The Abundance Paradigm - a Novella

I finally crested that soft-gray world of half-sleep, stretching my every sinew under the luxury of silk satin. With eyes parted slightly, I looked around my terrace-garden room, breathing in the scent of lilacs and orchids and rich loam, listening to the song of the larks that made the zen-jungle of my house their home.

I had had the choice of whatever I wanted, of course, in devising my perfect house. I could have chosen anything – from a rustic cabin on Earth’s surface up to a palace on the Moon or Mars. My choice had been this aerie which floated above the solid land of the planet’s crust, with view of whatever beauty I chose to visit.

Built as a circle, the roof domed over the space in a crescent shape, leaving the center and half-perimeter as a terrace to the outside world. Under the roofed portion, there were no walls, except at the edge, defining my studio, Lee’s study and photo developing lab – Lee is the love of my life – and guest rooms. Under the main part, partitions stood, confining my bedroom, my bathroom, the kitchen, and dining room, with the living room open on the side facing the terrace. All the rooms were partitioned within my manicured garden-jungle, which had paved pathways running throughout, and sculptures in an Egyptian motif tucked here and there.

The windows and the terrace around the edge of my house were confined by an energy field, unseen but detectable to the touch. The field extended, completing invisibly the dome above.

I pushed away the sheet and sat, breathing deeply in satisfaction. Though I could have chosen to be cleansed, dressed and groomed by my robot valet, one of my many ’botties, there was something almost decadent in reaching for my robe and strolling to my cleansing fall – the waterfall and pool which holds hot water – to bathe myself. I dropped the robe on the floor and a ‘bottie came forth to pick it up and place it on a hook as I stepped into the pool. Stroking a cloth, so filled with sudsy sweetness, over my arms, legs and torso, I washed away what sweat and grime there was. I reveled in the application of cleansing cream, suited precisely for the skin I was born to, rubbing it, scrubbing it, into my face.

Floating in the pool, I rinsed myself, and then poured a generous amount of shampoo into my palm. The waist-length damp locks sudsed up as I applied the foamy liquid, and a sweet patchouli scent joined the earth-blossom richness of the surrounding flowers. I moved under the fall, which steamed as it fell, and rinsed the lion’s mane I call my hair.

Stepping forth from my bath, I grasped the ultra-plush towel which sat ready on a shelf nearby, and smoothed it over my damp skin.

Rather than use the insta-dryer, which would, I knew, dry and brush (and even coif should I request it) my hair, I picked up the abalone brush I had found in that queer little ancients shop in Belize – I had seen it and asked if the owner would part with it. He had smiled and suggested a small painting by the Infamous Isadore Illumente (my humble self) would be perfect payment. I offered him his choice of the paintings I had done and were still mine to give, calling forth my holoport – my “holographic portfolio,” for any distant historians – and, the shop keeper having chosen one (one of my darker ones called Struggling under Scarcity), the brush was mine.

Slipping back into my robe, I made my way to the terrace through my private jungle. The trees opened onto the wide, semicircular deck that seemed to drop off at the edge. A gentle breeze was detectable as I crossed the deck to the end of the stonework pavement and looked down. Below I could see the waters of the Colorado River winding through the walls of the greatest canyon on our planet. The walls, in fact, were higher than I was, though not by much.

Leaning against the force that kept me (and anything else) from falling over that edge, I began to brush out the kinks and snarls from my matted hair, taming the mane, allowing the abalone brush to separate the strands and facilitate drying. A long while I stood there against that invisible rail, feeling the sun and the breeze frolic in turn against my face and arms, teasing at the slit in my robe, carrying away the damp patchouli waters infusing my hair.

Looking out over the wide rift, looking mostly east, seeing the late morning sun splash the canyon into sparkles and shadows, I drank in the warming air. (I allow unfettered Earth air through my house whenever the weather is not inclement.) I saw a house floating along the river below, quite a bit lower down, moving downstream, and a short while later another whizzed past silently overhead in a southwesterly direction. I breathed and brushed and blended with the sublime.

After my hair was fully dry, I turned from the Grand Canyon view, idly contemplating, as I walked back to the stone-paved path through the jungle, where it would be that I would choose to wake up the next morning, and thinking it would be nice to revisit that hidden canyon off the beach in Northern California called Fern Canyon. Of course, my domicile would not fit in that narrow opening, but I could surely lower the ramp to the beach and take a stroll there with Lee, avoiding the little stream that runs through the rock-littered white sand that lay between the sheer, dark dampness of the walls barely seen in glimpses through the thick fern growth that grew up and up and up the tall walls that allowed just a very little sky above.

Yes, I thought, that is where I want to go.

Reaching the mirrored alcove, I cast an eye over my appearance. Deciding I would like to have my hair put up, I sent the thought out, and a little ’bottie slipped silently into the alcove with me. Taking my imagery as its design, it busied itself lifting my tresses here, sweeping them there, and pinning them just so with the dazzling pearl-and-gold pieces given to me by Auntie Suzy.

