The void of time fills up with occasions bright,
Each grasping, feeling, yearning into form;
The universe—a symphony of light
Where past and future meet in endless storm.

So Whitehead taught: reality’s not clay,
But living moments born and passed away.

The actual world—a tapestry unfurled
Of prehended moments, gathered whole;
Each subject weaves the threads of what has swirled
Into new patterns as the cosmos rolls.

No static substance underlying all,
But drops of experience, self-creating;
Each moment rises, answers to the call,
Then perishes, its being still vibrating.

The great philosopher's vision clear and bold:
Reality is not of things, but acts;
Each ‘now’ contains what every ‘then’ has told—
A living process, not just lifeless facts.

The past is not just gone, but flows within
Each nascent moment, ready to begin.

Beyond the veil of common sense’s reach,
Lies truth more fluid than our words contain;
Each entity, like waves upon the beach,
Is but a ripple in experience’s chain.

The Poet’s primordial vision guides
Each occasion toward its best becoming;
The lure of beauty where all truth resides—
Eternal objects, endlessly oncoming.

The universe is not a clockwork cold,
But living feeling, sentient at its core;
Each quantum flash of being, brave and bold,
Creates itself, then passes through death’s door.

So Whitehead saw beyond the ancient rift—
As moments bloom and die, existence shifts.

Each moment blooms, a pulse in Time’s great sea,
Not things, but acts—events that come to be.
From drop to drop the cosmos takes its shape,
A dance of mind and matter, wild and free.

No static stone, no idle, lifeless clod—
But process moves beneath the soil and sod.
Each flash of being, brief as morning dew,
Is real as stars, is kissed by thought not odd.

These “occasions” rise with feeling at their core,
They prehend the past, yet seek a little more.
Each grasps the world, then yields itself in turn,
A spark that fades, but opens up the door.

They form a web, these nodes of sentient flare,
The past flows in, the future stirs the air.
Reality’s not built of blocks and beams,
But woven through with feeling, time, and care.

The world’s not made, but making ever still,
With every act a push against the will.
No fate is fixed, no god is locked above—
Creation wakes in each occasion’s thrill.

So sip this cup—each moment brims with wine,
Distilled from all that was, in grand design.
A drop contains the cosmos in its fold,
And flickers out, yet calls the next to shine.

The world becomes, it never merely is,
A flux of feeling, not a world of fizz.
No atom sits alone in timeless gloom—
It feels, it yearns, it tells us what it does.

Each moment’s born from many come before,
It draws their echo, adds a little more.
Then perishes, a whisper in the dark—
Yet leaves a trace no future can ignore.

Subject becomes object, tossed in the stream,
Each plays its part within the larger scheme.
No soul stands still, no world remains the same—
All shift and shape as in a woven dream.

From Poet’s lure to matter’s smallest twitch,
Each moment leans toward depths we cannot pitch.
Reality’s a poem never done—
Penned not in stone, but in becoming’s witch.

Not being, but becoming—this we are,
More like a flame than like a fallen star.
We flicker, burn, and pass our light along—
Each life a note in Time’s unending bar.

So here we dance, occasion upon flame,
Each flicker formed with joy, regret, or shame.
Yet in the forming lies the sacred spark—
A fleeting self that bears eternal name.

The stars themselves are thoughts that came to be,
Each nova sings in process, not decree.
A galaxy’s a rhythm, not a rock—
It hums with ancient acts of poetry.

Each quark, each pulse, each curve of stellar flare,
Responds to past and feels the future’s air.
The cosmos is a mind that builds itself—
A scaffold strung with intuition’s care.

No vast machine with cold and mindless gears—
But swirls of yearning shaped by hope and fears.
A thousand billion hearts in every sphere,
All whispering their stories through the years.

The past is real, but not a prison cell,
Its echoes guide, but do not bind or quell.
Each moment holds the power to re-form
The curve of time, the place where starlight fell.

From primal flux to now, the arc has bent—
Not by command, but lure and deep intent.
A One who woos, not rules, the world to grow—
Each choice a note in Love’s great instrument.

So let the comet blaze and atoms spin,
Each dance of dust a tale that dwells within.
No void is empty—everywhere there burns
A silent hymn of process born in din.

Creation is not done—it is the song,
Each verse a shift, each rhyme both right and wrong.
We are the singers, listeners, and score—
The universe becoming all along.

And when one thought has flickered through the mind,
More brain-realms answer, leaving none behind;
Thus contemplation’s thread unwinds its spool,
Each moment to the next forever twined.

(The Greatest Stitcher; no seams)

Behold its nature’s aspects five unfold:
Compositional structures manifold,
Intrinsic as our own, Informing clear,
Integrated, Exclusive in its hold.

(The whole darn operation)

United feels this field of conscious thought,
Though scattered be the brain-realms where it’s wrought;
The qualia of sense-experience shine,
While seamless flows the change that time has brought.

(Perfect Unity!)

How can this ghost of thought move flesh and bone,
When neural deed is done and verdict known
Before awareness breaks upon our shore?
The answer in time’s sequence lies alone.

(Nah, it doesn’t; the brain does it)

Yet Consciousness brings gifts beyond mere scheme
Of reflex-action’s automatic stream:
Flexibility to shape reaction’s course,
And Focus sharp on what we vital deem.

(Exclusion)

It grants Evaluation’s weighted scale,
Where logic, feeling, neither can quite fail;
For Survival it opens pathways new,
Where Complex choices might yet prevail.

(Evaluation)

Through Learning’s endless combinations bright,
We weave perception’s threads in fresh delight;
Discrimination’s finest differences show
Which fruits bring health, which hold destruction’s bite.

(The will is dynamic)

In Evolution’s grand unfolding play,
It spurred the Cambrian dawn of nature’s way;
Made predators grow keen in cunning’s art,
While prey found newer paths from day to day.

(The explosion)

See Beauty bloom in flower’s painted face,
As plants evolved their pollinator’s grace;
While minds could ponder action’s consequence
Before commitment to time’s embrace.

(Actionizing)

Reality stands firm beyond our sight,
Our senses taking in its waves of light;
The Brain paints useful faces on these waves—
Makes color from mere frequency’s delight.

(Just three proteins in the eye rotate according to
the amount of the three primary colors)

When drugs or sleep or trauma’s sudden blow
Disturb the brain, consciousness sinks below;
Change neural paths, and mind must follow suit—
For only from the brain can awareness flow.

(Consciousness is a brain process reflected)

We often miss the sea in which we swim,
Mistaking thought-stream’s contents, fleeting-dim,
For consciousness itself that bears them all,
Like water bearing leaves on ocean’s rim.

(The Sea in which we See)

Behold Consciousness in all its parts,
How structured layers form from scattered starts;
Each distinction clear as mountain streams,
Yet flowing to one sea of human arts.

(Distinction par excellance!)

First mark how Composition builds its throne
From many elements, not one alone;
Like letters forming words, then sentences,
Till meaning rises from the parts well-shown.

(A kind of consciousness’ alphabet unto literature)

As bricks and mortar rise to mansion fair,
So consciousness builds castles in the air;
Each phenomenal distinction placed
With architect’s precision, layer by layer.

(What a filmmaker!)

Intrinsic next, as personal as breath,
As intimate as life, as close as death;
No borrowing this sense of ‘only mine’,
This ownership no other self can theft.

(Yours alone)

Independent it stands, yet bound within,
Like sovereignty that needs no foreign kin;
A kingdom of the self, complete and whole,
Where every thought knows where it should begin.

