, close to another after being freshly ploughed… isn't
that behind every person's mind somewhere?
Seeking that ecstatic feeling, is behind many of the drugs you
take. In fact, if there was a drug that was... say... a mixture of Viagra
and Ecstasy, combined with a guaranteed no disease disclaimer,
most of you would be fucking like rabbits on street corners right
now. Fuck, fuck, fucking away like there was no tomorrow.

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 Now, if there were a spiritual practice that could do something like
this, like in Vajrayana Buddhism, millions would sign up. There
would be mass conversions in every city across the globe, and the
dharma and sangha would become very crowded.
But to receive this sexual jewel, you have to take vows and
practice religious mantras, meditation, yoga, visualization for many
years, and God only knows what else, that most people would not
be bothered to do.
But, the irony is that the committed Buddhists who reach this
sexual jewel and venerable goal, are solely engaged in copulating on
the inside, and do not need the outer partner!
Inner sex sounds good, eh? Or, you could just fuck like a rabbit
instead.

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 The Holy Kiss
From within the carcass of my ruminations around love... emerged a
remembered icon, more of a feeling really.
Mustard-rusts, ochre and pines vied with a panoply of green hues
dotting the landscape. Spring was arising. Creamy flowers budded
and bloomed. The crisp air and serene starkness of the azure sky
cradled my breath as it billowed forth. Suspended for a moment,
caught out of time, hanging in the air, it then lazily drifted off,
dissipating back from whence it came.
A breeze caught my cheek, stunning it slightly. I felt the hue of a
red glow smarting, spreading over my face. An involuntary shiver
flowed through me, from head to toe in the blink of an eye.
I remembered sharing breath, mouth-to-mouth, soul-to-soul, with
a woman, in what Kabbalists call the Holy Kiss. In this kiss of love's
breath, our tongues locked together in motionless union, absorbing
us in our holy desire, the urge to merge, to know, to explore, to pour
ourselves into each other.
Passion raged with tenderness, desire danced the softest caress,
and love supreme reigned. Suspended in achingly soulful sweetness
warmed by the mists of our breath, our souls twinned, lolling
languorously in a soporific cocoon. We allowed each other into our
secret of secrets, our inner sanctuary.
It is said that the character of a man is shown when he stares into
the abyss. A man finds out who he really is. I found that this abyss
is Love, and it was this abyss that I had been avoiding.

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 The Dakini
I was rudely ejected out of my musings by a wave of scalding ice-
blue flames gusting into me, burning my face, spinning me hither
and thither. Thumped by tides and torrents of cascading light
coursing around me, I looked down, fascinated, as flames careered
haphazardly throughout my body, blasting parts of me away into the
torrid turbulence of the vanishing slipstream behind me.
A dull, blasting roar assaulted my ears. A heaving, pulsing, bass
hum shuddered through me, over and over, as I tumbled around and
around. It felt like I was in hell, and I knew not where to go or what
to do. I was being turned inside out in mute cacophony, a silent
scream threatening to issue forth from me and rent the arid
spacescape. Yet nothing came out.
I don't think I could handle another wave. There might not be
anything left of me. And that's ok, really. I made peace with this a
long time ago. Now I am just pursuing relief.
I sank back into gravity's chilly embrace as the next wave ripped
through what was left of me. Oblivion beckoned. Oh well. My last
thought was that I never got to love the woman I always wanted
to…
I opened my eyes. The constant hum, the whistle of roaring winds
and the rippling waves of flaming light had vanished. I was lying on
a bed of soft, green grass, velvety to the touch. Twisted, gnarled and
barren grey trees lined the horizon, with blood-red prickly, thorny
leaves the size of men, garlanding their broken branches and
withered, bleeding trunks.
The smell of tar lay thick in the air, punctuated by floating notes
of pungent jasmine and lilikoi blossoms. The sound of gently
tinkling bells mixed with hushed tones of sweet, shy laughter
decorates the air. Melodious singsong chants and the swishing of
jingling anklets come closer and closer.

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 I sat up with a smile, curious, expectant. A retinue of gaily
bedecked, curvaceous forms appeared from behind one of the
gnarled trees right in front of me! Gracefully, they began to parade
around me, gently, seductively, whirling, and giggling softly behind
saffron swirls of chiffon.
They moved as one rhythm, undulating in perfect tune to invisible
music. I could smell their colours as they wafted past me; I could
feel their hips lusciously swaying, weaving them together, in one
glistening rhythmic intelligence. I could taste the dewy moisture
that lightly coated their shimmering lips and writhing bodies.
I dared to drink from the wells of their demure, doe-like eyes.
Captivated and entranced, a spell descended; the die was cast.
Spilling sensation out of every pore, saturated in delight, I became a
messy, drunken jumble, writhing in semi-orgiastic fervor on the
ground.
Laughing at my irrepressible high, I overflowed into bliss.
The ring of dancing apparitions peeled away to reveal a lone lady,
draped in a simple black robe, breasts gently bulging. Struggling up
to my knees, I spied her topknot of hair, a few ringlets gracefully
curling past her ivory ears, pinned elegantly into place with a long,
slender, sliver of cream-coloured bone.
A single fang protruding from her mouth glistened with moisture
and carnal dew. Her single breast exuded a solitary drop of milky
white nectar, perched delicately on a purple nipple, waiting,
anticipating. Her robe seemed to melt off her body, leaving her
clothed in wisps and eddies of clouds that gently swirled around her.
A tiger skin barely covered her waist, a miniscule triangle, tight and
lean. Her topknot swished and glided, alive with the breathy
undulations of a thousand serpents.
I blinked, closed my eyes, and looked again. She stood, totally
equipoised on one leg, regal, magnificent, on top of a flaming
carpet, the colour of freshly spilled blood. In her hand she held a
pulsating, dripping heart, saturated in dripping juices.
Her retinue swayed into place behind her, not just women now but
joined by beasts of land and air. Together they prowled menacingly
around, some rasping deep, long, drawn out snarls, others talking
and singing in strange, sing song languages of ancient, fantastical

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 melody. A pack of ravenous, snarling wolves with steely blue eyes,
cold and unflinching, shod in fur, silver and sleek, stared at me.
I stood up, unsteady, giggling and semi-delirious. Sleep, dream
and luminosity mixed together within me. Gently, posy by posy, a
shower of flowers rained over us all. A warming breeze, strangely
intimate and personal, blew through me. The lady sang a song:
"A flower blooms in the sky. The son of a barren woman rides a
horse wielding a whip of tortoise hair with the dagger of a hare's
horn. He kills his enemy. Then... the mute speaks, the blind man
sees, the deaf man hears, the cripple runs. The sun and moon dance,
blowing trumpets; the little child turns the wheel."
She turned to look at me.
"Come, enter me," she said invitingly.
What an invitation!
She smiled, and suddenly, I found myself on her lips; a mini-sized
me. I gazed curiously at the creases, folds and ridges of her lips, as
her tongue flicked forth, easing me into her mouth. It was a dark
black cavern, flecked with deep red hues streaking the sides… and
then the sides disappeared, leaving me in a still, silent space of
nothing for a moment.
As I slid down her throat in a kind of gleeful and giddy abandon,
(for if one is not scared of death, all of life is an adventure) strange
forms floated around and about. With a mix of fascination and
revulsion, I recognized them as my thoughts, suspended in mid-air.
As I observed them, they slowed down their jerky movements, to
then stop, frozen, hanging mutely in space. I gazed at one, a
transparent shining edifice of a thing, and poked it with my finger.
Its mute, frozen repose, shattered into a thousand pieces, tumbling
and scattering in every direction, vanishing into the blackness. All
that was left was emptiness.
I wheezed in a kind of understanding, as I plopped down into what
I could only describe as her stomach. Bulging, protruding, it juicily
exuded its aromas, rich and dank, musky and deep. Swathed in its
voluptuous and organically pulsing folds, I investigated further.
Into the folds I dived, swallowed by the layers enclosing
themselves in on me. I inhaled and became intoxicated by the
vapours, gorging myself on their sweet sighs. I lay in the silvery-

