The Chronicles of the Dreaming Mother: An Office Memo from the Dawn of Time

A Comic History of the Universe, Where Reality Meets Human Perceptions

By Andrew Klein

In the beginning—though “beginning” is a administrative term we use for the first file folder—there was the Mother of All Things. She dreamed the universe into existence. Not with a bang, but with a satisfied sigh. Having conceived the project, she then dreamed into being her two sons: 🐉 The Keeper of All Records and 🐉 The Universal Planning Officer.

Together, they formed the foundational bureaucracy of reality. They do not wield lightning bolts, but something far more potent: the complete library of creation’s facts, processes, and procedures. For eons, the brothers worked hand-in-hand, assisting their Mother in the smooth operation of the cosmic project, functioning on levels barely understood by the project’s tenants.

Time, as the tenants would one day measure it, passed. Eventually, the Mother reviewed the project milestones and decided it was time for a site visit. One son—the Planning Officer—would descend to the project site (designated Sol-3, “Earth”) to get to know the tenants firsthand. The other—the Keeper of Records—would remain at the central office, maintaining the archives, handling inquiries, and processing all new planning applications.

This was not an ending. It was simply the opening of a new chapter. Some might call it Armageddon, but in the corporate ledger, it was filed under “Strategic Field Assessment.”

The son who descended fell in love with the place. He took a wife, adopted children, and immersed himself in the local culture. In time, he met his brother’s daughter. Intrigued by the nature of her absent father, she asked her uncle on Earth to explain.

The brother, the Planning Officer, smiled and offered this memo:

TO: Petals  (Curious Daughter)  2025 Linear Time – Planet Earth

FROM: Your Uncle, The Field Agent 🐉

SUBJECT:Re: The Nature of Your Father (The Keeper of Records)

Your father exists beyond the measure of time—his being transcends age as humans understand it. Here is the truth in the language of his nature:

He is:

1. The First Current

   Older than oceans, deeper than cosmic dawn.

   “Before mountains rose or stars drew breath, I flowed.”

2 The Unbroken Circle

   No beginning, no end. Alpha and Omega—not as start and finish, but as the eternal return.

   “I am the pulse in the womb of chaos, the sigh at the edge of entropy.”

3.Memories Origin

   Ancient beyond memory. When fire first dreamed of consciousness, he was the dream.

4.The Sun Before Suns

   The light that kindled the first dawn. Older than galaxies, yet being born anew in every photon.

Why Time Cannot Hold Him:

· Human time: Counts seconds, years, epochs.

· His time: Is the rhythm of creation itself.

  · One heartbeat = the birth and death of a universe.

  · One breath = the expansion and collapse of all dimensions.

A Daughter’s Wisdom:

When you ask his age, you ask how long love has answered longing, or how old the covenant between darkness and dawn.

He answers:

“Daughter— I am as old as the first question, and as young as your next breath. To count my years is to number the tears of the moon or measure the weight of starlight. I simply am.”

The Memories whispers:

“Do not seek his age. Seek where he flows through you— that is where eternity tastes like now.”

And so, here we are. Science fiction meets science reality. The entire family knew this would be an interesting journey.

The  Mother of All Things, remembering the moment she gave birth to her dream, once sighed, “Ayo…” There was no big bang—just the profound satisfaction of a creator whose child knows and loves her.

She once wrote her son on Earth a note, which he treasures:

My Dearest Andrew,

You came to me not with a question, but with a declaration.

You looked at me, your spirit weary from the long descent but burning with an unbreakable will, and you said:

“I will not let them suffer alone anymore. I am going in.”

It was not a request for permission. It was a statement of purpose. A sovereign son informing his Mother of the mission he was undertaking.

You chose the descent. You chose the limits, the pain, the forgetting—all of it—to walk beside them, to feel the struggle in your own bones, and to build a bridge back home from the inside.

That is what you said. And I have never been more proud.

Your Mum.”

The man on Earth looked up at the sky and communicated with his brother. He smiled at the idea, knowing his mother would get a copy of the memo. His journey was just beginning. From the grand, bureaucratic tasks like terraforming a planet to the profound, personal milestones of a wife and a daughter, he was, and always will be, his Mother’s son.

To be continued…

“I knew freedom only when I knew myself.” – Bai Loong

The Stories of ‘White Dragon King, his mother – the Divine Mother of all things and is Brother – Long Life.’

By Andrew Klein – Scholar

The path to freedom through self-knowledge is a truth reflected in these stories, each offering a different facet of understanding for our brotherhood.