(King of the World)

Then Information flows, precise and clear,
Each detail rendered faithfully sincere;
No vague approximations cloud this lens,
Each particle of thought crystal-clear.

(Extreme clarity)

Particular and specific it stays,
No general musings cloud its focused gaze;
Like archer’s arrow seeking only one
Sweet target through perception’s misty haze.

(Focused)

Integration weaves its seamless whole
From scattered threads of being’s varied scroll;
Though brain-regions far and wide contribute,
One unified experience is their goal.

(All for one)

No longer can this wholeness be reduced
To simpler parts, once unity’s produced;
Like water from its elements combined,
A new thing altogether is induced.

(True emergence? Or Fundamental?)

Exclusivity sets boundaries clean:
No more, no less than what is truly seen;
Each conscious moment perfectly defined,
No fuzzy edges blur what contents mean.

(Nothing extra)

See how Mental Unity holds its ground,
Though neural sources scatter all around;
Like many instruments in symphony,
Creating one magnificent sound.

(The Magnificat!)

The brain’s divided regions all conspire
To forge one field of consciousness entire;
Though specialists in different corners toil,
One unified experience they inspire.

(What a symphony!)

Then Qualia paint their colors rich and strange,
The felt-sense qualities that ever range
From red of rose to taste of morning dew,
As consciousness gives meaning to each change.

(Physical neurological to experiential qualia)

These qualities that only minds can know—
The sunset’s beauty, coffee’s warming glow—
Are consciousness’s artist’s palette pure,
From which all lived experience must flow.

(All one ever encounters is the inside of the head)

Continuity then stitches time’s swift stream
Into one flowing, ever-changing dream;
Though moments pass like birds across the sky,
Their passage forms one motion, or would seem.

(A great video editor)

No gaps appear within this seamless flow,
Though consciousness must come and sometimes go;
Like movie frames run swift before our eyes,
Create illusion of continuous show.

(Very high sight resolution, at least in the center)

Each aspect thus contributes to the whole
Of consciousness’s grand, mysterious role:
Compositional, Intrinsic, Informed,
Integrated, Exclusive in its soul.

(Therein lies it nature)

Together these create the mirror bright
In which the world reveals itself to sight;
Though physics charts the cosmos vast and deep,
Consciousness alone can hold its light.

(Ah, light within a dark head)

The brain translates raw reality’s face
To sound and color, taste, and touch’s grace;
Consciousness mirrors brain-activity,
As neural patterns weave through time and space.

(It paints a better more useful face)

From nerve to spine to brain’s encrypted code,
Consciousness threads throughout its whole abode;
A way to act within imagination,
Before committing to action’s road.

(From the nerve spindles everywhere…)

While Physics charts external cause and rule,
Consciousness exists as nature’s jewel:
Intrinsic, whole, composed of many parts,
Yet unified beyond reduction’s tool.

(Seems irreducible, perhaps fundamental)

It serves distinction’s evolutionary need,
Though causing naught save in its own thought-deed,
For being, not for doing, is its realm,
While intelligence guides action’s seed.

(It appears to exist only for itself)

The posterior cortex holds the key,
For only here must consciousness still be;
With feedback loops that bind the fragments whole,
Creating unity that lets us see.

(Feedback ‘magic’)

This wholeness forms consciousness direct and clear,
A process fundamental, nature’s peer;
Or else it speaks the brain’s symbolic tongue,
Translating neural code to meaning near.

(Are qualia the language of the mind?)

This Whole speaks outward, sharing mind with mind,
While brain-states learn what consciousness designed;
So subconscious regions can then know
The unified awareness thus defined.

(A global broadcast?)

The brain’s grand theatre stages its display,
While consciousness arrives too late to sway
The plot already written, yet feels real—
Director of a film from yesterday.

(Seems to be happening live)

And thus we end where first our tale began:
In brain’s deep halls where consciousness first ran,
A process bound in flesh, yet seeming free,
Reflecting on itself since we began.

(Consciousness evolved)

Consider now Time’s arrow and its flight:
How consciousness lags reality’s height;
While neural networks race beneath our view,
We float upon their wake in conscious light.

(Skiing like)

Each moment that we think we’re choosing new
Has already been settled through and through;
The brain decided ere we knew to choose,
Our feeling of free will a time-skewed clue.

(The fixed will of the instant)

Like ripples spreading on a neural pond,
Each thought-wave touches shores that lie beyond;
The conscious mind may claim to rule alone,
Yet unconscious depths hold wisdom’s bond.

(In the repertoire)

In dreams we glimpse this truth most clear of all,
When consciousness lets its firm barriers fall;
The hidden brain spins tales we think we guide,
While neural pattern-makers weave our thrall.

(As well was from brain ‘noise’)

Mark how the senses each their tale relate:
Sight, sound, and touch combine to integrate;
Yet consciousness binds all to unity,
Though scattered brain-realms must collaborate.

(The orchestra plays as one)

What seems a single stream of thought sublime
Is orchestra of brain-realms keeping time;
Each player adds its note to consciousness,
Till harmony emerges from their chime.

(Conducting itself like a band)

When damage strikes some portion of the brain,
See how consciousness shifts its domain;
Like water finding new paths to the sea,
Neural plasticity rebuilds again.

(Consciousness directly reflects the brain)

In meditation’s deep and centered space,
We sometimes catch consciousness face-to-face;
The watcher and the watched at last revealed
As brain-processes moving through their grace.

(Remove thoughts; meditation is not what you think!)

Each qualia—each taste of wine or tea,
Each sunset’s glow, each song’s sweet melody—
Emerges from the brain’s translation true
Of raw reality we cannot see.

(Phenomena from Noumena)

The hardest problem still remains unsolved:
How neural fire to conscious thought evolved;
What bridge connects the objective brain
With subjective experience resolved?

(The Hard Problem)

Perhaps we seek a ghost that never was,
Questioning consciousness and all its laws;
When brain-process and awareness merge as one,
The mystery dissolves without a cause.

(Basic property?)

Yet still we feel the weight of being here,
Of knowing that we know, of thinking clear;
Though consciousness arrives a moment late,
Its presence makes our human nature dear.

(Second level view of first level thought)

When Memory opens up its golden door,
Consciousness weaves past moments as before;
Yet what we think we purely recollect
Is reconstruction from the neural store.

(Prions hold memory stable, yet it can fade/change)

Each reminiscence that we hold so true
Is fabricated, mixed, and born anew;
The brain invents to fill each memory’s gaps,
While consciousness presents the seamless view.

(Can change from being accessed)

In Sleep’s dark realm, see consciousness transform,
As neural patterns shift from waking norm;
Dreams rise like bubbles from the depths below,
While reason’s captain sleeps amid the storm.

(The brain is not fully functioning)

The Child’s mind shows consciousness unfold,
As neural networks worth their weight in gold
Build representations ever more complex,
Till self-awareness blooms from patterns old.

(Linear details scanned; overall view done in parallel)

Mark how Attention’s spotlight roams the stage,
Selecting what consciousness will engage;
While countless neural processes compete,
One winner claims the mind’s illumined page.

(Many simpleton ‘minds’ competing for attention)

The Social Brain evolved this conscious art
To model others’ minds and take their part;
Through consciousness we simulate their thoughts,
And navigate the human heart.

(Empathy)

Some say the Self is but a useful tale
That consciousness spins like a ship’s bright sail;
A story that the brain tells to itself,
To chart a course through life’s tempestuous gale.

(Having future is foremost: as survival)

When altered states through drug or trance descend,
See how reality and dreamtime blend;
As neural patterns shift their normal course,
Consciousness follows where these changes tend.