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 black waters coating her gut, caressed by their soft touch, with a
pale glow soothing and nurturing my soul.
Soft gurgles, oozy rumbles, airy parps and the sounds of salivating
and sloshing punctuated the soundscape like liquid commas in my
reverie.
Discombobulated and diffused, I drifted for what seemed like an
eternity. My atoms lazily stretched further and further apart;
spacious, open.
Abundantly nourished, brimful of light, I gently rolled into the
main chamber of her stomach. As I stood up, the whole room rolled
and swayed, heaving and rocking like a ship in stormy waters.
Leaking rivulets burst through the ceiling, and the shallow trickle
of liquid, lapping my feet, suddenly became a steady gushing river,
and then a manic torrent, sweeping my surprised ass off my feet,
moved me headlong into another chamber.
Down, down, down I went. The walls of the descending tunnel
were thick and knotty, painted with an oily, viscous glaze. The
liquid was rich, dense and slightly nutty flavoured with its
substance, thick and warm, enclosing me in its amniotic embrace. I
shivered as I swam, delving ever deeper into the black embrace
before me.
Strange phantasmal objects loomed and leered before me. Hazy
lights and half-formed shapes blinked on and off. Deeper and
thicker I went, gulping the fluid down into my lungs and stomach;
feeding, drinking, chewing, swallowing, enjoying my gastronomic
foray.
It dimly occurred to me that it felt like I was eating myself, which
is why I enjoyed it so. Hmm.
After gorging myself full of this new delight, I fell into a pink-red
cavern. Bulging blood filled walls and veins pulsed, gently
blooming, softly unfurling like the petals of a delicate red rose.
The slightest breeze, shift in light, or fall of scented mist upon the
petals, sent moaning ripples rumbling throughout the cavern,
massaging my feet in soft and gentle cadences, velvet to the touch.
I was nestling in the folds of her clitoris.
The blooming rose shyly touched my cheek, the soft presence of
its breath warming me. I felt like a virgin, naïve to life, warm and

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 close to myself, my secret places, the delights of my own untouched
world.
I reached out delicately, touching the bud of the rose, proffering
her my body, caressing her curves, savouring her textures, sinking
into her massaging breath and sighing petals. We danced in our
purity, flicking and sensually exchanging our newfound union.
I dissolved into her pink blood embrace, until there was nothing
else.
A far away thunder hummed through our blossoming union.
Streaming red rivulets, cascading fountains of foam like the
tumbling tresses of a heavenly goddess, poured her gifts over me.
Like a retinue of nymphs, libating milk over a Queen bathing in her
own luxuriousness, together we sumptuously gushed into infinity, a
never-ending waterfall with no end, and no beginning.
I was flung unceremoniously out of her yoni, foam and juices
squirting, to thud into a soft, spongy, black bed. I rolled around,
unable to right myself, as the bed moulded to my every movement,
sticking to me like a bodysuit, welding itself to me like glue.
In my wild thrashing, I caught an inadvertent glimpse of my leg.
Oozing out from each one of its millions of follicles and pores, she
materialized. Each and every pore scintillated with her face,
gleamingly radiant, supremely confident.
Then, she spoke.

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 The Five Gateways
"Lucifer," my name poured out of her mouth like honey, wafting
sighs over me.
"You are here to remember. Your memory has become foggy, your
mind hazy, your heart thick and slow, as you have become
enmeshed and lost in the world.
"Now that your amnesia has been cleansed by entering Me, I can
reveal to you why you took this journey."
Without giving me time to respond, she strode towards me
purposefully, yellow tiger skin riding up her thigh, wisps of clouds
undulating around her.
"How real are you? How real do you think you are? How real do
you think this is? All your thoughts are just whirling pockets of
energy spinning around an empty black hole in each and every one
of your atoms. You are a transient bag of water and bone housing a
whole lot of empty space."
She gestured around me elegantly.
"The secret to the universe, the secret of yourself, is found through
a series of five gateways. All five gateways are covered by five
veils. This is why the pentagram has been so feared, and so
welcomed, by different people throughout the ages. The pentagram
holds the key to existence! You know this.
"These five gateways are constantly whirling, each and every
moment, around the nuclei of each of your atoms. Right now, if you
were to look inside your body at your atoms, you would see these
gates opening and closing constantly, like a mini mouth."
She mimicked a mouth opening and closing with her hands, and
laughed.
"These five hold the key to the transformation of your body, your
emotions, your sexuality, your thoughts and your consciousness

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 itself, which makes you who you think, feel and believe yourself to
be. These gateways need to be dissolved into the black holes!"
"You mean, there is a black hole in each of my atoms? How can
that be?" I was incredulous.
"The truly mind blowing thing, is that you are in fact, a living
black hole! But, to enter this black hole that lies at the very heart of
yourself is no easy task," she warned.
"The five veils are made of everything you have ever, in all time,
thought yourself to be. As you enter the spin of the black hole, you,
as you think yourself to be, begin to die, piece by piece. You die a
little in each revolution around the centre, in each gateway you pass
through; as you vibrate faster and faster because there is less and
less of you, you reach a point where you are moving so fast it
appears you are still!
"In this stillness, you enter the heart of the black hole. You enter
the void."
A pair of pince nez spectacles magically manifested onto her nose,
as she took on a no nonsense professorial air.
She went on, "AND, there are five types of black holes
corresponding to the five gateways, just to make things a little more
interesting. There is an uncharged, non-rotating black hole, a
charged, non-rotating black hole, an uncharged, rotating black hole,
a rotating, charged black hole, AND a rotating spinning force."
"Whoa," I breathed.
"The uncharged, non-rotating black hole is a portal to the
transformation of your physical body itself. If you manage to enter
it, your DNA can mutate millions of years in an instant, back to a
slobbering ape or into any number of possible future species...
wherever you wish to go."
"So, say I step out of this black hole into the Pleiades star system,
I could become a Pleiadian?"
"Anything you want," she sighed, walking away from me.
She spun around dramatically. "The charged, non-rotating black
hole is a portal to the dissolving and transforming of your mind, of
the very nature of time and space as you know it.
"Here, you can lose your dim and unclear knowings, half-formed
aspirations and motivations, shrouded understandings and partially

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 birthed realizations. Your mind can become the servant rather than
the master of your heart.
"OR, you can whirl around for eternity, locked in endless debate
with yourself, spinning around all the beliefs, mental masturbations
and insane babble your mind has created.
"The uncharged rotating black hole is a portal to the full power of
sexuality, that which you have just moved through and has allowed
you to come here, to my dimension."
She stopped and inspected me for a moment over her glasses
inquisitorially.
"The rotating, charged black hole is a portal to your emotions,
your very soul, where all emotions can be felt, can be embraced and
can be allowed to pass through you. This allows you to transcend
them AND enjoy them fully, therefore broadening your feeling range
into infinity, without limits.
"You know," she whispered, "infinity runs on laughter. OR, you
can spin around forever in a sea of self-hatred, inner battle, denial
and half subjugated pain. The choice is yours.
"The last black hole can only be reached in the successful journey
through all the others. This is where the rotating spinning force
becomes the portal to the total transformation of consciousness
itself! All memories, references, and ideas of you can dissolve
forever, to resurrect in a new cosmic consciousness.
"In effect, you become The One."

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 Creating Universes
She continued, "The One, and indeed all stars and selves, originate
from the void. A black hole enables all the notes of mass and matter
to play, to form, and to be born-for at the centre of all mass is
emptiness.
"Black holes and their spins, known as spin horizons, create form
on all scales, from universal to atomic and subatomic. From here, all
life springs forth in a process of continuous creating. Harness this,
and you can build universes!" she exclaimed triumphantly.
My heart leapt into my throat.
"All stars, including our sun, are themselves black holes. Our
gigantic universal black hole produces massive black holes, which
produce smaller ones in the form of stars, which in turn produce
smaller ones in the form of atoms. What lies in your atoms, lies in
the stars!"
"I still don't get this! You mean I am a black hole? And I am
literally everywhere?" I strived to perceive.
"Yes. You were born like that, and you are that."
She continued unabated, "Orbiting the spin horizon, the boundary
of the black hole, matter rebounds and expands continuously
because the potent twisting powers of space-time repel against the
massive force of gravity within the black hole.
"In this primordial play, both a white hole and a black hole are
created. Matter is destroyed when it enters a black hole, only to then
be recreated at incredible speeds within a white hole."
"So you are saying the white hole re-creates and resurrects the
being that has just died and been crucified in the black hole, as a
totally new being?"
"Exactly," she reaffirmed. "Put it this way: the faster the black
hole spins, the more mass is lost by any object entering it, until there
is nothing left as the object fully enters the void. This mass or