Auntie Suzy is a jewelry designer. That is her bliss. She has made an estimated 500 thousand bits of jewelry, and though many have been traded away for things she wanted, most she took full pleasure in gifting to her friends and to those who expressed deep affinity for a given piece.

I sent a thought to the wardie – the wardrobe ’bottie – to create my garb for the day. The wardie used my images and produced (ala the replicator in the kitchen) the rugged khaki pants, replete with pockets, and the lavender blouse I had in mind. Taking pleasure in the dressing ritual, I sent a message to the valet ’bottie to stay put. I really don’t know why I keep it around – I seldom need the speed it offers, and rarely use it.

The last bit of my attire was my Witness Necklace, of which I had several to match my outfits, all of which were artisan crafted. I selected a striking purple one from the collection and slipped it around my neck, settling the camera piece on my right shoulder, and closing the clasp. I always wear a Witness Necklace in public – of course, most everybody chooses to do so.

I reflected on the advantages the development of the Datacube technology offered (the technology which allowed plenty of storage to record every moment of one’s life, and keep Calendar and other records of important data, such as who had created that lovely table I had seen at Programmer Art’s place when Lee and I were there for Art’s secondary skill, culinary requests from the replicator. Somehow Art had the knack of combining ingredients into gustatorial feats of magic).

Every individual could record their perspective in their personal Datacube, and no one had the right to the data recorded but the Individual Humeself. (For historians, “Hume” is a genderless pronoun for a Human.)

Datacubes, of course, are unassailable. Amelia Ringer, bless her, I say, was instrumental in ensuring this for each one of Us. She fought to make sure that it was understood in society that each Individual owned Their own perspective, outright and ultimately. She argued that if there is a dispute over any issue, anyone may release any part of the data They, Themselves, have collected, and also cannot be forced to suppress what They know.

Amazingly, with that dual dam of data flow, where one cannot be forced to release one’s data, yet could also not be forced to keep silent, incidents of dispute dropped to bare minimum, as the practice of wearing some form of Personal Witness took hold, either overtly (as I wear) or covertly, as many chose in the beginnings of Datacube use. Most of Us now wear Our recording devices blatantly as a courtesy to inform others that Our perspective is being recorded.

I choose to record what I do out and about; it is Our right – or really, Our protection – and I have captured some hilarious moments that I have shared at parties, making it all worthwhile. And besides, when I connect to the camera I can look through its lens, seeing where it points – even behind me – without turning around. Most People choose to wear Witness devices, and One presumed always that there were recording devices going everywhere in public.

My Datacube not only recorded my perspective, it gave my instructions to the various ’botties, and in general was the heart of my house. On top of that, I could communicate with it instantly from anywhere on the planet (or even the universe) through scalar wave technology.

Dressed for the day, I ask for my Calendar – a scheduler, it is really, for whether it was Monday or Saturday only made a difference in whether some art or activity was scheduled for that day, and not in things like whether there was something one HAD to do – like go to work or pay taxes. Though I remember quite well my plans for the day, there have been times I thought I did – remembered the plans – only to discover I had forgotten something, so I made it a habit to check just in case.

As the Calendar formed its holographic self where I expected it, in air over my lap, I leaned back into my favorite couch. It was an Old Thing, my couch – something that came from before the labor was done by ’botties, by someone’s hand and attention – and thus to have found it was a stroke of luck for me. Most everyone I knew who cared about Old Things had at least one or two.

My sole Old Thing was my couch. It was deep maroon, a sort of Cleopatra’s lounge affair. The brocade upholstery had held up well; it too was Old. The addition of some spun gold lace at strategic points hid well the fraying spots, and I could proudly say there was no stain that I could see. I had done the sewing-on of the accent gold myself, for I love to do that sort of thing now and then. The wardie created the exquisite lace to my concept, and the result pleased me.

It sat in the living room, against the partition furthest from the terrace, with palms standing in back of it on either side. Pots with gardenia growing clung to the partition, in between which ran a small trickle of splashing water which fell down a staircase of protrusions from the wall that the partition provided, resulting in a quiet slip down the wall punctuated by a soft giggle of particularly exuberant fluid.

The Calendar displayed my expectations: the theatre guild was showing the latest of Ogden Pierce’s plays, but I wasn’t in the mood. Maybe next week… There was the bazaar, as usual this time of the cycle, and I thought it was a good possibility I might go. But really, today was not the day I looked at. It was tomorrow’s single item that tickled my eyes. Tomorrow Lee would be home.