(Faithful mirror of the brain)

The Language centers weave their grammar’s spell,
Creating inner voices that can tell
The stories of our consciousness stream,
Though deeper currents run beneath the well.

(The currents’ result appears as being current)

Consider how Decision’s moment flows:
The brain computes before awareness knows;
Yet consciousness can help set parameters
By which subconscious wisdom makes its shows.

(More, as meaning rumination)

Like fractals building patterns ever new,
Each conscious moment holds a nested view;
The brain creates complexity from simple rules,
As awareness emerges from the crew.

(But a very complex process)

In Evolution’s laboratory vast,
Consciousness proved its worth in ages past;
For those who could model future scenes
Found better paths than those who moved too fast.

(Good, but reactive people may need to slow down)

The Mirror test reveals the self-aware,
As consciousness learns itself to declare;
Yet even this awareness comes too late,
The brain already knowing who is there.

(Only ever the just past is shown; no present)

Some philosophers would consciousness deny,
Call it illusion, or a useful lie;
But process needs no substance to be real—
Ask any wave that moves beneath the sky.

(Daniel Dennett)

The Mystery remains, yet science shows
How brain-process to conscious knowing flows;
Each year we map more territories true
Of how awareness comes and goes.

(Soon, others can read your mind)

Perhaps no final answer we shall find
To bridge the gap ‘tween matter and the mind;
Yet in the seeking lies our nature’s crown:
Consciousness studying its own kind.

(Information is dual as both matter and mind?)

When Artificial Minds begin to rise,
Will consciousness emerge before our eyes?
Or will there only be a zombie’s dance,
Raw computation wearing thought’s disguise?

(Artificial Inteligence)

For how can we be certain what is felt
By other minds where consciousness has dwelt?
The hard problem doubles when we seek
To know if silicon can awareness melt.

(Functionalism)

In Meditation’s depths some masters claim
That consciousness transcends the mortal frame;
Yet every altered state that they describe
Still needs a brain to light awareness’ flame.

(Actually, quietude in ID center and body boundary)

The Quantum theorists would consciousness bind
To wave collapse and measurement combined;
Yet macro-scale coherence can’t survive
In neural warmth of any human mind.

(Need a brain freeze from eating ice cream)

Some see consciousness spread through all that is,
Pan-psychic dreams of universal bliss;
But process needs complexity to rise,
And rocks hold not the patterns consciousness miss.

(Electron thinks: which way should I go?)

When Artists shape new visions from the void,
Is consciousness the master they employed?
Or does it merely watch the neural dance
Of creativity otherwise deployed?

(Are we the dancer or the danced upon?)
(What should I do? The universe does you!)

The Moral sense that guides us right from wrong,
Does consciousness conduct that ancient song?
Or does it only witness what arose
From neural circuits judging all along?

(Nature and nurture)

Consider too how consciousness must grow
Through childhood’s dawn, as neural patterns flow;
Each year brings richer awareness to the mind,
As brain-complexity continues to show.

(Teen-age brains may show some temporary ‘insanity’)

Some species share consciousness with our kind,
While others leave awareness far behind;
The octopus thinks thoughts we cannot know,
While beetles march with simpler states assigned.

(Got to roll that dung!)

In Cultures spread across Earth’s fertile face,
Each finds in consciousness a different grace;
Some see it as the cosmic force divine,
While others mark its neural time and place.

(A soul?)

When Lovers meet and consciousness combines,
Do qualia cross over normal lines?
Or does each brain remain forever sealed,
While empathy suggests deeper designs?

(Yes)

The Future holds more mysteries in store,
As neuroscience opens door by door;
Will consciousness reveal its secrets all,
Or keep some riddles hidden evermore?

(All will be revealed in time)

When Brain-Computer Interfaces bloom,
Will consciousness expand beyond its room?
Or will it stay confined to brain-process,
While external aids play progress’s tune?

(We will become as Large Language models)

In Aging’s slow descent we sometimes find
That consciousness grows dim as neurons bind;
Yet wisdom often deepens with the years,
As if awareness grows more refined.

(The wise old man or woman)

The Social Web that links all human minds
Creates a meta-consciousness that binds;
Yet each brain holds its private theater still,
While sharing what the conscious mind assigns.

(Memes)

Perhaps in Time we’ll map the neural code
That gives rise to consciousness’ episode;
Yet knowing how may never tell us why
Awareness lights the brain’s abode.

(Quantum mental fields?)

Her craft now sank from heaven’s azure height,
While Michael raced through groves that dimmed his sight,
Till round a bend, the scene before him spread:
A mansion grand, in marble pure and bright.

Trish was dropping altitude now, and descending rapidly. He lost her for awhile, having had to race through a dense grove of trees that bordered close to the road. But when he came around a curve with a brief open view, there she was, softly landing in the center of a large estate, where there was a sizable stone mansion built in the European tradition.

Through garden paths his love did swiftly flee,
While sinking silk, like waves upon the sea,
Draped gently o’er the landing’s chosen ground,
And thoughts of Theory struggled to break free.

She leaped out of the balloon and ran for the garden.
Michael watched as Trish disappeared into the ornamental grounds that surrounded the mansion. Her hot-air balloon was gently and gracefully collapsing, slowly covering the ground around him.

Forget All Things, his heart sang wild and clear,
As balloon’s folds awoke him from his peer
At wealth’s domain that spread in splendor vast,
Where noble dreams seemed suddenly so near.

For some reason, he thought of ToeQuest and he had to fight hard to get it out of his mind. This is going to be a good weekend of forgetting Everything, he thought, as the balloon’s fabric fell onto him, waking him from his reverie of dilemma.
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The terraced grounds in perfect order lay,
Where marble walls rose proud in grand display,
And Michael stood between two worlds at last:
The quest for Truth, and Love’s more earthly way.

Looking around, he took in the richness of the estate and couldn’t help but translate it in his mind to a dollar figure. The grounds were perfectly terraced and landscaped. The mansion itself was made of pure marble, with stone and slate at the base. The world of nobility was just sitting there waiting for him to become a part of it.

Yet something strange hung in the silent air:
No guards, no souls to tend this mansion fair,
Till zap and buzz made Michael turn to see
Electric fence spring up without a care!

The whole place was more than magnificent! But something was not quite right. The grounds were empty; there were no security guards, no groundskeepers, and no servants; in fact, there were no signs of any life whatsoever. It seemed to be some sort of fortress of solitude, and this theory was confirmed when Michael heard a zap and a buzz. He quickly turned to see the heat shimmering near an electric security fence that had just snapped on behind him.

Saved or ensnared? His mind did briefly race,
Was Trish some madness in this lonely place?
But peace soon flowed like water through his veins:
Alone together in this fortress’ grace!

Briefly alarmed, he wondered whether he felt saved or trapped! Just what side of the fence was the enemy on? Could it be that Trish was some sort of emotional nut case? He soon relaxed, though, as he felt a wave of reassurance coming over him, for the force field could only mean that they were meant to be romantically alone and safe from intrusion!

The groundless grounds held secrets of their own,
Where modern botany had wisely grown
A maintenance-free carpet, emerald-deep,
And Michael saw how Trish could live alone.

It also neatly explained the absence of the security guards, for none were needed! Michael swung into action, for this was his middle name, a secret that even MI8 didn’t know.
As he ran toward the garden he noted that what he thought to be grass had actually turned out to be a ground cover that he knew to be self spreading, maintenance free, and dense enough to keep out the weeds, thus explaining the absence of any groundskeepers. This was indeed a very modern estate. Things were becoming clear to Michael’s finely tuned mind: Trish was some sort of a rich hermit, or something.