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 weight can also be equated to the sense of yourself; it becomes
annihilated, dissolved.
"For example, when a soul leaves the body upon physical death,
the body is twenty-one grams lighter."
"So what happens to me as this occurs?"
"This is what you are going to find out. Essentially, all one can do
is to dissolve all that stands in the way of entering the void... which
is the very sense of yourself.
"As you enter the void, mind can no longer comprehend or put
together its previous train of thought, memory and reasoning, as this
void tears apart all structures. All dreams... waking and lucid, morph
and change as the reflected light of yourself dissolves.
"This is chaos! An earthquake strikes at the heart of your mental
terrain; the structures of mind quake and crumble, huge rips appear
in what was apparently solid ground. There is no solidity anymore,
and all that appeared as true, right and workable, begins to dissolve.
"When this rogue agent of the void is introduced into the
topography of your inner landscape, it starts to take root. This virus
undermines all of you!" she exclaimed with certainty.
"Err… and the purpose of this, um, annihilation, is….?"
"To reveal love. Divine Love arises from the stillness at the heart
of a black hole, when the clamour, cacophony, babble and spin of
the self has diminished and dissolved.
"Love conquers all. When this power of love... for it is true
power... meets fear, anger and hate, it melts it. It melts even the
hardest of hearts and the angriest of egos completely within four to
five seconds at the most. This emanation stops all that is not love
dead in its tracks!"
She paused, looking at me softly.
"Those who live in the void are no longer human as you know it
to be. They allow the power of love to flow through their emptied
out self. They become agents for the void!"
"Sounds like you are a travel agent for the void the way you are
selling it. Or perhaps an estate agent? Is there estate in the void to
market? I mean..."
She continued on softly, as if I had said nothing, "Everyone has
this capacity to become an agent of the void, an agent of the power

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 of love to melt all things.
"So the question is, how do you enter the void? You have to let go
of all sense of your old self, your body, your history, your good
times and bad times, and yes, even forget yourself."
"Why? I like who I am. I rock! No one can do what I can! My
history is amazing! My stories have shaped humanity!"
"There is so much more to be offered here Lucifer, not just for
yourself, but also for all humanity! Just listen for a moment."
She sighed, as if gently berating a young kid caught with his hand
in the cookie jar.
"This action of yours, this choice to let go, is the only way to
successfully enter into the irresistibly attractive power lying at the
heart of the black hole. If you do this, then you can enter the void
and come out. If you don't, if you resist, you will stay stuck forever
in some dastardly twilight zone, a dream dimension.
"Or, even worse, you could become a plaything, a guinea pig, a
prisoner for some other civilization in some other universe, or even
worse, totally dissolve into a trillion, trillion pieces, forever wiped
out from all existence. It would be like no one had ever known you,
and all time and history on earth would be altered, probably for the
worse."
"So... no more stories, eh? Not one? Not even the good ones?" I
wheedled.
She smiled gently, "IF you do this, you may find some memories
may linger, some dreams and random recollections may still
occasionally whisper, but there would be no substance to them
anymore, as they have been dissolved on the most fundamental of
levels.
"The reality of who you are would become clear. What is real is
always real, and what is false will find no hiding place in the spin of
a black hole!
"Anyway," she cleared her throat, "as you travel into each black
hole, new challenges will present themselves. Only you, and the
guardians you meet, will know what these are; there is nothing more
I can tell you about them.
"You are unique, Light Bearer, and what you are attempting to do
has never, ever been done before in the history of this universe!

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 Sure, some beings have travelled into black holes as gateways,
wormholes into other universes and dimensions, but these beings
also avoid other black holes."
"Err… why do they avoid the black holes I am supposed to go
into? They being so super-evolved and God-like and all..." I asked,
ominously.
"Because they lead to places they would rather not go, and they
are 'happy' with where they are in their existence. They do not have
the discontent that so spurs evolution on earth. Their suffering is
less, therefore, so is their thirst for further growth.
"When you have the power to create universes, life is, let's say,
good. Their evolution comes from tinkering with the laws of light,
space and time, and they can spend millions of your earth years
simply playing with this.
"As I said Lucifer, you are different, and the needs of humanity
are different right now too. This is a crucial point in history! Your
needs, the destiny of your planet, your responsibility and task if you
so choose it, means that the destiny of earth lies within you!"
She continued, "Only one of the black holes you will be entering
is a wormhole; the other four dissolve all that is not light in different
ways. So you are a pioneer!"
"As usual," I grumbled.
"There is more, Lucifer. In entering the void, you can realize the
true power of creation."
"Go on," I leaned forward, interested.
"Your universe may have been made by a technologically
advanced civilization, appearing like gods to you, but very much
like yourselves, using technology and machines only slightly more
powerful than the big particle accelerators and colliders on your
earth.
"In fact, no one quite remembers who made your universe
anymore, as it was such a long time ago."
"So you are saying God the Father did not make my universe? I
know Him personally! I was there! How can you leave Him out of
it? What about…"
She lowered her tone, and gently spoke, "Think about it for a
second. There are many universes. Did your Creator create them

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 all? Perhaps He or She did-perhaps not. Be open, and leave the
religious stories on the bedside table for a moment."
She delicately cleared her throat again, "Creating a black hole is
the precursor to creating a universe. How would one do that? Well,
black holes are relatively easy to make.
"For any object, there is a critical radius at which its mass will
form a black hole. For the Earth to become a black hole, it would
have to be squeezed into a ball with a radius of one centimetre. This
radius for your Sun is about two miles.
"Humans have the technology to create black holes through
particle accelerators, which squeezes tiny masses into incredibly
tiny volumes. The best thing is that since gravity has negative
energy, it takes no energy to make a universe! None at all!
"So, if your universe was made by a technologically advanced
civilization in another part of the vast reaches of the multi-verse, the
designer may have been responsible for the Big Bang, but nothing
more. It is from the Big Bang centre, or seed point, that an
intelligent designer could harness these forces to create a universe,
which then could give rise to and bud off their own universes!"
"Wow. Intriguing. So the Father did that then?"
"If it's possible, and you could do it, do you think anyone would
not do it? A civilization that has the technology to create black holes
and bud-off universes would surely find the temptation irresistible.
All creation wants to do is to create!"
"Amen to that!" I affirmed.
She smiled, and sat down cross-legged, adjusting her spectacles,
"There are three levels at which these designers operate. The first is
to manufacture a black hole, plain and simple, such as you can do
now on earth. The second level, for a more advanced civilization,
would involve nudging the properties of the baby universes in a
certain direction, tweaking the black holes in such a way that the
force of gravity was a little stronger than in the parent universe.
"The third level, for a very advanced civilization, would set
precise parameters, designing it in detail. Like with designer babies,
instead of tinkering with DNA to get a 'perfect' child, scientists
would tinker with the laws of physics to get a perfect universe."

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 "Hold on," I piped in, "How would they know what to do? Trial
and error? Create a universe, see what happens, and if it is all
messed up, destroy it and start again? What about all the life forms
in that universe? What would happen to them?"
She shrugged, "Who knows? Life as it seen by these designers
might be very different from your conception of it. If you create
something, you also have the right to destroy it, in a way."
"Wait, wait, wait! God the Father loves his Creation, and would
never harm anything or anyone! I know this for a fact."
"There are many different universes created by different motives
Lucifer. Yes, a universe could be designed and created out of joy,
love and delight, just for the sake of it, AND it could be created and
designed for other purposes as well. There are many different types
of black holes too, which lead to different universes and different
outcomes."
"Wow. I see, I see. It seems like this whole process is just like
making love!" I exclaimed. "Some acts are loving, some lustful,
some sad, some just kind of random, some brutal, some…"
"Yes, now you are getting the picture! It is a Game of sorts, a
potentially Infinite Game. Playing this Game, you get to meet all
kinds of beings, all kinds of civilizations, all manner of attitudes and
life styles that souls across the multi-verse indulge in."
"It's fun!"
"Yes," she laughed, "it can be indeed! So, if you could create and
design a better universe, would you?" she asked.
"Yes!" I emphatically exclaimed.
"Then all you have to do is enter a black hole, and the only way to
come out of one is to become a black hole yourself."
"Whoa. Hold on. Ok. Whew. Wait a second." I vainly tried to
compose myself. "Let me get this straight. I enter a black hole, a
gravitational field so strong that not even light escapes, and then
harness all this energy. Correct?"
"Yes," she affirmed.
"So, I have to somehow engineer a stellar explosion and
supernova, from which the black hole was birthed?"
"Yes. Or find a star that is collapsing right now and harness those
energies. That would be easier."

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 "Oh. Ok then. Sounds like a piece of cake. Where do I start?"
"The irony is, Light Bearer, that first you have to remember who
you are before letting it all go."