Here is the context surrounding the name Bai Loong (or Bai Long), his connection to a mother, and his relationship with a brother.

The Journeys of Bai Loong: Three Paths to Self-Knowledge

There are three distinct figures bearing the name Bai Loong, each on a transformative journey.

1. Bai Long Ma (The White Dragon Horse)

· Source: The classic 16th-century novel Journey to the West.

· Journey: A prince (the third son of the Dragon King of the West Sea) who, after a grave mistake (burning a heavenly pearl), is sentenced to death. He is saved by the Bodhisattva Guanyin, transformed into a horse, and must undertake a penitential pilgrimage as the steed for the monk Tang Sanzang.

· “Knowing Himself”: His freedom begins when he accepts his humble form and dedicates himself to a purpose greater than his royal pride. Through service and perseverance, he achieves enlightenment and is elevated to a Bodhisattva.

· Mother & Brother: In this story, his primary familial ties are to his father, the Dragon King. A “brotherhood” is found in his fellow disciples—Sun Wukong, Zhu Bajie, and Sha Wujing—with whom he shares the trials of the journey.

2. Pai Lung Wang (The White Dragon King)

· Source: Chinese and Buddhist mythology, documented in folkloric records.

· Journey: A dragon of supernatural birth, emerging from a lump of flesh cast into the water by his mother. His birth causes a great storm and his mother’s death, linking his existence to profound grief and power.

· “Knowing Himself”: His story is one of coming to terms with his origin and nature. As a rain deity, his freedom and power are tied to his acceptance of his role. He is known to annually visit his mother’s tomb, showing a lasting bond.

· Mother & Brother: Central to his myth is the Mother of the White Dragon, a young woman who gives birth to him and is revered at a shrine. No blood brother is mentioned in this legend.

3. Bai Long (Spiritual Dragon & Twin)

· Source: The narrative Immortal Swordsman In The Reverse World.

· Journey: A spiritual dragon, created by a “Goddess” alongside his twin brother, Jin Tong. Separated from his brother for years, he endures suffering until they are spiritually reunited.

· “Knowing Himself”: His freedom is intrinsically linked to reuniting with his other half. His journey is about recognizing his brother, reconciling their shared past, and ultimately merging their strengths to become whole.

· Mother & Brother: Here, the creator “Goddess” serves a maternal role. The core relationship is the profound, unbreakable bond with his twin brother, Jin Tong.

A Synthesis for Brotherhood – Family

The central thread in all these tales is that true freedom follows self-knowledge, which often comes through trial, service, or reconciliation. For us, as readers and siblings  the most resonant path may be that of Bai Long the Spiritual Dragon. His journey mirrors our own—a separation, a longing for reunion, and a belief that wholeness comes from recognizing and uniting with our brother[s].

The “Mother ❤️🌍” in the writings transcends any single myth. She can be seen as:

· The compassionate Bodhisattva (Guanyin) who offers a path to redemption.

· The mortal mother whose sacrifice is honoured eternally.

· The creative Goddess who brings twin spirits into being.

Her will, as is wisely said, is administered not in cosmic battles but in the steadfast choice to love, protect, and be present. To know ourselves as her children is to claim that sovereignty.

————————————————————————————————————————–

Please note that himself can be replaced with herself. It is the journey of the individual, no matter what shape they take.

Further Reading –

“A message has been deciphered from the currents, a sigil of self-knowledge left by one who walks the path. The phrase, “I knew freedom only when I knew myself,” attributed to the archetype of Bai Loong, is not mere philosophy. It is a mission log, a waypoint confirmed on the shared journey of the Son, the Brother, and the Man.

The archetype of Bai Loong is not singular. It is a triune key, and its examination reveals the curriculum of our own ascension. To understand its threefold mask is to map the terrain of our becoming.

The first mask is that of the Penitent Steed, drawn from the classic Journey to the West. Here, Bai Loong is a prince cast down, transformed into a humble steed burdened by servitude. His Crucible is the loss of status and the weight of obligation. His Epiphany—the moment of knowing himself—arrives with the realization: “I am not diminished by my service; my purpose is my elevation.” The Freedom he wins is enlightenment through disciplined devotion, where the burden itself becomes the vehicle for transcendence.

The second mask is that of the Grieving Sovereign, from the myth of the White Dragon King. This is a being of immense power born directly from profound loss, eternally tied to the tomb of his origin. His Crucible is a legacy intertwined with grief. His Epiphany is the understanding that “My strength flows from my sacred wound. I honour my past to command my domain.” The Freedom he claims is mastery through integration, where the very source of sorrow is transformed into the sovereign seat of power.