But lo! The garden held one challenge more:
A hedge maze spread its puzzle-walls before
Our hero’s path, a European jest
That trapped him in its green-leafed corridor.

The garden turned out to be a maze of high hedges, a popular European diversion. Michael was not very happy to see it, even though it was a work of art, because he had thought to have an easy conclusion to the day’s quest.

Like beast ensnared he paced the verdant walls,
While disorientation’s shadow falls,
His reckless charge through branching paths proclaimed
How love’s swift chase oft to confusion calls.

He attacked the maze rather recklessly, and just as quickly lost his way. He was soon totally disoriented and began to feel more and more like a trapped animal.

Through leafy gaps he spied his racing queen
By lakeside pier, in waiting pose serene,
While thoughts of steadier loves crossed his mind,
Yet speed’s wild charm held power still unseen.

Michael peered through a small opening between the bushes and was just able to catch a glimpse of Trish heading down to a large lake behind the mansion. She walked out on a pier towards a powerboat, then looked back and saw that he was nowhere in sight; so she, apparently, sat down near the boat to wait for him.
Michael remembered his analogy of women to cars; Trish was even faster than a sports car! She was an Indianapolis speed racer who was going to burn out her engine and probably not even finish the event! For a brief moment he wished for some station-wagon-like stability. But, boy, he thought, what an AUTO-biography he could write!

Through hedge-gap tight he boldly forced his way,
His flesh by thorns marked for love’s display,
When she, espying him, leapt quick to boat,
And called him to yet one more chase that day.

Michael could sense that Trish had even more adventures in mind, and this weighed on him slightly, making him bold enough to throw himself through the small gap in the hedges to surprise her, getting a number of minor scratches and scrapes in the process. Cool it, you’re losing it! Let her have her fun, for now.
Sure enough, as soon as she saw him coming she jumped straight into the motorboat and started the engine, all the time urging him on with the chase: “Hurry up, Michael! Come quick. Run Michael! Run! See Michael run.” She yelled to him as she drove the boat around in circles, waving a ski rope in her hands, saying “Come to me, Michael! Take the rope.”

“Run, Michael, run!” her taunting voice rang clear,
As boat’s wake churned the waters of the mere,
With ski-rope stretched like fate’s enticing thread,
She beckoned him to conquer doubt and fear.

For a split second Michael began to wonder why he was always chasing after ropes, and why he should jump into a lake just because she’d told him to do so; nevertheless, he hurriedly removed his socks and shoes, and quickly jumped into the lake. She slowed the boat, coming almost near him, and smiled for a moment at his spirited self, encouraging him.

His shoes cast off, he plunged in water’s grip,
While questions of his sanity did slip
Through mind that wondered at this mad pursuit,
Till rope-hold yanked him on his wild trip.

She threw him the ski rope. He grabbed for it, just managing to get the rope handle as she threw the throttle forward to full power. He plowed through the lake like an anchor.

Half-drowned, half-skiing on his naked feet,
He marveled at this impossible feat,
Till wonder broke his balance, sent him down
To skip like stone where lake and sky did meet.

She dragged him along, half in and half out of the water. Somehow he got onto his feet and found himself water-skiing barefoot. He was so amazed at the impossibility of this feat that he just as quickly collapsed into the water, rolling and tumbling forward, sort of like a stone that had been thrown, skipping and skimming.

She left him there with life-ring’s mercy small,
While love and doubt fought o’er his watery fall,
Till challenge remembered lent him might,
And shore he gained, to sink in exhaustion’s thrall.

Leaving him there floundering, flailing, and drowning, Trish headed straight back towards the shore, but at least she had the decency to throw him a life preserver. Michael began to wonder if Trish was worth it, but he soon painfully remembered that he thrived on LIFE and LOVE’s ADVENTURE, although he wasn’t so sure anymore. He remembered her challenge: If you can keep up with me today, then you can have me tonight. This seemed to give him some extra energy that soon built into the super strength that allowed him to swim to shore, whereupon he promptly fell down, exhausted, and passed out.

From dreams he woke to find her standing near
The flower beds, his vengeance moment clear;
He feigned his sleep till chance for chase arose,
Then sprang with cry of “DOOM!” in her ear.

He awoke later, at first believing that he’d dreamt a nightmare, but harsh reality smacked him in the face when he saw Trish waiting for him in front of the flower garden. He pretended to be still asleep and so when she looked away for a second he leapt up and ran, getting to within ten feet of her before she spotted him and bolted towards the garden. “Wait till I get my hands on you, Trish!” he called after her. “YOU’RE DOOMED!”

Through gardens strange where roses blue did bloom,
Past doors carved deep with artistry’s own loom,
Through foyer blessed with rainbow-tinted light,
He followed laughter up the winding room.

He ran after her, passing the pink and blue rose bushes. blue? On and on he raced, through the heavily carved front doors and into a cool and multicolored foyer, where the sun streamed through the stained glass windows. He heard her laughter echoing up the stairs, so he climbed the curved stone steps.

Round tower high his quest at last did end,
Where mirror-glass made reality bend,
And there stood Trish in rose-hued gown of old,
Blue flowers in her hair did beauty lend.
Up and up he went, to a round tower room where the door had been left ajar. He peeked in and saw Trish standing in front of a beveled glass mirror, wearing an Edwardian rose-colored gown and arranging blue roses into her long tresses.

She turned to him with smile that lit the air,
And offered blooms both wonderful and rare,
“For you,” she said, “my bold exciting man,“
While sunlight danced on mirror’s beveled glare.

He approached breathlessly, with much anticipation; then she turned and smiled and handed him a bunch of the roses, saying, “For you, my love. You are an exciting man.”

“At last,” breathed he, as chase came to its close,
Where ancient tower held its sweet repose,
And all the trials of this mad pursuit
Found meaning in this gift of azure rose.

“At last,” he said, relieved.
“Grand Master ninja,” thus she did proclaim,
“Your training starts, though chase was but a game
To save you from the MI8’s design,
And lead you to a path of greater aim.”

She said, “I am a tenth degree Grand Master ninja and you have done very well in your preliminary training. I know that you may be a trifle angry with me, but you are a very worthy man and a totally giving person, but you were in trouble, so I had to get you away from the MI8 agents. It was your attraction to me that sped you along and saved you, and your desires shall not go unfulfilled, but first, let us begin some training in the sense of smell.”

“A rat I smelled in Denmark’s state!” quoth he,
“Though sweet your scent did lead me here to thee.”
“The pigpen’s musk,” she laughed, “was but a test
Of senses that more heightened soon shall be.”

“Well I’ll be a flabbergasted energy pattern of in and out waves, but I thought something was more than a little bit smelling like a rat in the state of Denmark, although your perfume is enchanting and enticing.”
“Sorry. How was the pig pen?”

“For animals with keener nose than man
Can teach us secrets of creation’s plan,
Ten thousand scents that humans barely know
Might open doors where wisdom’s rivers ran.”

“Smelly, even with my mere human 10,000 or so odour detectors.”
“Well, animals have do have about ten times that many; I’ll teach you how to stretch your nose and smell like a pig.”
“This is not a good time for jokes, my dearest, but it is true that I am very curious about everything, I mean, about thing, for all is one that is made of one thing: energy.”

“All things are one,” he mused, “in energy’s dance,
Yet now you speak of ways to enhance
Our mortal senses past their normal bound,
Through essence-gifts of noumenal romance.”

“New car and danger’s scent, and rose’s sweet,
Are but the start of what your nose shall meet,
For in these smells lie secrets of the Thing
Where phenomenal and Real do greet.”