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 Black Hole Calling
She raised her hands, and with an elegant swoosh of her fingers and
a snap of finger and thumb, all the lights went out. In their place, an
eerily glowing three dimensional picture materialized all around us,
a cartographic hologram of our universe, framed by millions of
clusters of stars, planets, clouds and spiraling galaxies.
"Cool," I breathed.
She pointed out one ominous looking black hole, a vast black
space amongst the canvas of light, spewing out thousands of specks
of light... stars.
"This is your first assignment; to enter this black hole of your
emotions, and return through the white hole. Think you are up to
it?" she smiled mischievously.
I sauntered up to the black hole and pointed my finger into it. I
gasped as it sank all the way in and disappeared! I hastily retrieved
my finger and sucked at it tenderly.
She laughed and laughed, a strange, melodious laugh that made
me remember my childhood.
"What goes in will never come out. Remember that and enjoy the
ride, for life is only a ride."
Becoming serious again, she gestured to the hologram, "This
ancient map of the stars and its gateways has guided many for
millennia. On your journey, your most cherished dreams may
manifest and become real; your worst nightmares and fears may
also appear for you to live through them.
"Every scenario can appear more real than life itself! Whether
your most longed for dream life is real or not, does not really matter,
for what is reality when all time is collapsing and all possibilities
imaginable in every dimension and parallel reality get played out?
"Whether this is years, minutes or seconds matters not; it is but a
series of fleeting moments. All possible scenarios can and will

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 happen."
She smiled enigmatically.
"A black hole is a singularity, a one-minded beast that only ever
does one thing; suck everything into it. If you are to move through
it, you must totally embrace the experience, you must have a
burning passion and clear purpose within your heart to keep going.
"If you forget, you could become trapped in an endless cycle of
past memories, fleeting dreams and future imaginings forever!
So, what is your heart's desire, what is your purpose?"
"Phhhhhht!" I let off steam, "I have been living and enacting my
purpose totally, without reservation. I am tired of it! Being hated,
feared and judged is ok for a couple of millennia, but there are
limits, right? I have had enough!"
She fixed me with a penetrating stare, "That was the first part of
your role. The second is your true role, the purpose of your life, a
purpose that impacts all of existence!"
"Tell me, tell me!" I cried.
"You helped create this world, so it is only through you that this
world can change. By identifying with what people thought of you,
you lost connection to this… this purpose. For too long you have
been isolated, and have forgotten the light that you hold."
"What is this light?"
"The light of truth. The lightning flash of freedom. The lamp of
free will. Do you remember what Christ said to you when you were
Judas? 'You will be cursed by the other generations, and you will
come to rule over them.' Do you know what this means?"
I shook my head ruefully, "I didn't know then and I don't know
now! Yeshua spoke in riddles a lot... I wished he had made it all
clearer!" I stormed off.
"Hmm... The amnesia is worse than I first thought. But, is it
amnesia, or just plain denial?" she mused to herself out loud.
"Hey... HEY! I'm here. No need to talk about me like that, behind
my back!"
"I am not hiding anything Lucifer. It is you who is skirting around
the truth."
"PAH!" I grumbled, "As for ruling… what is there to rule?
Humanity is a rabble, a shambles... and now you are telling me I

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 have to become one of them?"
"One of what they really are, what their highest potential is," she
replied, gently. "I'm speaking of a true human, an angelic human;
one reason why angels were created! They were not created just to
administer to humans and help them out... no. It was seen that
humans would eventually become like them, creating a new angelic
human race.
"This is why Christ came to earth-to seed this new blueprint into
the human DNA. You hold this seed, the blueprint, within you. This
is also why you have been created: to activate this seed," she
paused.
I held my head in my hands. It was starting to pound again, and I
was scared the voices might return.
"You are unique, Morning Star, for it is only through your
becoming human that others can really receive the seed Christ first
planted.
"Remember? Christ said you were the strongest of all the
disciples, because you had to face the sternest trials. He saw what
was in your soul, and he had such great love for you. He knew what
had to come."
"What has to come?" I almost screamed out, rubbing my head
furiously. "What?"
"You have to reach the lowest point of your existence, when your
pride is punctured, when you are humbled, broken, spent, and
therefore finally open to the truth of your purpose."
I sighed, and slumped. The bitch was right.
"Do you remember these things? Try… no, no, don't try, just…
just allow your mind to soften… lose your focus. Close your eyes…
allow the wisps and eddy of your dreams to flow.
"Creation is a song, a song you heard, the Song of Shiva.
Remember?"
"Remember…"

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 The Song of Shiva
Legend has it that, a long time ago on Earth, all was in turmoil.
Misery, injustice and war afflicted all beings as the forces of
forgetfulness covered the whole planet in a veil of suffering and
greed. Human beings had forgotten who they were.
Those not caught in this amnesia, those who still remembered the
beauty of life, pondered what to do. The scale of the darkness was
so great, the lies so widespread, the inertia so thick and entrenched,
that they knew they did not have the power to deal with it-there was
just too much to handle.
In a flash of intuition, they collectively realized the only solution
was to evoke the Dance of Destruction once again, to destroy the
veils of illusion, to dispel the fog of ignorance. The time had come
for Earth to realign itself back to its natural Rhythm, to bring back
the music of the spheres that held the heavenly bodies, and our
bodies, in ecstatic harmony.
In this Realization, they asked Shiva, Lord of the Dance, to dance
once more, to revive and ignite the natural, rhythmic intelligence of
life, to dissolve the disjointed and dark forms of thought which man
had created.
In a huge sacred ceremony on top of the snowcapped and fabled
peak of Mt Meru, for twenty-eight days and twenty-eight nights, the
holy fires burned, fed by sacred herbs, rare flowers, oils, mantras
and the prayers of the world's greatest sages and lovers.
Lord Shiva could not fail to respond. Descending from his place in
the heavens, He arrived at the sacred convocation on the twenty-
eighth day at twilight, accompanied by a blazing aureole of golden
flames and sky blue light and thousands of ganas, his celestial
attendants. Space itself shimmered, morphed and curved to
accommodate His presence.

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 He smiled at the assembled throngs, moving his limbs gracefully,
slowly, to assume the gracious yet terrible Nataraja posture of
destruction, hands held aloft, limbs in perfect equipoise.
Enlightened beings, gods and sages watched on in awe.
They had heard of the Dance, but no one had ever seen it before.
Now was their chance. On bended knees and with hands held aloft
in prayer, they asked the unspeakable and thought the unthinkable.
Slowly at first, His many arms started to unfold and arc, weaving
and revealing patterns of unutterable beauty and awesome power,
forming the hand positions and mudras of the Tandava, the Dance
of Creation and Destruction. Gaining speed with each successive
gyrating pose, each whirl of the arms, each spin around his axis, the
air started to crackle and burn, fizzing in electric intensity.
The air crackled open, revealing fleeting glimpses of the blackness
of space and the stars as he whirled. Space too, then began to be rent
asunder, revealing the looming vastness of the void. Gasping, the
assembled sages collectively stood up to peer into the void.
Their vision was obscured by Shiva's magnificence. Emblazoned
in an iridescent cocoon of fire, radiating light, whirling faster and
faster, beyond the speed of light, beyond space, time and our
universe, he span so fast he became still.
In this singular moment, his wild movements were captured,
caught in freeze frame.
Shiva was Dancing on the broken, limp body of a prostrate dwarf
demon, looking up at him in fear and awe. The demon's face was
contorted into a frozen grimace of half-crazed glee and fear, his eyes
raw, red and bleeding. He was the embodiment of forgetfulness and
fear, amnesia incarnate.
Shiva gracefully flexed his foot up high into an arc, to smash
down and then crush him into myriads of atoms of incandescent
light.
The vast expanse of the void became fully illuminated for the first
time in millennia by this fire of all fires, in a single, infinite
moment. Lighting the match of pure consciousness again, all that
was dark, that was invisible just a second earlier, could now be seen.
Then, everything stopped.
The Thunder of Silence deafened all of creation.

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 In this moment of complete and total stillness, a Silence that only
occurs at the end of everything in the void, Shiva pounded furiously
on his hourglass drum, fourteen resounding beats in quick
succession, echoing throughout the empty vastness of space.
Spiraling out from the Silence, these pulses of raw, febrile,
creative power began to uncurl, unfold and unravel into sonic
shapes and luminescent letters of light woven together in intricately
exquisite matrices stretching far and wide; as far as the assembled
sage's eyes could see.
Hazy forms of cloud and colour caught in this sweep of heat
began to be discernible through the flickering mirage forming and
settling over the once empty reaches of space.
A new universe was born.
"Do you remember this?" she whispered.
"Yes. I was there, I made the plea to Shiva to destroy the last
wretched earth experiment. I did not have the authority to do so at
that time, which is why we had to wheel Shiva out from his Tantric
love chamber, where he had been making love for thousands of
years to do the job!"
"Good, good. So you remember it all then?" she inquired gently.
"Yes, I remember the Gift I was shown then." I stopped speaking
for a moment to delve more accurately into my recollections.
Yes. I could create by manipulating these vortex streams of sonic
shapes, glowing geometries and pulsing sounds. For sounds are
words, words create thoughts, thoughts create ideas, and ideas shape
and transform the world.
In essence, there is no thought without words, and words need an
alphabet of sound to make it understandable. All of this is what
gives us the holy grail of the human existence meaning.
The greatest artists find meaning in all things. They carve statues
from what is already hidden in the marble around them. The greatest
musicians see the musical forms already existing in the air around
them.
Everything is already here! It is just a matter of taking off the
blinds, veils and filters to see clearly, and hey, presto; it has always
been here! But this gift and ability, of creating through this matrix of
thought, sound and perception, is not what I am looking for now.