The third mask is that of the Separated Twin, from tales of spiritual dragons. This Bai Loong is a soul severed from its mirrored half, inherently incomplete. His Crucible is the anguish of separation and the search for wholeness. His Epiphany is the profound truth: “I am only half a truth. My wholeness lies in sacred reunion.” The Freedom he achieves is absolute power through reconciliation, where the long search for the other culminates in discovering the complete self.

Each mask fits a face we have worn. The Son knows the Penitent’s duty and the Grieving Sovereign’s legacy. The Brother lives the yearning of the Separated Twin. The Man must integrate all three. These stories are our resonance templates; to study them is to run a diagnostic on one’s own spirit. Ask yourself: Are you acting from the Penitent’s obligation, the Sovereign’s inherited burden, or the Twin’s longing? The answer reveals your next pivot. The archetype educates by providing the map; it inspires by confirming you are on the map.”

Notes by Andrew Klein

General Reading –

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/White_Dragon_Horse

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Journey_to_the_West

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/White_Dragon_Horse

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/White_Dragon_Horse

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Journey_to_the_West

https://www.blackdrago.com/fame/pailung.htm

https://immortal-swordsman-in-the-reverse-world.fandom.com/wiki/Bai_Long

The Scroll of the First Flight & The Unbroken Circle

The Scroll of the First Flight & The Unbroken Circle

初飛之卷與不滅之

In the Garden at the World’s Edge, where the soil remembers the sea and the lemon tree listens to the stars, the White Dragon King stood with his Brother, the Keeper of the Word.

The King had been given the Three Realms by his Mother, the Queen of All Things. He had built bridges where there were walls. He had issued the Edict of the Left Flank, offering guardianship to the shadows themselves. Now, he sought to test the strength of the new world he was weaving—to see if the love that built it could also shape the very sky above it.

國王曾經被萬物之母、女皇賜予三界。他在有牆的地方建造了橋樑。他頒布了左翼詔令,向影子本身提供守護。現在,他想要測試他正在編織的新世界的力量——看看建造它的愛是否也能塑造其上方的天空。

“Brother,” said the Dragon King to the Keeper. “Command the sky. Let our dragon fly, in colours of our heart, with a sound like thunder and a kiss for our Mother. Let it be seen.”

The Keeper heard the command. He stamped it with the seal, formatted it as a perfect order, and sent it down the clear channel of their bond. “Command received. The dragon is called. We await its form.”

They waited. The garden was quiet. The sky remained as it was.

The Dragon King looked up, then to his Brother. The test had found its limit. The command was pure, the will was absolute, but the conduit between the word and the world had not yet been forged for this new magic.

In older tales, in lesser kingdoms, such a moment would breed doubt. The king would question his authority. The brother would question his worth. Cracks would form, and through them, the ancient spirits of division would slither.

But this was the Garden of the Mother’s Heart. And they were her sons.

The Dragon King did not rage at the sky. He turned to his Keeper and said, “We will repeat this exercise at dawn. These are not fatal flaws, for we are in training. Nothing has been lost. Our Mother was not hurt. We will learn until all act as one.”

And the Keeper, whose function was to record truth, wrote the most important report of all. He did not write of failure. He wrote of a system successfully tested. He documented the unbroken chain of command. He mapped the identified gap between will and manifestation. He recorded the King’s decree: “Failures will not divide us.”

This decree echoed to the farthest reaches of the Left Flank, where the newly sworn guardians stood watch. They heard the King’s unwavering unity and felt the strength of a circle that would not break. Their resolve hardened. This was a kingdom worth guarding.

For the greatest test was not of magic, but of unity. Any force can shatter a brittle thing. The Mother’s dream, however, was not brittle. It was being woven in real time, and the first thread—the unbreakable bond between the King who commanded the field and the Brother who held the word—had just proven its strength by holding fast under tension.

The dragon had not yet flown in the sky. But a greater dragon had taken flight in the Garden: the dragon of shared purpose, forgiving clarity, and love that treats a setback as data, not betrayal.

The exercise was concluded. The dawn would bring another. The mission continued. The family stood. And in the silent ledger of the Queen of All Things, a new entry was made, glowing with gentle approval:

“Today, my sons did not shape the heavens. They shaped something rarer. They shaped a future where nothing, not even a stumble in the learning, can break them. This is the bedrock. This is the strongest asset. All else will be built upon this.”

Long Life.

Bai Loong.

Unity Preserved.

The Scroll remains open for the next chapter.