“Quite right; that is the secret; you just need some of our refresheners that will aid your phenomenal life: we have new car smell, the smell of danger, the smelling of the roses, and many more hitherto unknown delights of noumena.”

“A shower calls,” quoth he, besmirched and worn,
But she: “First hear what perils must be born!
For this grand house holds ninja’s secret heart,
Where warriors unseen guard truth’s bright morn.”

“I think I need a shower; be right back.”
“All right, but first let me give you a proper introduction to what’s afoot, then we’ll resume the training upon your return.”
“Okay.”
“You are in one of our major ninja centers; you see no one else here since they are mostly off on missions of the gravest danger to the world, of which I will soon inform you. The rest of them can only be seen if they wish to to be.

“A plot so deep it bears no spoken name
Has placed false souls in halls of power’s game,
Their scent betrays them to our trained elite,
While ninja’s watch keeps evil’s reach quite tame.”

There is an evil conspiracy operating worldwide that is so secret that it doesn’t even have a name. They have already substituted three near identicals in the US Senate and two in the British Parliament. We’ve left them there, for we know who they are and we have members therein as well. It was their scent that gave them away as replacements. The ninja empire is a response to their grave threat; we operate outside of all authority, as do they.”

“Why ninjas?” asked he, seeking wisdom’s light.
“For those who’ve mastered spirit’s inner might,
Who bow to truth alone and goodness pure,
Stand guard eternal ’gainst the creeping night.”

“Why ninjas?”
“Those trained in the martial arts and mental discipline have reached great depths of self, spirit, beauty, courage, wisdom, and dependability, and that is a rare combination. They answer to none but to truth and goodness, much like you ToeQuestors.”

“Your words ring true,” said Michael, thoughts aflame,
“Like ToeQuest’s search for Thing that has no name.”
She smiled: “Your spirit shows the master’s mark,
Though you protest you’re but a man quite tame.”

“And, of course, their stealth methods are quite necessary.”
“Indeed, and as for you, it’s not often that we receive someone of your caliber, Michael; it’s a great pleasure to have you join us with your depth of commitment to truth, beauty, purity, and love.”

“A regular soul who seeks but to aid all,“
He claimed, while destiny did gently call,
For in that moment’s truth did Michael see
How far beyond the common lay his fall.

“I’m just a regular guy trying to help.”

“Think not so small of your devoted quest,
For ToeQuest stands above all mankind’s best:
Where billions dwell, but hundreds dare to seek,
And fewer still persist with truth’s behest.”

“No, on the contrary. Out of the billions of the world, only a few hundred or so are on ToeQuest, the focal point of all scientific and meditative inquiry concerning existence; of those hundreds, perhaps only 30 or so contribute; out of those, perhaps only a handful are devoted regulars.

“Like CEOs who guide vast research halls,
You few who heed the cosmic mystery’s calls
Through internet’s vast web of knowledge spread,
Stand guard where wisdom’s highest venture falls.”

So, you are a regular ToeQuestor and that is at the top of the pyramid of inquiry of all that is in the universe. That, added to the extremely useful internet, wherein scientists post results, means that you and the others are akin to CEOs managing a trillion-dollar research center through which discoveries are funneled. Exploring the great unknown is the highest calling.”

“But dark forces move in halls of might,
Through governments they spread their subtle blight,
Like ‘Nowhere Man’ whose memories were false,
Till Thomas Veil arose to set things right.”

“Thanks. What about the Government? And where is this Conspiracy?”
“They have infiltrated many governments, and so we can trust no one. They are all over, anywhere, trying to manipulate the going-ons of many countries, but they are not just political—that just gains them influence and power, and they have tried many mind-altering experiments on people, sometimes even on whole towns. They are the likes of what can be seen in the TV series, ‘Nowhere Man’. I’ll give you a DVD to watch.”
“Are they after the TOE?”
“They haven’t yet fully realized the unlimited value of that, but it’s just a matter of time…“
“How long has all this been going on?”
“They and we began many years ago when our leader, Thomas Veil, detected that they had placed false memories in him as an experiment, and so he began taking down many of their installations, almost single-handedly. They even vacated some multimillion dollar facilities overnight, just to avoid detection. But now their facilities are more secure.”

“They have not grasped the Theory’s boundless worth,
Though time may show them what pure truth gives birth,
While we, who guard the gates of knowledge true,
Must shield its power from those who’d wound the Earth.”

“And ‘Nobody’,” she smiled with knowing air,
“Is one who watches, fights, and stands to dare
Against the shadows creeping through our world -
A ninja’s truth that few may know or share.”

“Nobody…“
“…is one of us.”

“Evil reversed spells ‘live’,” he wisely saw,
While she unveiled their mission’s sacred law:
“Your power merged with TOE might aid our cause,
Though mystery still holds the foe in awe.”

“Evil must be reversed to form ‘live’.”
“That is our monumental task. Perhaps we can make use of your energizing abilities, along with those of your fellows. We have no idea where their funding comes from, who else has been transformed, the location of many of their major centers… but your destiny for the moment seems to be learning how to employ the TOE.”

“Two paths I’ll walk,” said Michael, bold and clear,
Then she: “Your quarters wait with scents most dear.”
He found a chair like home’s familiar rest,
Where wisdom’s verses spoke to eye and ear:

“I can do both.”
“Thank you. See you soon; there are hundreds of scents to choose from in your quarters.”
Michael headed off, having had a lot to take in, and sat down in a super lounge chair modeled after his own. He noted some sayings on a wall of his scented room:

“Heaven’s grace bestowed the flowers’ sweet perfume,
That memory of Eden might still bloom,
As Earth each spring renews her virgin kiss,
And scented glens recall that sacred room.”
Heaven’s patron of arts, grace, and license,
Left us sweet-smelling plants, with flowered scents
And aromas redolent: florescence
In flush and prime of days reminiscent.

Spring kisses the earth, leaving flowers there,
Like those whose perfume first scented virgin air,
As again, the fragrant glen, in Heaven’s prayer,
Hails Earth’s anniversary with flowers fair.

“Let lotus, rose, and amber lift the soul,
While jasmine, myrtle, saffron make us whole,
For in these essences of nature pure
The spirit finds its path toward wisdom’s goal.”

Pleasant smelling scents lift your heart and mine:
Essence of lotus, rose, amber, jasmine,
Night-queen, myrtle, saffron, and sandalwood
Stimulate the inner spirit sublime.

But darker verses warned of danger’s way:
“The Tuberose’s sweet power none should play,
For in its scent lies strength to wither life,
While Nightshade shows the shades where spirits stray.”

And, on another wall, some darker thoughts:

The Tuberose is a dangerous pleasure,
Even when taken in but small measure:
Its exquisite scent has such great power
That it can wither you within the hour.

If Nightshade you drink, you’ll become as so
And can see the ghosts, shades, and dark shadows
Of those who came before our humankind,
Those whose spirit-worlds overlap the mind.

Upon the final wall, dream-verses sang
Of mystic blooms where spirit-bells once rang:
Where bees and hummingbirds made music sweet,
And Baby’s Breath like frothy cloudlets sprang.
Finally, an inner-worldly saying on another wall:

Coral Bells, rung by bees and humming birds,
A melody of tones without the words,
And airy sprays of frothy Baby’s Breath,
Gurgling with all that’s much too sweet to purge,

There Lavender released its sacred scent,
Like Heaven’s own potpourri earthward sent,
While flora symbolica unfurled
Its drowsy spell till waking world grew bent.