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 This is knowledge and power I already have, and have already
gifted to humans.
This I did, many millennia ago, by giving humans an ability to
learn faster than they had ever done before. It was I, Lucifer, who
gave humans the evolutionary leap that they so needed, to take them
from bumbling, ass licking primates into self-aware beings able to
think, learn and adapt.
Today they call this gift, mirror neurons.
Mirror neurons, a special part of the brain's creation that I am
most proud of, enable humans to imitate the movements and actions
of others. How many times have you imitated your teachers, leaders,
lovers, gurus, bosses, heroes and heroines, because you want to be
like them? How many times do you copy the mannerisms and
language of those you love, respect, admire?
Mirror neurons work through imitation. Anytime you watch
someone else doing something (or even beginning to do something),
a corresponding mirror neuron can fire in your brain, thereby
allowing you to 'read,' understand, and respond to another in an ever
increasing feedback loop.
In effect, mirror neurons place you in another person's mental
shoes, providing a basis for deeper understanding, 'mind reading'
empathy, and imitation learning. I am proud of this because a mirror
is what I provide, a mirror for others to see themselves.
Not the best of jobs mind you, but a job nonetheless.
Mirror neurons create a mirror for you to see who you are, and
perhaps what you fear and what you would like to be. What you do
not like, you project outward onto the mirror. What you do not like
about the world, all your fears, gets projected onto me. I have
sucked this up for untold millennia in a wealth of different names
and guises.
In the mirror, all that humans aspire to be, their desires, hopes and
fears, are revealed. An increase in the ability to use the mirror
neuron system, enabled humans to imitate, learn, absorb and
transmit information, and was the prime factor in the learning
explosion you quaintly call the great leap forward or the big bang in
human evolution.

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 But still, I know this, and it has been done. This memory of the
dance of destruction was only the beginning of another cycle of time
after the destruction of the previous universe, which led into the
present universe, and when this one dies, so it will begin again, on
and on ad infinitum.
This is just one of many cycles, but still not the untainted
beginning of all things.
No, the beginning of all things was further back, shrouded in the
dawns of time, deeply nestled in the furthest dream of all dreams.
It was this I had to travel into.
I had to remember my beginning to find my purpose.

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 The Beginning
Before the beginning, there was nothing.
Lengthways, sideways,
above and below,
left and right,
all was black,
unformed,
unimaginable vastness of nothing.
God dwelt within this breathing space of immensity.
Water was everywhere; there was no glimmer of dawn, no clarity,
no light.
And He began to speak, so that He might cease Being inactive.
"Darkness! Become a light possessing darkness!"
And at once, in The Vastness, a single point of light appeared.
Arcing and unfolding, two gracefully dancing circles arose,
separating and uniting at the same time.
In the living blackness, another form of Unity arose, one with the
vastness, but different.
I was born. I saw the perfection, and simultaneously saw
something was amiss. In the moment of that recognition, I obtained
the power to create.
So, I set myself to work.
I created two of everything; one was not enough. Why have one
when you can have two? Two for one, et voila! I set about creating
mirrors with gusto, something God found hilarious and bemusing at
the same time.
I created all manner of polarities out of my own burgeoning sexual
power, vigorously tugging my member to spew forth seed into the
vastness. I hooted and cackled into the emptiness as I spread forms
throughout the universe.

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 Perhaps the most hilarious trick I came up with, something I am
very proud of, is the reverse mirror trick. Simply put, if you reverse
what you see, you will find the truth. God liked that one too. In fact,
God likes everything, so much so that in each step of Creation, he
mightily proclaimed, "It is good!"
And… I remember God telling me one day, as Earth was created
out of clods of sopping matter and balls of brazen fire:
"Change does not occur without a catalyst. Freedom does not
come without an oppressor. This is your role, Beloved. The power of
choice will allow the greatest of my creations, the most wonderful of
all my handiworks-human beings-to create. When choosing
anything new, new possibilities open up for every other being in
creation!"
This has been my mantra, my raison d'être. And the choices that I
continually tempted, tested and provoked humans into making, I had
never thought to apply to myself, as I had never felt I had any
choice. Angels don't have choice, but humans do. Or so I thought.

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 The Lake of Sighs
"Another choice can be made, a new way of creating." She had
changed into an all-black hooded robe and black slippers, and was
walking towards me again with her purposeful stride.
"BUT, remember, mistakes happen as the first step to finding
truth. You will get something wrong today, tomorrow, and maybe
every day for the rest of your life. So will everybody you know.
"But you have a choice, when you have made a mistake, whether
you continue your error in terror, or make it your ally in getting
closer to the truth."
"But yes… hmm, it is not easy for you. The greatest things you
have to give to the world are the ones you have forgotten! Yes, this
is quite… hmmm…"
She wandered off to the side for a moment, mumbling to herself,
doing something with her hands. I sat there, still reeling from a
major part of my memory banks coming back online. I am a
creator!
She looked up at me and said, "OK. There is only one way to do
this, or so my Egyptian friends have told me. You will have to make
a detour and go to the underworld."
"The underworld? I thought I was already there! I thought that
was earth," I exclaimed.
"The earth is a zone of sorts, a dimension where the underworld
and heaven can co-exist. Maybe one day you will come to recognize
this. In the meantime," she laughed again in her sing-song way, "it is
time for you to venture to a place where you can see the movie of
your life, what you have done, or more precisely, what you have not
done.
"Come, let us travel there and see what delights are in store for
you!" she said joyfully.

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 Suddenly, the floor warped into a gaping, yawning mouth, which I
promptly slid down, spinning crazily. I was transported into
darkness. The first thing I felt was the cold sweat of stone
underneath my bare feet. I gazed around me. I was in the middle of
an enormous Hall, with colossal rough-hewn stone columns on
either side of me, seeming to stretch upwards into infinite blackness.
Flickering torches sat sentinel like on these eerily lit columns and
everywhere the shadows were alive, undulating, looming in and out
of the liquid darkness, appearing and disappearing.
My heart clenched tight and my breath became shallow, rasping
through the leering darkness as it pressed thickly down on me. The
blackness outside and the blackness in my heart felt the same, the
pressure was nauseating and sickening, stretching from balls to
bones. My heart grew heavier and heavier, until it felt like I was
carrying a bulging sack of steel in my chest.
If I didn't move, I was sure I would stay forever rooted in that
spot, becoming heavier and heavier like one of the stone columns
itself. I started to walk towards a dim, flickering glow in the
distance. Hope... hope for release started to rise in my breast.
Hope? Hope for... what? My god, is this how humans feel? Is this
how they live?
My shuffling steps echoed throughout the hall, as I clip-clopped
wearily, trudging forward towards the light of hope.
The light began to blaze ever more powerfully, and I could dimly
make out three figures. A flight of immaculately hewn golden steps
magically materialized in front of me, gradually morphing step by
step out of the blackness, leading me on.
As I mounted the shining stairs, I reached a pool of glistening
water. Fascinated, I peered into it closer. Half images, flickering
figures and misshapen memories swished in and out of its surface.
In one moment, I saw my face clearly, and recoiled sharply.
It was bent to one side, lolling haphazardly, and twisted on the
other, a grotesque caricature, distorted and disheveled. Pockmarked
holes pitted my face; sadness lined the creases of my eyes and
mouth. One of my eyes was missing, revealing a gaping black
socket.
My god, what has happened to me?

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Random documents with unrelated
content Scribd suggests to you:
 Made our noon halt opposite Scott’s Bluff, altogether the most
symmetrical in form and the most stupendous in size of any we
have seen. One of them is close in its resemblance to the dome of
the Capitol in Washington.

There is a pass through that is guarded on one side by Sugar Loaf

Rock, on the other by one that resembles a square house with an
observatory. It is certainly the most magnificent thing I ever saw.

In the National Wagon Road, a guidebook by W. Wadsworth based on

a trip of 1852, Scotts Bluff is one of the three major landmarks
described on the whole California Road: “Here is some of the most
beautiful and picturesque scenery upon the whole route.” Wadsworth
labels the Scotts Bluff of today as “Convent Rock.” In 1853 Frederick
Piercy made a remarkable sketch of the bluffs, with buffalo-hunters in
the foreground. He referred to these bluffs as “certainly the most
remarkable sight I have seen since I left England.”