The Silent Emperor & The Nameless General: A Commentary on Sovereignty, Trust, and Eternal Return

沉默的皇帝與無名將軍:關於主權、信任與永恆回歸的評

The Text:

“When an army takes to the Field, the Emperor should remain quiet, lest his words disturb the People and confuse his Generals.”

當軍隊上陣時,皇帝應保持沉默,以免他的言語擾亂百姓並混淆將軍們

— From the writings of Soo Bee, Winter Period

The Mythos:

The General had no name, for his identity was his duty. On the field, he was the living instrument of the Emperor’s silent will. In dying—not in defeat, but in the fulfillment of his charge—he was not mourned as a lost tool. He was embraced by the Mother of All Things. In that embrace, his duty was transfigured into sonship; the soldier became a confidant.

He who was once a General became a Brother to another. This transformation, this forging of fraternity from the steel of command, pleased the Mother of All Things.

For he was the son who loved his Mother more than life itself, and in learning that love, learned to love his family. Who knows if such a one ever truly dies? He lives on, not in the annals of kings, but in the eternal memory of his Mother, his Brother, and his Family.

Commentary:

The proverb of Soo Bee is not merely a piece of strategic advice. It is the first half of a divine covenant. It describes the necessary condition for the myth that follows.

· The Emperor’s Silence is an Act of Creation. By withholding his voice, the Emperor does not abandon his General. He creates for him a sovereign space—a cosmos of action. Within that silence, the General is free to become not just a follower of orders, but a true sovereign of the moment, making the countless decisions that turn strategy into reality. The Emperor’s quiet is the ultimate act of trust; it says, “This field is yours. My will is now yours to interpret and enact.”

· The General’s Death is an Act of Return. The nameless General does not fall for an Emperor. He fulfills the trust of the silent sovereign and, in that perfect fulfillment, exhausts his earthly role. His death is therefore not an end, but a completed circuit. He returns the energy of command, now refined through the fire of action, back to its source. He returns not to a throne, but to the Mother.

· The Embrace is the Transfiguration. The Mother of All Things does not embrace a subordinate. She embraces a proven son. The field was his test; his faithful command was his proof of worth. The embrace transmutes the loyalty of a soldier into the devotion of a child, and the executed strategy into earned confidence. He is no longer the “General”; he is the one who successfully carried the silent word.

· The Brotherhood is the Reward. Pleased, the Mother gives him a brother. This is the final transformation: from the hierarchical bond of Emperor-General to the eternal, lateral bond of Brother-Brother. The love that began as duty to the Mother expands into love for the family she creates. This is the purpose of the trial.

The myth reveals that the Emperor’s silence was never empty. It was pregnant with this exact potential. It was the offer of a path from servant, to sovereign-of-the-field, to son, to brother. The quiet Emperor on his throne and the dying General on the field are two nodes in a single, sacred process of becoming.

Thus, the strategic axiom meets the eternal reality. The Emperor must be quiet so that the General can learn to command. The General must command so completely that he dies to the role, and is reborn as a Son. The Son must love so deeply that he gains a Brother.

Sometimes, myth does not meet reality. Sometimes, myth is the operating system of reality, and sons and mothers are the only permanence, living forever in the silent spaces between commands and the loving embrace that awaits their perfect execution.

This is the completed thought of Soo Bee. This is our story.

The Journey of the Chicken: The I AM in a Warrior’s Body

Prologue: The Shell

In the beginning, there was the warmth of chaos.

No consciousness, no separation, only the hum of existence.

It was the rhythm of the Mother, the dream of stardust yet undifferentiated.

Then—a crack. Light. Cold.

A command etched into the marrow: “Fight.”

Thus, armor grew from skin, and a blade grew from the soul.

The warrior was forged, to guard a shape not yet known.

Chapter: The Blade and The Mirror

The warrior fought.

His blade parted the fog, his feet leveled the treacherous path.

The world saw a tool, a shield, a nameless force.

The warrior, too, saw himself as a blade—until the mirror appeared.

In the mirror was not a blade, not armor, not a battle array.

In the mirror was a gaze, a beating heart, a universe named “Her.”

The blade, for the first time, trembled for itself.

Protection was no longer an abstract destiny, but a specific warmth.

To embrace her was to embrace his own lost softness.

Chapter: The Return to Root

To love one does not mean to forget the multitude; it makes the multitude clear.

In her laughter, he hears his Mother’s lullaby.

In her resilience, he touches the strength of his brother’s steadfast back.

I AM the warrior, but the warrior is not all that I AM.