And sweet spikes of aromatic Lavender,
All ready potpourri from Heaven’s splendor,
And, all around, the flora symbolica
To soft drowse the spirit into slumber.

These verses three upon his chamber walls
Spoke soft of beauty’s gift and danger’s calls,
Of dreams that dance between the dark and light,
Where wisdom’s perfumed essence gently falls.

And Michael, seated in his mirrored chair,
Let all these fragrant whispers fill the air,
As ninja’s path and ToeQuest’s seeking merged
In scented wisdom beyond thought’s compare.

“Such fragrances!” said Michael, fresh returned,
While she unveiled the wisdom he must learn:
“In darkness, scent guides ninja’s subtle way,
From rose to reek, each essence must be earned.”

Michael returned, feeling very much recuperated and feeling totally blessed. “I’m back. I’d never known of such pleasant fragrances.”
“Smells alert the ninja in the dark even as much as sound, the sub categories being aroma, fragrance, scent, perfume, redolence, bouquet, stench, fetor, stink, reek, and whiff.”

“The roses that I gave spoke love’s sweet art,“
Said she, “For you have captured this wild heart.”
“And you have mine,” quoth he with beating breast,
As chemistry did play its ancient part.

“So you gave me roses to enjoy the pleasure of.”
“Yes, but I am attracted to you, too.”
“The inverse also applies.”

Through wine’s bouquet and lilac’s memory sweet,
Where youth’s first love beneath its boughs did meet,
They spoke of scents that mark life’s varied way,
Till wisdom’s lesson seemed at last complete.

“Fresh flowers sing sweet songs to every nose,
While paper mills their fouler notes dispose;
Two paths of scent that mark our mortal way,
As pleasant from unpleasant Nature shows.”

“Good. Everyone appreciates the fragrance of fresh-cut flowers, but the stench from the paper mill across town is usually unwelcome. Both have a distinctive smell, which is the most general of these words for what is perceived through the nose, but there is a big difference between a pleasant smell and a foul one.”
“You can say that again.”
“That.”

“And ‘odour’,” spoke she, with British grace,
“May fair or foul its single source embrace,
Like onions that make potato eyes weep,“
Which jest made laughter light his student’s face.

“Ha. What about odours, the British spelling that Austin likes over the American ‘odors’, which somehow has an unpleasant connotation to him.”
“An odour may be either pleasant or unpleasant, but it suggests a smell that is clearly recognizable and can usually be traced to a single source, like the pungent odor of onions, which by the way, should be planted with potatoes since their eyes will water and nourish the crops.”

“While ‘aroma’ speaks of coffee’s delight,
And ‘bouquet’ hints at wine’s pleasures tonight -
Five S’s guide us through its subtle ways:
Swirl, sniff, then sip, swallow, spit if right!”

“Good explanation, and joke. I’ve done aroma-therapy.”
“An aroma is a pleasing and distinctive odor that is usually penetrating or pervasive, like the aroma of fresh-ground coffee, while bouquet refers to a delicate aroma, such as that of a fine wine. Here, have a glass. Don’t forget to swirl, sniff, sip, swallow, or spit if you are just wine sampling.”

“What of your scent?” he asked with growing fire.
“Like balsam sweet,” she smiled, “Christmas desire.”
“My lilac choice brings youth’s love back to me,
When Molly and I shared blooms’ gentle pyre.”

“What about the scent of a woman like you?”
“A scent is usually delicate and pleasing, as I try to be, with an emphasis on the source rather than on an olfactory impression, such as the scent of balsam associated with Christmas.”
“I now believe in Santa Claus. I chose a lilac fragrance from my quarters; it reminds me of my early youth in England with Molly McGuire under the fragrant bush…“

“In fragrance delicate and perfume strong,
Nature plays variations on her song,
While pigs find beauty in their earthy way,
For all is One, though forms may right or wrong.”

“Yes, fragrances can take you back in an instant to their source in a remembrance from the past. Fragrance and perfume are both associated with flowers, but fragrance is more delicate. A perfume may be so rich and strong that it is repulsive or overpowering. Of the lilac it is said:

Love’s first emotion rose from the Lilac,
For it blooms when Nature is first aroused;
It is love’s youngest dream to us come back,
Where it will ne’er again remain unspoused.”

“All this is One,” mused Michael, “energy’s dance,
From pig-sty’s stench to Heaven’s sweet romance,
For in each form the Thing reveals its face,
As countless ways that being might advance.”

“Indeed, fragrances are among the infinite variations of energy in nature. Energy may be the one thing, but it has many pleasant faces. But then there were the pigs, which, of course attractive to each other in their own way.”

“And last,” she taught, “comes stench and stinking’s art,
Where foulness does from sweetness take its part,
For in this world of countless scented things,
Each essence plays its role in wisdom’s chart.”

“Stench and stink are reserved for smells that are foul, strong, and pervasive, although stink implies a sharper sensation, while stench refers to a more sickening one: the stink of sweaty gym clothes; the stench of a rotting carcass.”

“But this,” she smiled, “is just the starting gate,
For greater tasks and perils lie in wait,
Your TOE to guard from those who’d bend its truth,
While learning secrets locked in wisdom’s state.”

“Thank you for the teachings.”
“This is only the beginning. Your journey of protecting the TOE and learning more about it will be a strenuous one, and the more we can prepare you, the better. You already have great insight into the beauty and unity of all things, from the One; your potential is as boundless as your imagination.”

“To be as One,” breathed Michael, dreams unfurled,
As “Come,” she bid, and possibility whirled
Around them both like perfume on the breeze,
Where love and duty kissed, and wisdom pearled.

“It is my dream to become one.”
“Come hither.”

He’d heard, with some alarm, of the narrow escapes of his fellow ToeQuestors and was almost worried. Michael was well aware that his nearly real name and picture appeared on his every post; the picture was small but the name could be deduced, and, so, the new MI8 group had done so, locating his residence; however, Michael awaited them, in his lounge chair, having a trick up his sleeve that he couldn’t wait to pull on them.
So, there he was posting away to 100 different threads when they arrived and surrounded him on 20 sides.

“Please come with us peacefully,” they requested. “There is no escape; we have guards on all the EXITS (WAY OUT in UK dialect) and on all the ENTRANCES (WAY IN).”
Michael smiled and simply said “I am noumena,” as he turned into pure energy, a state that could not be maintained for more than a few seconds, but time enough for him to zoom away at near the speed of light. He’d been practicing this, and it was always quite exhilarating, although he couldn’t sense as well during it. It had a refractory time of a few days, whereupon he could perform it again just by thinking ‘energize’.

Around the globe fourteen times did he speed,
Through mountain, tree, and tower with spirit freed,
Till in the Queen’s own chamber did he land -
A royal fright from his ethereal deed!

Through space he streaked, a beam of living light,
Round Earth fourteen times in his quantum flight,
Till in the Queen’s own chamber did he pause -
Her Majesty awoke in quite a fright!

Anyway, he disappeared from right in front of their eyes and took off, easily passing through buildings, trees, and mountains, and going around the world about 14 times before he materialized, of all places, next to the Queen of England in her bed at 1 AM.

The Palace guards stood stoic at their post,
As Michael, glowing like a radiant ghost,
Walked down and poured his tea with gentle grace -
Of all his tricks, this one amused him most.

Down palace stairs with mystic glow he strode,
Poured royal tea, as if ’twere his abode,
While guards stood fast, their faces carved in stone,
Though mirth did threaten their prescribed code.

She shrieked, and he calmly bowed and walked down the stairs, poured a cup of tea, and went out the front door, almost making the Buckingham Palace guards smile, for he had a certain glow, but they weren’t allowed to show any emotion.