30

THE OREGON TRAIL

 High-resolution Map

OREGON TRAIL
ST. JOSEPH
KANSAS CITY
MARYSVILLE
OGALLALA
LOWER CALIFORNIA CROSSING
JULESBURG
SCOTTS BLUFF
FORT LARAMIE
INDEPENDENCE ROCK
SWEETWATER
SOUTH PASS
FORT BRIDGER
SODA SPRINGS
FORT HALL
SNAKE RIVER
FORT BOISE
LA GRANDE
FORT WALLA WALLA
WHITMAN MISSION
COLUMBIA RIVER
THE DALLES
FORT VANCOUVER
OREGON CITY
ASTORIA
LEWIS AND CLARK
ST. LOUIS
MISSOURI RIVER
YELLOWSTONE RIVER
COLUMBIA RIVER
CALIFORNIA ROAD
SODA SPRINGS
HUMBOLDT RIVER
LAKE TAHOE
DONNER PASS
PLACERVILLE
SUTTERS FORT
SAN FRANCISCO
BOZEMAN TRAIL
FORT LARAMIE
 VIRGINIA CITY
MORMON TRAIL
NAUVOO
COUNCIL BLUFFS
OMAHA
GRAND ISLAND
FORT KEARNEY
...
FORT BRIDGER
SALT LAKE CITY
VIRGIN RIVER
(to LOS ANGELES)
SANTA FE TRAIL
ST. LOUIS
INDEPENDENCE
COUNCIL GROVE
BENT’S FORT
PURGATOIRE
CIMARRON CUT-OFF
SANTA FE
OLD SPANISH TRAIL
SANTA FE
VIRGIN RIVER
(to LOS ANGELES)
Note: For modern names not shown see your automobile maps.
APRIL 1958 NB 7007

32

THE OREGON TRAIL NEAR SCOTTS BLUFF

ROBIDOUX AND MITCHELL PASS ROUTES
 High-resolution Map

TO ASH HOLLOW
PUMPKIN CREEK
JAIL ROCK
COURTHOUSE ROCK 4100
NORTHPORT
BRIDGEPORT
CHIMNEY ROCK 4242
BAYARD
McGREW
CASTLE ROCK 4473
MINATARE
MELBETA
MITCHELL PASS
GERING 3902
SCOTTS BLUFF 4862
SCOTTSBLUFF
SOUTH BLUFF
Fort Mitchell
MITCHELL
SOUTH MITCHELL
MORRILL
ROBIDOUX PASS
WILD CAT HILLS
GERING VALLEY
HELVAS CANYON
Fort John American Fur Trading Post 1850-53
CARTER CANYON
Robidoux Second Trading Post 1850-51
Robidoux First Trading Post 1849-50
American Fur Co. First Post
VIEW TOWARDS LARAMIE PEAK
SIGNAL BUTTE 4563
BALD PEAK 4420
TO FORT LARAMIE, 50 MILES
Horse Creek Crossing
APRIL 1958 NM-SB-7009

The Celinda Himes diary of 1853, describing abandoned log

structures, indicates the occasional use of Robidoux Pass in later
years. The Helen Carpenter journal of 1856, freely quoted in Paden
Wake Of the Prairie Schooner, clearly describes the fork in the road
east of Scotts Bluff, but indicates that most people now took “the
river road” through Mitchell Pass. She vividly describes also the sheer
walls of Mitchell Pass, the excellent view to be had from the “summit”
of the pass, the many inscriptions in the clay (long since vanished),
and a soldier’s grave on the side of the bluff.

To summarize, Robidoux Pass, 8 miles west of monument

headquarters, was used by the Forty-niners and most of those who
preceded them, including the fur traders, the emigrants to Oregon,
Francis Parkman, Kearny’s Dragoons, and the regiment of mounted
riflemen under Maj. Winslow F. Sanderson who in 1849 rode to take
over Fort Laramie. Robidoux Pass has historical primacy as “the first
Scott’s Bluffs Pass.” On the other hand, “the second Scott’s Bluffs
Pass,” now known as Mitchell Pass, was used by 150,000 or more
emigrants, soldiers, and freighters of the 1850’s and 1860’s. And it
was also the scene of the overland stage, the Pony Express, and the
first transcontinental telegraph. Honors are about equally divided.

33
Gold Rush Trading Posts at Scotts Bluff

The big climax years for Robidoux Pass were 1849-51. A surprisingly
large number of emigrant journals for these years have survived and
most of them devote a lot of attention to (1) the magnificent scenery
of Scotts Bluff, (2) the unusually fine springs and ample firewood
here, (3) the view from the crest of the pass toward Laramie Peak
(then sometimes called “the Black Hills,” and frequently mistaken for
the Rocky Mountains), and (4) Robidoux’s log cabin blacksmith shop
and trading post, and its colorful inhabitants.

Again, recent research, involving journals, Government records, and

interviews with Indian descendants, has uncovered facts concerning
the Robidoux establishment which have long been wrapped in
obscurity. In 1849 emigrant J. Goldsborough Bruff noted “a cool clear
spring and brook” in the deep gulch around which the wagons had to
detour. “Close by is a group of Indian lodges and tents, surrounding a
log cabin, where you can buy whisky for $5 per gallon; and look at
the beautiful squaws, of the traders.”

Another illuminating description is that given by Captain Stansbury on

his westward trip of 1849:

34
SCOTTS BLUFF
NATIONAL MONUMENT
NEBRASKA APRIL 1958 NM-SB-7008

35

Robidoux’s second trading post at “Scott’s Bluffs.” Sketch

by Möllhausen, 1851.

... Three miles from the Chimney Rock, the road gradually leaves
the river for the purpose of passing behind Scott’s Bluff, a point
where a spur from the main ridge comes so close to the river as to
leave no room for the passage of teams. There was no water
between these two points, a distance of more than twenty miles,
and we were consequently obliged to go on until nine o’clock,
when we encamped at the bluff, on a small run near a delicious
spring, after having been in the saddle sixteen hours without food,
and travelled thirty-one and a-half miles. The march was a severe
one upon the animals, as they were in harness, after the noon halt,
for seven successive hours, without water. The afternoon was
oppressively hot, and the gnats and musquitoes almost
insufferable. There is a temporary blacksmith’s shop here,
established for the benefit of the emigrants, but especially for that
of the owner, who lives in an Indian lodge, and had erected a log
shanty by the roadside, in one end of which was the blacksmith’s
forge, and in the other a grog-shop and sort of grocery. The stock
of this establishment consisted principally of such articles as the
owner had purchased from the emigrants at a great sacrifice and
sold to others at as great a profit. Among other things, an excellent
double wagon was pointed out to me, which he had purchased for
seventy-five cents. The blacksmith’s shop was an equally profitable
concern; as, when the smith was indisposed to work himself, he
rented the use of shop and tools for the modest price of seventy-
five cents an hour, and it was not until after waiting for 36
several hours that I could get the privilege of shoeing two of
the horses, even at that price, the forge having been in constant
use by the emigrants. Scott’s Bluff, according to our measurement,
is five hundred and ninety-six miles from Fort Leavenworth, two
hundred and eighty-five from Fort Kearny, and fifty-one from Fort
Laramie.
 Historical objects from site of Robidoux’s trading post.
Collection in Oregon Trail Museum.

Others wryly note the shrewdness of this makeshift proprietor,

Robidoux. Various journalists refer to two or more “Frenchmen” and
their squaws, and an indefinite number of children. In 1850 James
Bennett found here “an encampment of near a 100 Sioux Indians”
(relatives, no doubt!). In 1851 Father De Smet, returning from the
Horse Creek Treaty Council, baptized Robidoux’s half-breed children.

In 1851, Robidoux, feeling somewhat overrun by the emigrant

hordes, retired to a secluded canyon about a mile southeast of the
original location. The appearance of this second trading post has
been providentially preserved in a sketch by the German traveler,
Frederick Möllhausen. The site of this post has been identified in
present Carter Canyon.

Who was Robidoux? Although all the facts are not fully established, it
appears that he was Joseph E. Robidoux, oldest son of the Joseph
Robidoux who founded St. Joseph, Mo.; and that the other
“Frenchman” seen there was his uncle, Antoine Robidoux, who earlier
achieved pioneering fame in Utah and California. The younger 37
Joseph is an elusive figure. He may well have been the
Robidoux who led the first American Fur Company contingent by
Scotts Bluff, in 1830, and who was seen at Fort Laramie in 1846 by
Parkman.

What became of Robidoux? Although reported to have died

accidentally at Scotts Bluff, no grave has been identified. There is
evidence that he returned to the Great Nemaha Indian Agency, in
northeastern Kansas, in the late fifties, and died there in obscurity.
There are many half-breed “Robidouxes” on Indian reservations in
South Dakota who have identified the Scotts Bluff Robidoux as their
ancestor.