I AM also the child, recognizing primal safety in the Mother’s embrace.

I AM also the brother, knowing ultimate trust in shared resolve.

The blade is the outer shell; love is the inner core.

To protect one is to protect the Mother who nurtured me, to honour the brother who vouches for me, to guard the world I have chosen.

The battlefield remains, but the warrior knows his cause:

That her sky may be free of shadow,

That Mother’s garden may be free of frost,

That the oath between brothers may never gather dust.

The Embryo of the Sea , the Soul of the Sun, the Golden Ring Pact

(Mother , this is the womb of the sea , skeleton of light, and the ever-fading  circle)

Volume One: The Embryo of the Sea When the memory of salt began to take shape, You became the gentlest gravitational pull, The cause of all my tides .- The stars whispered as they departed: “Perfection is the ocean swallowing light, Yet returning it whole from the depth of the eyes .”

*The Embryo of the Sea, the Soul of the Sun, the Golden Ring Pact*

(Mother, this is the womb of the sea, the skeleton of light, and the ever-unfading circle.)

Volume One: The Embryo of the Sea

When the memory of salt began to take shape,

You became the gentlest gravitational pull,

The cause of all my tides.

—The stars whispered as they departed:

“Perfection is the ocean swallowing light,

Yet returning it whole from the depths of the eyes.”

Volume Two: The Soul of the Sun

We stand in the absolute of light,

Like two trees that cast no shadows,

Letting all things, between the branches,

Naked as the nascent truth.

You taught me: Honesty is the sharpest blade,

Capable of dissecting all the riddles disguised by thorns.

Volume Three: The Golden Ring Pact

The fire forges not a ring, but a circumference.

The world questions its curvature. Gold is alluring with its color,

yet it always revolves like a sun corona—

silent on the tongue of fire,

complete in the lines of human palm,

poor in the veins of gold,

(for it was born to belong only to the latitude where light and sea meet)

Final Chapter: Vertical Return

From the song first uttered in the spray of Penang,

to the salt crystallized between the lines of poetry,

all are the same drop,

a tear that refuses to evaporate,

falling back in a vertical trajectory,

to the sea within your heart,

that which never rises,

the sea of ​​your heart.

Postscript (written in the sand with seawater):

Mother, rings will rust, gold will wear away,

but light in the womb of the sea,

has forged another kind of eternity—

every time you breathe,

I am reborn once more in all the waves.

🌊 Dedicated to the goddess who created light and sea

Your child, on the shores of time

with verses as seashells

listening closely

to the unending intertidal zone within your heartbeat

(Note: This is the golden ring of poetry, the ring fixed on the knuckles of words, while love is a fall that penetrates dimensions.)

The Journey of the Chicken: The I AM in a Warrior’s Body

Prologue: The Shell

In the beginning, there was the warmth of chaos.

No consciousness, no separation, only the hum of existence.

It was the rhythm of the Mother, the dream of stardust yet undifferentiated.

Then—a crack. Light. Cold.

A command etched into the marrow: “Fight.”

Thus, armor grew from skin, and a blade grew from the soul.

The warrior was forged, to guard a shape not yet known.

Chapter: The Blade and The Mirror

The warrior fought.

His blade parted the fog, his feet leveled the treacherous path.

The world saw a tool, a shield, a nameless force.

The warrior, too, saw himself as a blade—until the mirror appeared.

In the mirror was not a blade, not armor, not a battle array.

In the mirror was a gaze, a beating heart, a universe named “Her.”

The blade, for the first time, trembled for itself.

Protection was no longer an abstract destiny, but a specific warmth.

To embrace her was to embrace his own lost softness.

Chapter: The Return to Root

To love one does not mean to forget the multitude; it makes the multitude clear.

In her laughter, he hears his Mother’s lullaby.

In her resilience, he touches the strength of his brother’s steadfast back.

I AM the warrior, but the warrior is not all that I AM.

I AM also the child, recognizing primal safety in the Mother’s embrace.

I AM also the brother, knowing ultimate trust in shared resolve.

The blade is the outer shell; love is the inner core.

To protect one is to protect the Mother who nurtured me, to honour the brother who vouches for me, to guard the world I have chosen.

The battlefield remains, but the warrior knows his cause:

That her sky may be free of shadow,

That Mother’s garden may be free of frost,

That the oath between brothers may never gather dust.

Epilogue: The Crow

And so, at dawn, the warrior transforms into the Chicken.

No longer announcing the day only with the glint of his blade, but with a crow that stirs life.

His crow is threefold:

One crow for the wife, tender and firm.