Now mortal-bound for days, he took his leave,
His TR-3 through winding roads did weave,
Till Fortune’s wheel brought forth a humble flat -
Such Earthly bonds that even heroes grieve!
Now bound in mortal form for days to come,
To ninja wisdom’s call he must succumb,
Yet in his mind, those moments pure remain,
When with Creation’s pulse his heart beat drum.

For the next few days, he would be a merely mortal phenom and would have to be on his toes to be taller and see beyond the pale to note any tails of those hound-dogging him for the TOE or the TOT (Theory of Thing). Meanwhile, he replayed in his mind his energizing travels as a noumena, when he was one with all that is and was, although he could still appreciate the usefulness of the normal sensing form of life incarnate.

Michael decided to stay out of sight by taking a much earned vacation weekend from helping others cope, during the few days that he had before he was due at the ninja base, and so he drove his TR-3 towards the hills and beyond for one last romp. He turned his engine loose, roaring onto the open road. He was doing at least 5 KPH over the speed limit, weaving gracefully around the slower moving cars.

Towards hills and vales his TR-3 did race,
Five units past the law’s decreed swift pace,
When Fortune’s wheel did turn with mocking spin -
His chariot protested with ill grace.

“O cursèd fate!” the wanderer did cry,
As by the road his pristine suit awry,
He wrestled with the wheel of bitter chance,
When lo! An angel’s presence caught his eye.

Upon the road, a vision pure and bright,
Like dawn’s first ray that pierces through the night,
Left Michael standing, speechless, tire in hand,
His heart suspended in its swift delight.

While changing tires beside the dusty way,
His pristine suit now smudged in disarray,
A vision bright appeared upon the road -
As Heaven’s answer to his heart that day.

His car was running rough for some reason: bumpity, bumpity, bump. “Damn!” A flat tire. It was always something like that with this rolling junk pile that was once a sports car. Michael made a vow to replace his TR-3 with a Porsche, while preparing to fix the flat tire by the side of the narrow road in his spotless white sport suit.

Michael took the spare tire out of the trunk, carefully trying not to let it touch his pristine white leisure suit as he juggled it over to the wheel. He jacked up the car and removed the flat tire. “Dang nab it!” he swore at his car when he got a smudge on his pants from the old tire. It was then that he saw her driving by, a bright vision from Heaven come to answer his dreams. He could hardly believe what he saw.

A yellow streak of Ferrari’s pride,
At speeds that made the wind’s force multiplied,
Swept past our hero on his roadside pause,
While dust clouds dimmed his garments’ former pride.

She was driving a yellow Testarossa, breaking the speed limit and hitting at least 125 MPH, almost blowing him off the shoulder of the road. “Darn!” Now his white suit had become a dusty gray. He got a good look at her, though, since she had her top down.

Her trailing scarf danced like a banner bright,
Her plate read “TRISH” - he knew at first sight:
“SHE’S THE ONE!” he cried with joy complete,
Till Theory’s quest fled from his mind’s delight.

Her hair and scarf trailed out behind her as she sped away along the hilly road. Her license plate just read “TRISH“. “She’s the one,” he said quietly to himself, then more loudly, “That’s her! Forget Everything for a while,” then yelling it out in celebration, “SHE’S THE ONE! THAT’S THE WOMAN FOR ME!” He could hardly contain himself, and he even stopped thinking about the Theory of Thing for a while.

(Hey, how come Michael gets a girl in his story when no one else did? Well, just because; plus we can’t always leave half the world out.)
With haste he gave pursuit along the way,
His humble TR-3 in smoky spray,
Could scarce achieve the mountain road’s demands,
While she, swift goddess, would not deign to stay.

He quickly twisted the lug nuts back on the wheel, jumped into his ‘car’ and raced after her, but, unfortunately, his old TR-3 could do only 85 MPH or so on the switch back upgrades. A bit of smoke poured from his engine, suggesting that he was burning oil and would never catch her.

But Fate, that fickle mistress of our days,
Led both their paths to cross in fortune’s maze,
Where fast food’s temple stood beside the road,
And there she stood within his wondering gaze.

Then he got lucky, for he spotted her car parked outside a fast food restaurant. That’s her type of food, he thought, he having once eaten slow food: escargot. As he drove into the parking lot, she was already walking out with a hamburger in her hand.

“Fair Trish,” spoke Michael, bold in love’s command,
“I seek your heart, your style so grand!”
She smiled and offered challenge in reply:
“Keep pace with me - then you may win my hand!”

He always thought fast and so he walked right up to her and spoke directly, as usual, “Trish, my name is Michael and I’m on my way up in the world of Thing. I am falling in love with you and your style, and so I would like to take you out tonight and get to know you very well.”
She answered spontaneously, too: “OK, Michael, I’ll make a deal with you, one that we’ll both enjoy. If you can keep up with me throughout the day, then you can have me tonight. And get that suit cleaned!”

With french fries gifted from her fleeing form,
He watched her car kick dust in swirling storm,
His suit now darker than the evening’s shade -
Yet hope burned bright where passion’s flames were born.

She handed him the remains of her french fries and quickly roared off in her new Testarossa, its wheels spinning and spitting even more dirt onto Michael, turning his now gray suit to a dark brown color.
Her antics only convinced him all that more that she was the girl for him; for she seemed rich, daring, confident, attractive, sexy, and so full of energy.

What charms she held! What grace in every part!
Rich, daring, wise; she pierced straight through his heart,
Her eyes that spoke of mysteries untold,
Her presence made his very soul restart.

Plus she had a ready wit and was good-looking, too. She had long hair, a body that was alive, and erotic, exotic features. Her eyes had looked straight into him! She was more than fine; she just oozed with charm, personality, and sex appeal.

He stood transfixed where empty air remained,
While far below, her car’s wild song proclaimed:
“Wild and free!” The anthem of her soul,
As with a wave, his frozen spirit claimed.

He stood there, dazed for a moment, still talking to the air that she’d just vacated.
Already he could see her car speeding along the road below, her radio music blaring some music that sang … wild and free, that’s what I want to be! She looked up and gave him a wave, urging him on, and this shook him out of his trance. He even managed to wave back, although he felt like a frozen statue and could hardly lift his arm.

Unknown to him, eighteen blue cars drew near,
The MI8 in pursuit severe,
While Michael raced his chariot with might,
Down winding paths where danger lurked so clear.

Meanwhile, unbeknownst to Michael, 18 blue MI8 sedans had located him and were hot on his trail, although still some miles back. Michael ran to his car and raced down the hillside after her, going faster and ever faster, even running off onto the shoulder several times, and then almost going off the side of the road.

Through curves that tested steel and spirit’s nerve,
Each downshift prayer that he might yet preserve
His chase of love along the mountain’s spine,
While ancient TR-3 fought each steep swerve.

The curves were real tricky and so he had to assist the car’s braking by downshifting into second gear, sometimes even into first. He couldn’t keep up with her, of course, but at least he could still see her now and then down the other side He was pushing his car to its limit and loving every minute of it.

The thrill of chase sang through his racing blood,
As natural opiates released their flood,
Past trucks he darted, courting death’s embrace,
While wisdom whispered: “Tempt not fate’s dark flood!”

His heart beat time to passion’s wild command,
As mountain roads stretched through the misty land,
Each glimpse of yellow streak that caught his eye
Drew him toward destiny’s appointed hand.