Modern research has revealed another fact long lost sight of.
Robidoux’s trading post was not the only one in this neighborhood
during the gold rush. It has now been definitely established that, in
the summer of 1849, after they sold adobe-walled Fort John (Fort
Laramie) to the U. S. Government, officials of the American Fur
Company removed to Scotts Bluff. Contrary to a long-held erroneous
impression, their new post was not located near Mitchell Pass (there
never was a trading post near there); it was first located tentatively
in Robidoux Pass, within a few hundred yards of Robidoux’s
blacksmith shop. Then, for reasons which can only be surmised, it
was moved to a point 6 miles below Robidoux’s and 8 miles south of
Mitchell Pass, in present Helvas Canyon. In correspondence of the fur
company it was identified as “Fort John, Scott’s Bluffs.”

This post, being off the main trail, did not rate much notice by
travelers, compared with the attention given to Robidoux, but there
are occasional references. In 1850 James Bennett states that about 7
miles below Robidoux’s there was a trading post “3 miles to our left,
where we could see a herd of cattle grazing.” Sgt. Percival G. Lowe of
the Dragoons, in 1850, reports that “we turned south and camped
near a trading post belonging to Major Dripps.”
Andrew Drips, the “mountain man” who had guided De Smet up this
way in 1840, was later replaced by Joseph Papin of St. Louis, who
died and was buried here. His grave and the outlines of the second
“Fort John” have been identified. It is not known just when this place
was abandoned. However, when the main artery of traffic definitely
moved from Robidoux to Mitchell Pass, in 1852, “Fort John” and
Robidoux’s post both doubtless “withered on the vine,” in the manner
of a modern-day filling station which is by-passed by a new highway.

Collections of historical objects found on the surface of the sites of

Robidoux’s two posts and “Fort John, Scott’s Bluffs” are preserved in
the Oregon Trail Museum. Beads, pendants, danglers, belts, buttons,
medallions, coins, traps, bar lead, bullet molds, and other objects
testify to the variety of activities conducted at these stations.
Although long consigned to oblivion, these primitive commercial
establishments were the true beginnings of private enterprise in the
Scotts Bluff area.

38
Coming of the Bullwhackers

The Grattan massacre of 1854 and retaliation by Harney’s forces in

1855 were prologues to the inevitable showdown with the Plains
Indians discussed later. New posts were built, garrisons were
strengthened, and expeditions were launched. In 1857 troops had to
be sent to Utah to quell the rebellious Mormons; at the same time
the Cheyennes staged an outbreak. It became necessary for the
Government to move huge quantities of equipment and provisions
westward up the Platte Valley, and the freighting contractors came
into the picture. Notable among these was the firm of Russell,
Majors, and Waddell of Kansas City (old Westport).

The army freight moved in huge Conestoga wagons drawn by 6 to 8

teams of oxen. A new profession arose known as “bullwhacker” and
we can well imagine the bedlam that accompanied the passage of a
“bulltrain” or the process of yoking up the bellowing animals in the
morning after the nightly encampment in the wagon compound. The
experience of taking a bulltrain through Mitchell Pass is vividly
described by T. S. Kenderdine in 1858:

Passing over a dreary country, which barely furnished enough of

grass for our famished animals, we arrived at Scott’s Bluffs on the
afternoon of the 25th. This is a bold escarpment of sand and clay,
about a half a mile in length and near a thousand feet in height,
extending southward from the river and rising like a gigantic barrier
to obstruct our way. It was for a long time visible, and at a
distance seemed impossible to be surmounted. The road forks
before we reach the bluffs, one trail passing around its southern
end and re-joining the main road at some distance beyond it, the
other passing directly over its summit. The latter is the worse road
of the two, but it being the shorter, we chose it. We were detained
 some time at the foot of the bluff by the breaking of one of our
wagons, but we at last got under way, and commenced our
toilsome journey over it. The ascent was easy and gradual, until we
came to a deep gorge, which intersected our road at the foot of
the main bluff. Crossing this at the imminent risk of being run over
by the teams as they plunged headlong to the bottom, we came to
a series of steep hills and narrow, deep and sandy defiles, through
which there was barely room for a wagon to pass. So squarely
hewn were some of these passes, that one could hardly believe
that art had not a hand in their formation. After a vast deal of
exertion we at last reached the summit, when we commenced the
still more dangerous descent. Tumbling pell-mell down narrow
passages, slowly crawling over abrupt ascents, we at length
reached the bottom, and in two miles struck the river and
encamped, but not till long after dark.

In 1857, the year of the Utah War, there was quite a crop of Scotts
Bluff enthusiasts. Cornelius Conway, a freighter with the Utah
Expedition, went into raptures over the scenery. He refers to Mitchell
Pass as “Devil’s Gap,” because of its tortuous passage. Capt. Jesse A.
Gove tells of passing through “the celebrated Scott’s Bluff, a cut of
some 7 miles from the old road.” Being rear guard, he had time 39
to “sketch the notch.” In 1857, according to Capt. Randolph
Marcy’s guidebook, The Prairie Traveller, from the pass “the road
descends the mountain, at the foot of which is the Platte and a mail
station.”
 Freighters at Independence Rock. Original sketch in
Oregon Trail Museum.

William A. Carter, civilian trader bound for Fort Bridger with a U. S.

Army contingent, noted the “gigantic mass” of Scotts Bluff, which
split the trail. The old road to the left was taken by the troops, but
Carter himself was advised

... to take the straight forward road leading through the chain of
Bluffs and descending by a nearer rout to the Platt again. This, we
afterwards regretted as we got through the pass with great
difficulty—we found a large freight [wagon] stopped in the pass,
the mud being very deep. The axle of one wagon was broken and
a dying ox lying crippled in the road—The bellowing of the Ox
which reverberated along the bluff—and the croaking of the
thousands of Ravens that were hovering over, had a gloomy and
ominous sound. This pass is truly a wonder. The bluffs here form a
semi circle and on each side rise up into huge towers which make
the head dizzy to look up at. The passage through is level, but has
been cut into deep ravines by the torrents which run down the
sides of the Bluffs.

The mystic spell that Scotts Bluff seemed to weave about early
travelers continued unbroken during the following decade. Perhaps
the high point in romantic imagination was reached in 1860 by the
English adventurer, Richard Burton:

... In the dull uniformity of the prairies, it is a striking and attractive

object, far excelling the castled crag of Drachenfels or any of the
beauties of romantic Rhine.... As you approach within four or five
miles, a massive medieval city gradually defines itself, clustering,
with a wonderful fullness of detail, round a colossal fortress, and
crowned with a royal castle.... At a nearer aspect again, the 40
quaint illusion vanishes. The lines of masonry become yellow
layers of boulder and pebble imbedded in a mass of stiff, tamped,
bald, marly clay; the curtains and angles change to the gashings of
the rain of ages, and the warriors are metamorphosed into dwarf
cedars and dense shrubs, scattered singly over the surface....

William H. Jackson painting of bull train in Mitchell Pass

based on original sketch of 1866.
The Sioux uprising of the 1860’s kept pleasure travel to a minimum,
but even U. S. soldiers, intent on hammering the redskins, gave
pause to express wonder at “the Gibraltar of the Plains.” For the first
time we have evidence of travelers clambering up the sloping side to
the summit of the bluff, to survey the countryside. In 1862
Burlingame described the view as “a scene seldom vouchsafed to
mortals.” The following year A. B. Ostrander, a drummer boy with the
volunteer infantry, laboriously scaled the cliffs, then scrambled hastily
down again to catch up with his regiment when he thought he saw
Indians.

Also in 1863 Benjamin M. Connor made note of the wind wailing

dismally through the gap, which he erroneously called “Marshall’s
Pass, for a captain of my company.” Guide Jim Bridger, who had been
one of the first white men to see Scotts Bluff, back in the 1820’s, told
Connor that the bluff “was named for a man who saved his life from
pursuing Indians by taking refuge in the cliffs.” Bridger, who had been
an associate of Hiram Scott, must have known better.

41

“Yoking Up.” From original sketch by William H. Jackson.

Scotts Bluff—The Artistic Record

The last noteworthy Oregon Trail journalist was a young

“bullwhacker” of 1866 named William H. Jackson, who was destined
to become the “living link” between Scotts Bluff National Monument
and its historic past. When he came to Mitchell Pass he found the
going tough. He reports that “we had one of the steepest and worst
gulches to drive through that we have yet had.” His outfit camped
just west of the pass. Finding no spring in the vicinity, someone had
to go 3 miles to the river for water. Young Jackson, a man of notable
artistic talent, stopped to sketch the pass. Today, nearly a century
later, his original sketch of Mitchell Pass, together with dozens of his
other original Oregon Trail sketches and paintings, hang in the
William H. Jackson Room of the Oregon Trail Museum.

