Clement Binnings / Binnings / Jr. Bubble Rule

1. Auflage 2015
ISBN: 978-1-4835-5914-8
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, Band 1, 397 Seiten

Reihe: The Bubble Rule

What happens when a soulless mob boss in India experiences the awakening of his conscience? He must silence it. What happens when it speaks to him in his own voice from the mouth of a five-year-old boy he is convinced is real? He vows to root the child out and eliminate him from the planet. What happens when that child is a fully enlightened spiritual master? That child, Grover, is not only a menace to him, but to the evil ways of mankind. What happens when that mob boss is one of the wealthiest, most powerful business magnates in the world? He, Duryodhana Talwar, will use every resource at his disposal to get him. It is unfortunate for Dr. Luc Fontainebleau that he is snared by Talwar's trap and must fight to save his mind from being encapsulated in this archenemy's bubble. How will his girlfriend Lola, a true angel through the storms, respond? How will her son Grover respond? How will Luc respond? And finally, how will Duryodhana respond when he ultimately meets his nemesis in the field of Kurukshtetra, that allegorical battlefield where vice and virtue clash? Find out in this metaphysical thriller.

Clement Binnings, Jr., born and raised in New Orleans, writes metaphysical/visionary fiction. His breakout novel Angel Through the Storms was inspired by the suffering and abandonment experienced by our fellow human beings stranded in the wake of Hurricane Katrina. This first novel in 'The Grover Series' was a visionary fiction finalist in both the Indie Excellence and USA Best Books contests and received an award from Readers Favorite in Southern Fiction. Its allegorical sequel, The Bubble Rule, depicts the battle between the desire-laden ego and its archenemy, the soul. His novels portray the transformative power of calamity, PTSD and dissociation to open the portals of intuition and our potential for cosmic consciousness, mental telepathy, reincarnation and teleportation.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Clement Binnings, Jr.

Binnings, Clement

Jr.,

Leseproben

Prologue

I wonder if it’s like this on other planets where sentient beings have evolved, that it is their nature like ours to violate the laws of nature, to choose discordance over harmony with the life systems that support them, to so alter their ecosystems until the planet can no longer support their existence.

We appear to be hurriedly setting the stage upon which we will view our own looming extinction, a phenomenon as certain to happen as is the next fiery rise of the sun at dawn. If indeed this is happening in a universe governed by immutable laws, it must be necessary, this mad assault upon the animal kingdom, this assault upon our very selves — it must be a necessary part of the process by which we ultimately slay the animal within us. It must be necessary for us to stare directly into this blaze of reality, to experience the burn of our own animal mortality upon our retinae and to be blinded by it if we are to see beyond human vision.

Whether we burn like mountain goats overtaken by a lava flow or fossilize in the mantle, or whether we wither like rose buds that fail to blossom in the spring or ride the air to the forest floor like yellowed leaves from an autumn cottonwood, we will transcend solidity and find ourselves bodiless, for that is the nature of our souls. Our ignorance of this fact condemns us to ego-centered lives where “survival of the fittest” propels the rape and pillage of all nature’s gifts thereby creating the setting for our greatest lesson. Hail to the Masters who have already learned, to the Seers whose light illuminates a different way, to all those whose example gives us another choice.

This is what my experiences with Lola and Grover and now Duryodhana Talwar have me contemplating.

My name is Luc Fontainebleau. I’ve been interviewing people and chronicling the events of the last nine months, ever since Hurricane Katrina — my therapy, you know. I heard that’s helpful. So much has happened in the last year and a half, I feel compelled to cut and paste all these scribblings into some form of coherence, to create a story so I can look at it like I’m reading someone else’s, so that I might see into it differently, to feel it and not feel it at the same time, to try to make some sense of it, to fully learn the lessons it has to teach so that I won’t blow the same bubbles of illusion all over again, so that I won’t have to relive the pain of their popping.

As I sit down to write this, I am looking at pages written by a man who wound himself around me like a python around a bobcat. I still can’t fathom how his journal became mine, but it did and I’m grateful. I’ve been poring through it over and over trying to incorporate his story into my own, because it is necessary. His initial entry explains why he started it and why he felt compelled to record every happening, every encounter and conversation of every day and his thoughts about them. For him, it wasn’t therapy. It was to be his story, not mine. How ironic that I, of all people, would be his author. This man took an ax to the hard drive of my brain. What I have discovered between these leather covers are big chunks from the shatter, and with the help of others who were there, I’m repairing the damage. Associations of memory are happening.