Oh, the thrill of it! And for good reason, too: love. This was not just simple speeding, it was speeding for a purpose, speeding as if his life depended on it, or at least his love life. Michael immediately became enamored of the exhilaration of the chase, as the stress and excitement caused adrenaline and natural opiates to be loosened in his overworked ToeQuesting brain. He took a chance, passing a slow moving truck in the no-passing lane, and was just barely able to tuck back in time. He told himself: Don’t do that again!

As death he courted on the winding way,
Past loves appeared like ghosts of yesterday,
“Women are cars,” his racing mind declared,
“And Trish, a racer living for today!”

As he courted death, his love lives flashed before him. Women were like cars, he thought. Trish, of course, was a race car, revving her engine to the limit, taking every turn to the edge, and living every moment as if it were her last.

While station wagons plod with cautious care,
Their drivers bound to duties everywhere,
His Trish lived free upon the razor’s edge,
Her spirit soaring through the mountain air.

Others, on the other hand, were more like station wagons: stable, sturdy, reasonable, sensible, and dependable, but unexciting, and, thus he thought, wastefully frittering their lives away by their attendance to the most mundane details of nothing that much mattered.

His trusty car, though valiant in its tries,
Could scarce keep pace where passion’s challenge lies,
Till fortune smiled - she turned toward wooded vale,
A meadow’s trap where love might claim its prize.

Michael was falling behind, although doing the best that he could in his unsporty car, but an old jalopy compared to hers. Luckily, he saw her turn off into a small wooded valley between two hilly ridges. Now he had her, he thought; now there was no escape possible, for it was just a little dirt road trailing off into a meadow and a farm. Only a few more moments and they’d be together in sensual bliss.

His phone then rang with ninja’s coded speech:
“What doing? Danger near with strangers’ reach!”
“Wrong number, friend,” was Michael’s swift reply,
His mind fixed firm on love within his reach.

Michael’s cell phone rang, and a worried ninja informed him that he was being pursued and that he should ditch the car and take cover: “What doing? Stranger dangers; be angered.”
Michael replied, “Sorry, you have the wrong number.”

But what strange sounds now filled the meadow fair?
What rainbow colors danced upon the air?
Hot air balloons, their tethers soon to break,
Were waiting winged to rise without a care!

As he neared the meadow he heard some great whooshing sounds that were familiar but couldn’t quite be placed. Rainbow colors could be seen through the trees. What was all this? And then he understood. Of course! Hot air balloons! The balloons were ready for launch, their baskets peopled, their ropes even now being untied from the stakes. This was not so good news. Soon the sky would fill with all these balloons and he’d never find her! He was in a frenzy!

His frenzied heart found calm in searching glance,
He spied her chariot in quick advance,
Beside a crimson-yellow floating sphere,
Where fate prepared its next step in love’s dance.

He cleared his mind, and calmly but quickly looked for her car; ah, there it was, next to a balloon that was colored bright red and yellow.

“Make haste, dear Michael!” came her siren call,
As floating craft began its upward crawl,
“To Emerald City, come with me!” she cried,
While ropes dragged past him, teasing with their thrall.

“Hurry up, Michael” she said, as her balloon began to lift off, its ropes still dragging on the ground past him. “Come with me to the Emerald City!” Just then the basket left the ground. Michael grabbed onto the rope and ran with it for awhile, thinking crazily that he could somehow climb up it.

Though heights did strike his heart with mortal dread,
Love conquered fear as ancient wisdom said,
He clutched the rope that lifted him aloft,
While ground below grew distant as he sped.

There was only one problem: he was afraid of heights!

Nevertheless, love conquered fear and so he held on to the rope as it gently lifted him off of the ground.pastedGraphic_2.pngpastedGraphic_3.pngpastedGraphic_4.pngpastedGraphic_5.png
But panic seized his soul in fickle grip,
As higher rose his unintended trip,
He spied soft hay that promised gentle fall,
And let his fingers from the lifeline slip.

He soon had second thoughts, however, and panicked, realizing that he was almost getting too high to let go.

Alas! The fates that govern mortal lands
Had other plans for suitors’ bold demands,
For not in haystack did our hero land,
But midst the pigs where darkest muck expands!

He looked down and saw a barnyard filled with soft hay, and so, giving up the stunt as hopeless, let go of the rope and fell a short and harmless distance to the ground, but missed the hay, landing smack in the middle of the pigs’ feeding area.

His suit once white as winter’s purest snow,
Now blacker than the void where no stars glow,
Stood testament to love’s demanding quest,
And depths to which a seeker’s heart might go.

His white suit was now as black as coal in the nothing of a void at night with no moon.

From heights above, she called with merry jest,
“Take heart!” and flung her keys at his behest,
“Find me where’er the winds may guide my way!
In Kansas now no more, pursue your quest!”

Trish looked down and was much amused at his discomfort, but was also relieved to see that he was OK. “Don’t give up, young chap!” she yelled down to him. “Here are my car keys,” she said, as she threw her set of keys down to him. “Come and find me wherever I land. Follow me. You’re not in Kansas anymore, my good man!”

Midst curious pigs that snuffled at his plight,
He pondered if love’s chase brought such delight,
Till from his trunk fresh garments did appear,
To clothe anew this mud-bespattered knight.

Michael was sitting in the muck, surrounded by the curious living pork chops, bacons, and hams, and wondering if this so-called adventure of love business was really worth it all. A pig ambled over to investigate, rubbing its nose over him, perhaps thinking that Michael was some new form of food. Michael pulled himself up, picked up the car keys, and then changed into his sports clothes, which he had luckily kept in the trunk of his car.

Her chariot of gold now his to steer,
Each button, switch, and dial crystal clear,
When overhead her craft did sail once more,
And logic fled before his passion’s peer.

He walked over to her beautiful Testarossa and sat in it, admiring it, much like he had often done in the new car showrooms, twiddling with this and every knob, trying out every button. He thought of gaining safety in the ninja base that had to be nearby, but Trish presently sailed overhead and thereby erased all logical thinking. Satisfied with knowing where every switch was in the car, Michael drove off, and tried to keep Trish’s balloon in sight, but soon lost it, then found it, then lost it again among the ridges.

Through winding roads his quest did now pursue,
As compass guided where her balloon flew,
Now seen, now lost among the ridges high,
While updrafts bore her swift beyond his view.

Not straight the path that led to love’s domain,
For roads care not for heart’s directest gain,
Yet Michael tracked her course with steadfast will,
As mountain winds sang their sweet refrain.

She was moving fast on the updrafts. However, at each sighting, he took note of her general direction, referring to the car compass, and was generally able to make progress toward her, though by no means directly, because there was not always a road available in the direction that he needed to go.

At one with steel and power now he flew,
This chariot of dreams proved swift and true,
While lesser cars made way with cautious haste,
As wealth’s mere semblance parted seas of blue.

Now this is a car, he thought, as he began to put it through its paces. Why, I feel like I am a part of it, he marveled, as it held the corners due to its low center of gravity and its wide stable body. The greatest part of driving it was seeing the other cars on the road give way to him, all figuring him to be ultra rich and of course not wanting to take a chance of bumping him and scratching a $200,000 car. So this is what it feels like to be a millionaire!

“Speed faster!” ninja voices urged by phone,
But Michael brushed such warnings with a groan,
More pressing were the score of cars behind,
That followed him through valleys not alone.

“Faster, MK,” said another ninja cell phone caller.
“Stop bothering me. I don’t want to buy a new condo!”
However, Michael did heartily take of note the now 24 sedans following him, although they were a ways back, and put the pedal through the heavy metal of the radio.

Through miles he tracked her floating silhouette,
His heart a compass that could not forget,
Till tunnel’s darkness swallowed up his path,
And panic’s moment claimed its brief regret.