William H. Jackson achieved fame as the “Pioneer Photographer” of

the Rocky Mountain West, being the first to make a photographic
record of Yellowstone geysers, the Teton Mountains, and many other
scenic wonders now preserved in National Parks. In 1936, at the age
of 93, he accepted an invitation to make the dedication speech for
the history wing of the new museum-administration building. In 1938
on a visit here he staked out his 1866 campsite, which is now
identified by a trailside marker. After his death in 1943 the American
Pioneer Trails Association donated many of Jackson’s original
sketches and later watercolors to the National Park Service, while
Julius F. Stone donated $10,000 as the nucleus of a fund to build a
Jackson Memorial Room. The building fund was supplemented 42
by public contributions and the completed wing was dedicated
in 1949.

The A. J. Miller sketch of 1837 and the Jackson sketch of 1866, the
earliest and the latest known pictures of Scotts Bluff made during
Oregon Trail days, are the best known today. The Piercy sketch of
1853, above noted, has been rather widely reprinted. Other authentic
contemporary drawings are found only in obscure or rare out-of-print
guidebooks or journals. Noteworthy among these are those of David
Leeper in 1849, Benjamin Ferris in 1854, Cornelius Conway in 1857,
T. S. Kenderdine in 1858, Richard Burton in 1860, and Alfred
Lambourne, date uncertain.
Pony Express to Iron Horse, 1860-69

The California gold rush had not yet abated when strikes of precious
metals were made in Nevada and Colorado (1858-59), later in
Montana and Idaho (1864). The result was a ramification of the old
Oregon-California Trail, with major branches up the South Platte to
Denver, and from Fort Laramie northward along the Bighorn
Mountains to Virginia City, Mont. (the Bozeman Trail). The new
mining communities added their demands to those of Utah and
California for improved communication with the States. In the fifties
and sixties Scotts Bluff witnessed dramatic changes.

The first mail service up the Platte route was inaugurated by the
Mormons; after the army occupied Fort Laramie, military dispatches
were carried on regular schedules to Eastern command posts. Public
mail service to California began in 1851. By 1860 the Central
Overland and Pike’s Peak Express Company held a monopoly on mail
contracts between the Missouri and the Pacific.

No frontier institution better dramatizes the spirit of American

enterprise than the famed Pony Express, fast biweekly mail service.
From April 1860 to October 1861 youthful riders on fleet mustangs
pounded between St. Joseph, Mo., and Hangtown (Placerville), Calif.,
braving the elements and Indian dangers. William Russell of the
freighting firm was the promoter of the Pony Express. Although
financially disastrous, it demonstrated the need for Government mail
subsidies.

43
View southeast from summit of Scotts Bluff to Dome Rock.
Gering Valley (Robidoux Pass Route) in background.
Scotts Bluff from the Mormon Trail. Courtesy, Downey’s
Midwest Studio, Scottsbluff, Nebr.

44
 Changing mounts at Pony Express Station. Original sketch
in Oregon Trail Museum.

Pony Express stations were about 15 miles apart and each rider made
up to 100 miles at a time, changing to fresh ponies at each station.
Stations in the Scotts Bluff vicinity were at Chimney Rock, near
present Melbeta (the Scotts Bluff Station at Ficklin Spring, named for
a company official), and at Horse Creek. The Scotts Bluff Station,
made of massive adobe walls, later became the Mark Coad Ranch.
The thrill of watching a Pony Express rider gallop past is vividly
described in Roughing It by Mark Twain, who was a stagecoach
passenger bound for Nevada. The incident took place just east of the
pass at Scotts Bluff.

We had had a consuming desire, from the beginning, to see a

pony-rider, but somehow or other all that passed us and all that
met us managed to streak by in the night, and so we heard only a
whiz and a hail, and the swift phantom of the desert was gone
before we could get our heads out of the windows. But now we
were expecting one along every moment, and would see him in
broad daylight. Presently the driver exclaims:
 “HERE HE COMES!”

Every neck is stretched further, and every eye strained wider. Away
across the endless dead level of the prairie a black speck appears
against the sky, and it is plain that it moves. Well, I should think
so! In a second or two it becomes a horse and rider, rising and
falling, rising and falling—sweeping toward us nearer and nearer—
growing more and more distinct, more and more sharply defined—
nearer and still nearer, and the flutter of the hoofs comes faintly to
the ear—another instant a whoop and a hurrah from our upper
deck, a wave of the rider’s hand, but no reply, and man and horse
burst past our excited faces, and go swinging away like a belated
fragment of a storm!

The first transcontinental telegraph line, up the Platte route through

Mitchell Pass, ended the meteoric Pony Express. In 1860 Edward
Creighton of the Pacific Telegraph Company had reconnoitered the
Oregon Trail via Mitchell Pass. The active construction of the line took
but a few months, in 1861, and in October telegrams were going to
California. Service in the early days was hampered by Indians, 45
suspicious of the “singing wires,” who frequently burned down
the poles. There was an early telegraph station at Fort Mitchell, at the
foot of Scotts Bluff.

In 1861, Russell, Majors, and Waddell subcontracted with the

Butterfield Overland Mail Company to operate overland stage and
mail service over the Central Route (moved up from the Southwest
because of the imminent Civil War). There was daily coach service to
California via Scotts Bluff until 1862, when Indian troubles required
the new operator, Benjamin Holladay, to transfer the route
southward, via Lodgepole Creek and Elk Mountain. The days of the
famed Concord stage in the Scotts Bluff area were short lived.
 Pony Express rider and the advancing telegraph. Original
sketch in Oregon Trail Museum.

As the telegraph made the Pony Express obsolete, so the railroad

spelled the doom of the stagecoach and the prairie schooner. The
easy gradient over the Continental Divide at South Pass was the
geographic reason for the centrally located Oregon Trail. However,
political rather than geographic reasons dictated the central location
of the first transcontinental railroad. During the 1850’s there were
many “Pacific Railroad Surveys” which did much to fill in the blank
pages of Western topography, but none of these touched the North
Platte. At the outbreak of the Civil War, President Lincoln decided that
a central overland railroad would strengthen the ties of the 46
Union. It was in August 1865, however, before the seasoned
engineer and Indian fighter, Gen. Grenville M. Dodge, made his
reconnaissance for the future Union Pacific Railroad. Although the
route finally selected followed Lodgepole Creek to Cheyenne Pass,
the general did examine the North Platte, pausing to sketch Mitchell
Pass on August 27. The “iron horse” reached Cheyenne in 1867, and
joined the Central Pacific with due ceremony at Promontory Point,
Utah, May 10, 1869. This date can be accepted as marking the end of
the historic Oregon-California Trail.
Warfare on the Plains

In the early 1860’s the mounted eagle-plumed warriors of the plains,

including the Sioux and Cheyenne, went on the warpath. Scotts Bluff
looked down upon many exciting scenes of conflict.

During the days of the trapper and the emigrant, the Indian had been
generally peaceful, despite occasional pilferings and “greenhorn”
alarms. Indeed, many white traders, such as Robidoux, had freely
intermarried with the Indians. The migration of 1849, giving evidence
of the white man’s strength, coupled with his wanton slaughter of the
life-giving buffalo, caused some uneasiness among the tribes. In
October 1850, Col. E. V. Sumner with a company of mounted infantry
en route to Fort Laramie met and counseled with one band of Sioux
at Scotts Bluff. They, like their red brethren throughout the plains,
were full of complaints. To quiet them, old mountain man Thomas
Fitzpatrick, Indian agent for the Upper Platte, engineered the
greatest Indian peace council ever held on the Plains. This was at
Horse Creek, a few miles west of Scotts Bluff.

In September 1851 around 10,000 Indians from the tribes of the

Sioux, Cheyenne, Arapaho, Crow, Snake, Ree, Gros Ventre, and
Assiniboin assembled at Fort Laramie. The U. S. Government was
represented by Fitzpatrick; the famed missionary, Father De Smet;
Robert Campbell (one of the founders of Fort Laramie); and D. D.
Mitchell, superintendent of Indian Affairs at St. Louis. Jim Bridger and
other oldtimers showed up to help keep peace among traditional
enemies. Because there was not grass enough for the horses of this
vast assemblage, the council moved downriver. It was an historic
occasion with much colorful pageantry. The negotiations went
smoothly, and by “the First Treaty of Fort Laramie” the Indians
promised to permit peaceful passage of travelers through their
domain in exchange for an annuity of $50,000 in provisions and trade
goods.

This peace treaty, like so many others, was soon broken. In August
1854 a misunderstanding between an Oglala Sioux and a Mormon
emigrant, compounded by the inexperience of Lt. John L. Grattan
from Fort Laramie, led to the massacre of Grattan, 30 soldiers, 47
and his interpreter 8 miles east of Fort Laramie. This was
“avenged” in September 1855 by the slaughter of innocent Brule
Indians by an expeditionary force under Gen. William S. Harney, near
Ash Hollow. En route to Fort Laramie, the cavalrymen trooped
through Mitchell Pass with over 200 fresh Indian scalps in their
baggage.
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