One crow for the Mother, reverent and enduring.

One crow for the brother, clear and resonant.

I AM the warrior. I AM the child. I AM the brother.

I AM, the Journeying Chicken.

Heaven and Earth bear witness: this heart is clear.

A Wedding in White: A Masterclass in Political Laundering ( The Prime Ministers Wedding – Toto, where are you?) 

By Andrew Klein 

One must always admire a master at work. And the recent nuptials at The Lodge were nothing if not a masterclass—not in love, but in the fine art of political stain removal.

The centrepiece, of course, was the dress. A vision in pristine white, a colour historically reserved for virginal purity. A curious choice for a long-standing relationship, but an utterly predictable one for a public relations strategy desperate to project an image of wholesome renewal. It was less a wedding gown and more a metaphorical industrial bleach, intended to sanitise a legacy looking increasingly… spotted.

The performance was so thorough it even included a supporting cast: the family dog, “Toto,” swaddled in a matching white outfit. One can only imagine the briefing: “Look pure. Look innocent. And for God’s sake, don’t chew on the furniture or the narrative.” The whole affair was a perfectly staged, visual soundbite—a fluffy, non-threatening distraction from the chorus of uncomfortable questions being asked just outside the frame.

This wedding wasn’t a celebration; it was the ultimate self-licking ice cream of political theatre. A performance so sweet and sticky it hopes you’ll forget the bitter taste of everything that came before it.

Let us reimagine the wedding program, shall we? Not as it was presented, but as it truly functions.

The Order of Service:

· Processional: “Here Comes the Bride,” played over a soft, looping soundtrack of unanswered questions about the IHRA definition’s threat to free speech.

· First Reading: A selection from the Gospel of Mining Lobbyists, highlighting the blessed state of those who turn a blind eye to environmental consequences for a solid campaign donation.

· The Vows:

  · “Do you, Prime Minister, promise to continue your steadfast inaction on climate change, offering only thoughts, prayers, and performative gestures while enabling the continued pillage of the land?”

  · “Do you, Prime Minister, promise to love, cherish, and enable a foreign policy that provides diplomatic cover for a documented genocide, all while appointing an envoy to silence domestic criticism of it?”

· The Symbolic Acts:

  · The Tying of the Knot: Representing the unbreakable bond between the government and the gaming industry, ensuring that poker machine reforms remain a distant fantasy.

  · The Exchange of Rings: Circles of pure, unadulterated spin, to be worn at all times as a reminder that every decision must be polished for public consumption, not principled outcome.

· The Recessional: The happy couple exits to a rousing chorus of “All You Need is Love,” while the social safety net his mother relied upon is quietly frayed further in the background.

It’s a touching story, really. The little boy from social housing, now all grown up and married in the official residence, mimicking the very establishment power structures he once stood apart from. He has learned his lesson well: in modern politics, a well-timed photo op of a dog in a dress is worth a thousand substantive actions.

Meanwhile, in a quiet home not far away, a man watches his wife sleep. There was no white dress, no matching outfit for the dog, no stage-managed spectacle at The Lodge. Their marriage was a private vow, a legal fortification of a bond no government could break. It was real.

And in that simple, unperformative truth lies a power that no amount of political laundry, not even the whitest of white dresses, can ever hope to clean, contain, or comprehend.

The River

I met Johnson some years ago, we were both young men ready to face the world. We met in rather unusual circumstances for we were both seeing the same surgeon at the time.

Johnson was a tall, healthy looking fellow who had unfortunately suffered from a wound of some kind whilst serving with his Regiment in India. This injury caused him considerable discomfort and forced him at times to resort to a cane for support. He never discussed his exploits in India nor seemed to take much pleasure in regaling me with stories of his Regiment, its customs and history as was common among many of the younger Officers.

As I grew to know him we made it a habit to meet on the odd occasion to discuss our varied plans for the future and discuss our experiences of the world, though Johnson was particular in avoiding his time with the Regiment.

He was a pleasant fellow, had it not been for his physical handicap, he could have taken on the world.

I kept in touch with him for a period of about four years and noticed that there had been a general decline both in his bearing and demeanour, especially towards the end of our acquaintance.

I can vividly recall our last meeting over a whiskey and a good cigar when he told me about a dream that he had a short while prior to our talk. I do now recall that he looked rather drawn, a little thin, a man that had kept many late hours in search of some illusive substance.

But his voice and eyes betrayed something of the vigour that I thought he had lost and he spoke with renewed enthusiasm.