Helping this process is my daily practice of meditation. And even though I’m not that good at it yet, it’s offering up profound insights, not least of which is that events and impressions recorded and stowed away in the archives of our subconscious minds are indeed accessible. I’ve learned that there is a state of superconscious awareness where every experience is stored for later viewing. Problem is — it’s hard to get there. As we all do, I create my own storms. Indeed, I created my own “Katrina”. When she blew ashore, the only refuge I could find was deep in the roots of my being, a place my girlfriend told me about, a place where the wind does not blow.

So — where to start this story? Childhood? There’s a lot there. Maybe I’ll go there, maybe not. However it unfolds, I expect many people won’t believe much of it unless they’re into the paranormal or believe in angels. You see, I’m in love with an angel. Well, at least that’s what I think she is. Not an angel as in a “really good person” or a “do-gooder”, you know — the kind of girl who’s always thinking of others. Nor is she the “ideal” girlfriend, the kind one fantasizes about, the kind who’ll do anything for you. No — she’s none of those, but I’m telling you — she’s a real, honest-to-God angel from who knows where in this infinite sea of life, this boundless realm of consciousness few of us have explored, “God stuff” if you will. Her name is Lola. She’s an angel with invisible wings and I’m a person in love.

And, as if that isn’t enough, her son Grover, who is now only six years old, is an avatar — at least that’s what I’ve been told and I believe it to be true. He’s the little fellow who taught me how to meditate. He’s a spiritual master I tell you — a guru of the highest order — one of those exceedingly rare beings who beholds the infinite tapestry of Life in every fiber, who weaves his way through it with full knowledge of its ultimate design and purpose. Believe it or not, his father was Lola’s father, an abominable man who viciously beat and raped her, his little girl, and he did the same to his wife. Claude Parrish was his name; Sinker they called him — disappeared in the Louisiana swamp during Hurricane Katrina.

To this day, Lola has no idea why Grover chose her to be his mother for this incarnation. That’s right — I said “chose”. It was Grover’s choice, not some random accident — this much she is sure about. Knowing her goodness the way I do, it makes sense to me. But her goodness also made her vulnerable at that time of her life, particularly in her bad little, isolated world, and Grover saved her. This too she knows, but why her? After all, he is the “Keeper of the Flame,” the light of truth, and who is she? Just one girl out of three billion plus. I can see her point: even if she knows she is different in a special sort of way, it’s hard for her to understand why a true avatar would actually choose her to be his mother.

The Keeper of the Flame, that’s what Lola calls him. Some psychic named Truman foretold this to her while her baby was yet unborn, and she accepted it without question. Interestingly, this Truman guy, this gentle giant who foresaw the relevance of Grover’s coming into this world, died the very day the child was born — but not before seeing the glowing infant in person, holding him and blessing him and being blessed by him. I never met the man, but Lola says he gave her faith that what was going on inside her was meaningful and true, far beyond anything this world could ever teach her.

I was Lola’s obstetrician at that time, almost five years before we actually entered into a relationship. My life was so empty then, but I didn’t know it. I filled it with work, women, alcohol, gambling — really, intoxication of any kind, anything to distract me from myself. Then Lola appeared one day in our overcrowded OB clinic. She was like a little girl back then, just eighteen, but she seemed so much younger — this sweet, shy, petite pregnant person — this mysterious being whose childlike innocence settled onto the buds of my soul like beads of dew glistening yellow, green and blue in the morning sun on that first real New Orleans day of spring, that day when the air is crisp and clean and the humidity is low and the noon rays have burned off the mold of winter. She roused the protector in me, and I owned that responsibility like I had never done before.

A rosebud sprouted in me that day, its seed sown into the soil of my being when I was just a child by my loving nannie Lizzie, bless her soul, I know she’s resting in peace. Lizzie never made it out of Houston after Katrina — too old and her kidneys shut down, but her heart was so full of love! Oh my — how much love that fat-cheeked, cherubic woman shared — not just with me, but with all the Fontainebleaus, and ultimately with my dear Lola! I’m forever indebted to her and am grateful that she got to witness the miraculous delivery of our “angel through the storm” before she passed. It confirmed her faith.

So I’m in love with an angel, right? The love part I know. The angel part, I believe. My experience with Lola through Katrina and these nine months after says this to me. But she’s not the same girl I ushered through pregnancy. She doesn’t need me in that way anymore, and I don’t need to be her father disguised as a doctor anymore. She’s transformed. She’s an inspiration. She’s so strong, completely self-reliant and true to the directives of her guru which enter her through some mystical connection with her son. Now, it is me who is the vulnerable one. I am the one needing a guru, and somewhere along the way I unintentionally adopted hers — Grover. I guess that makes me a yogi, but I’m telling you — I’m a dysfunctional yogi at best. Like I said, I’m not really good at this meditation...