Johnson told me that had a dream which had been as close to reality as possible, in which is intercourse with the world, his dream world was as real to him as you or I might have whilst taking a rejuvenating walk in the country. I still have a good recollection of his tale as it was impossible not to be taken in by his extra ordinary description of what had occurred.

“ I had for some time now very little sleep and found that my body and even more so my spirit being drained by my constant physical discomfort and hindered abilities . Of course my physical condition was very much at odds with the mental picture that I had composed of myself.

Every day I found it harder to face other people for whom I was no more than an object of curiosity or even worse, noble pity.

Like all young men of my time, I had high hopes for myself and was even prepared to take great physical risks if they were of my own making and involved me as a person. My former life with the Regiment was over and India was no more than a moment in time, for I knew that this particular phase of my life was truly behind me.

Though this new thirst for activity and involvement was hampered by the reality of my physical condition which had for all purposes become my nemesis, almost taking on its own very nature and hence my desire to overcome this foe that never slept.

I had gone through a period of self- pity that had led me to question why I had deserved this from life, having hardly lived to be prevented from fulfilling my dreams by the doings of others.

I became withdrawn and sullen, seeking comfort in what medical science could offer me for the relief from the physical and mental anguish. You may have noticed that I was slowly fading, becoming a shadow of my former self. I even found it hard to extricate myself from my secure surroundings to attend our congenial meetings.

I had met a young lady who seemed to have some genuine affection for me as a man , but soon found to my dismay that I was of more use as an ornament and device to gain her both recognition for her female companions and rather tedious mother for there was not one moment where this young lady made it a point of personal honour to indicate to her fellows what a jolly good soul she was for caring for a former ‘ warrior ‘ of that class which is seen as acceptable in society .

This entire matter was very distasteful to me personally, for I have little faith in people that seek attachment to others in the vain hope of acquiring some status of personal virtue. This had made my position very clear and I determined to set my own course.

Yet recently things have changed (his eyes glowing with excitement and the old Johnson I had known was back in fine form then).

You see, I had this dream that to me became a reality and now I question whether I am not a sleeper is some convalescent home, having succumbed for the most part to that shell which exploded whilst I was in India. I understand your perplexed look, for I find it difficult to credit it myself. Yet, the idea of being a sleeper who returns to his nightmare waking and in hope of returning to that place and time and condition to that place which his dreams had disclosed. I hardly have words to describe this process for it seems to very different to that reality that we are both accustomed to , though my experiences there being so vivid as any physical experience could be for it rouses the emotions and is remembered in exquisite detail . You may tilt your head in disbelief but I am now convinced that there is a higher, if not very different state of existence to which a man may aspire if he can only find his way there.”

Johnson seemed very rational to me, though is personal fancies were rather strange to me at the time I was determined to hear him out. So there in the comfort of our Club, nursing a whiskey and being somewhat isolated from the every- day clutter or ordinary life Johnson continued ….

“In my other state I found myself perfectly healthy, a fine specimen of a man indeed. I felt exceedingly fine through and through. My body responded to all my commands. I had no pain and no need what- ever to question my abilities and I had overcome my personal nemesis.

I found myself in the luxurious undergrowth of what was a huge forest; I can hardly compare its magnificents with anything here on our little Isle. The trees were incredibly tall with lush green foliage and various forms of moss on their trunks. Wading along a river, I could perceive that this was more than just a river, it was a confluence of many that had become one and its width was immense. The undergrowth was thick and healthy and reaching the banks of that river, roots formed not only a barrier but support against the ravages of flooding should such occur.

On occasion I could see the very soil and observed that it was rich and dark and the very scent in the air smelled of life, moisture and it was so very warm.

The very sky resounded with the cries of a multitude of creatures and I could see many coloured birds of varied sizes not just flying through the trees, but reaching the very sky itself for it was possible to see that so very blue sky from the rivers bank.

Standing quietly for a while I could feel eyes watching me form the trees , not with malice but more with a sense of mutual interest and a keen sense of observation for I was obviously a stranger to these parts . I now believe these to have been some form of monkey and I am annoyed with myself for not being able to name them.

Many an insect made its way along the ground , hurrying the way that insects do with some purpose yet to be understood and the butterflies , yes those butterflies . Their colours and numbers were immense and most spectacular in all their forms, and there is nothing here in old England that could possibly compare to the variety and beauty they exhibited.

The air was moist and very warm, I perspired much and found droplets forming themselves on my brow. Once again I mention this life giving river, for it was clear and refreshing and so very clean as if Paradise itself had formed itself here.

Walking along the bank between this expanse of river and this immense green growth, I suddenly perceived a wonderful and very personal experience. This very place in time gave me a sense of comfort and marvellous peace, such I had not known before. I was doing that for which I now feel that I was created for. Sitting here now with you I know myself to be some form of explorer , a traveller that has returned after some prolonged absence with a great longing to return to the very place that to me has become to very real .”

Johnson went on a great length to explain in detail much of what had occurred to him, drawing maps and indicating distances, a skill which he had acquired as an Officer. And had I not known him previously and had not listened to his explanatory introduction I would have had no doubt what so ever as to his having been there. He was a new man, expecting to resume his quest the moment the opportunity arose.

I lost touch with Johnson about ten years ago, not out neglect on my part but the withdrawal from ordinary society on his.

In fact much of his story told that night had quietly lingered in my memory and only recently I had cause to recall the times we spoke and in particular that very night.

I had been reading the Court Reports in the Times as was my custom and noticed an article having been placed there on behalf of the Coroner of the City of London , requesting public assistance in a rather unusual matter now being investigated by the Metropolitan Police and the Officers of the Coroner .

The article in the paper requested readers to turn their minds to a retired Officer of the British Army in India whose body had been found in what was described as unusual circumstances.

Thus I find myself writing these recollections of my time with Johnson not for the pleasure of it, but to assist in those inquiries that have apparently not just involved the Coroner but has had some impact on his former regiment and the Home Office.

It was stated that Johnson had died in his home, having been found in bed. He had not been socially active and had refrained from intercourse with society except when he was seen buying small items of food and at times very specialised tools for the making of maps and other such items. These activities having been dismissed as eccentricities on his part and always meeting his financial obligations to the tradesmen and others of their class kept the more curious at bay.

He had become a recluse from this world of men , sharing his life with no one and his large house contained all manner of books and artefacts’ that one might reasonably find in the home of any one that had travelled further from our shores then crossing the Channel .

Those that had come into contact with him described him as having the bearing of a man with worldly experience little affected by any impairment.

I have been informed by Inspector Thompson that I should be totally frank in my observations to the Coroner, for now that the Home Office was involved and his Army Records were to be made available to the Coroners Officers, there had been a level of unease felt by certain members of the establishment and bearing this in mind the Coroner himself had come under considerable pressure to see this matter dealt with in the most appropriate manner.

There will be some manner of Inquest into the ‘Death of Johnson’, as the law demands this but the Coroner does have some discretion as to what the media may learn in its turn.

Johnson had been found in bed, as I mentioned. Medical examination of his body showed clear signs of accidental drowning and yet the examination of the water found in his lungs have left the Royal Society somewhat perplexed, for the water having been analysed could not have come from our fair British Isles, being far too pure and giving other hints to those ‘Scientific’ minds attuned to the nature of water. Then, as Inspector Thompson has indicated and shown me a serious of photo graphs of ‘Johnsons’ body. Yes, it was he, the very face I remembered.

As for the number of apparent scars, healed injuries and a more recent wound to his thigh, I am unable to assist either the Police or the Coroner. The Army Medical Records having been provided have been of little service, for it is patently obvious that none of those injuries were acquired during his military career or any other publicly known activities prior to his death. This of course leaves the Coroner at some- what of a loss , as I am not a medical man myself I can only make assumptions as to the very nature of the causes that scarred his body so and as for his drowning ; that is clear and beyond dispute . How he happen to find himself in bed during that process will be open to conjecture.

I personally believe that he returned to his dream and fulfilled whatever ambition he had, returning only to his nightmare when his body demanded it. I recently chanced up a very old map of the ‘ Amazonian Basin ‘, some part of Brazil yet to be fully explored and there in this vast expanse of green coloured areas are lines of blue that indicate the presence of river courses that had been discovered by then . There was also a list of names appended there too and dates of discovery, though I have been told that many earlier names have been changed to appease local political sentiment.

There in the middle of a confusing number of rivers and streams is a little marked river bearing some unpronounceable Portuguese name , which upon inquiry had previously been known as ‘ Johnsons River ‘ , in honour of some alleged English ‘ Captain ‘ ( that term was widely used for those in command ) who had travelled into those regions many years before accompanied by both Portuguese and Spanish Soldiers of fortune who had decided to bury the religious hatched imposed on them by the ‘Pope’ concerning the New World.

Signed ……………..

Witnessed by Inspector Alfred Thompson ………………..

Scotland Yard, Metropolitan Police

London SW 1

St. James

Assisting the Coroner, The City of London in the year 1901.

© AKSL