Lee was my love, and through all the years we had known one another, Lee always came back to me. He loved to go on photographic shoots in the wilds of the planet that seemed to move below me as the house made its way gracefully through the air, heading for the northern coast of California. I had a number of my favorite of Lee’s photographs in my gallery here, in the spaces below my house; we intersperse our respective art there, and offer much of it for view should anyone ask. A great deal of our work was often used by those whose bliss was to publish nature journals or educational material, in Lee’s case, or offered in holoart groups on the web, in both our cases.

Lee had no house, though if he wanted one, he could surely have had one. He liked my house and was content to call my house his home. I, in turn, adored it in him that he was so happy to call my house his home.

I went to Humanity.web and checked my “local” section – nominally I live in Florida. Nothing new, no problems to solve there, and, moving upward to the regional section, I saw that some hurricane damage on Barbados was an issue. I really had no solution to offer, but it surely looked like a problem, so I voted it up. Others with more to offer in helping would see it and respond. I would just be in the way. I also cheered a suggestion made for a solution there. At the continental and planetary levels, I saw nothing new, having already voted on what was there. Thus, my civic duty was dispatched, and I returned to plans for the day.

After thought, I decided that I would spend only a little time at the bazaar, and come home to my own bliss – painting.

I got up and made my way out of my sanctuary, down the jungle-path hall to the J.D. The Jump Door was encircled with Egyptian themed symbols and icons. Sculptor Jed had offered to decorate the portal and, I must say, I found it to be a perfect addition to the garden that surrounded it. With intent in mind, with the place I was headed to, I stepped through the portal.

I looked around and took in wares, spread out on the steps and tables that were formed in a long river below me in the open free mall. This was a place that more often was a maze that lovers and children wandered through or played games in, but this cycle day, it was filled with the work of artisans. I stood at the top of the winding path, looking at all the New Things. All the things, created from love, by the proud Merchants languishing in repose, or seated in conversation with a prospective taker. Or perhaps animated, and inviting a look from those who passed by.

I had chosen the entrance at the top of the mall, liking the down-hill slope of the stroll through the seats and tables and alcoves used to display work and choose owners. There was much to see, laid out: jewelry and furniture and hand-sewn clothing, sculptures and paintings and decorations of all kinds. I thought it might be soon that I would bring my paintings here again to offer in their original to exchange and gift.

Around me swirled many a shopper, showing delight over this thing or that, with Merchants drawing them in for conversation and gifting. Now and again a Merchant expressed doubt that the shopper was the right one to receive their special creation. The shoppers would sometimes state their case for their appreciation and perhaps the Merchant would change his or her mind. Often the shopper would reconsider their desires and agree with the Merchant, moving on.

After some minutes perusing, my eye was caught by a fountain, which seemed to combine water and somehow light in ways that the light caught the water, cupping it with no discernible bowl yet holding it still, and then tossed it in arcs and streams and sprays to again be caught or showered downward in gemstone hues.

Seeing my gaze, hearing perhaps my gasp of delight, the Merchant approached me.

“Do you see something that appeals?” she asked.

I smiled. “Yes, I do indeed! That fountain is lovely!”

The Merchant smiled in return. “Who might I be having the pleasure to give this work to?” she eagerly inquired.

“I call myself Izzy,” I replied, “but I am called by others, ‘Infamous Isadore Illumente.’” I cast my eyes downward, a bit modest of the name. It was given to me when I was a wild and crazy teen, and though I wouldn’t say I had done anything really infamous, the title stuck and I chose it as my Web Name. “And you, what name do you have, Artist-Merchant?”

“I’m Fleur d’Eau to many, but I call myself Flo.” Flo’s smile brightened. “‘Izzy,’ you say? Then Izzy I shall call you! Come here and sit, Izzy. Let’s talk a bit.” She reached for my hand and I was led to a curved seat along the mall’s edge on the other side of the fountain.

Together we sat, and I learned that Flo was a water-and-energy sculptor, she had two children who usually were there to help her find the right recipient of her work (and who offered a piece or two of their own, now and then) named Sam, who was 13, and Dee, who was 8 – Sam had found a name as SoundMan Sam Hobson, as his bliss was music, and often he was asked to play at celebrations. Dee was still dallying with things, finding her bliss. At the moment, though, they had both chosen to see what was out there in the bazaar and had gone off, promising not to be long.

Flo’s partner Jacob, the father of Sam and Dee, was exploring the solar system and would be back in six months. Flo and the kids missed him a lot.

Flo learned that I had not yet chosen children, but that I had Lee in my life, and we might someday choose children. We talked about the play by Pierce, and soon discovered we both had seen many of the same works. I suggested that we might meet up at Pierce’s play, with any of our friends and family who wanted to come along, on the third day of the cycle next – Flo said it would be just her and her daughter, as Sam was not very interested in plays unless they were musicals. I had brought up my Calendar and, seeing the spot open, I had suggested it. Flo, checking hers, agreed, happy that her time was free then too.

I made the note, offering to pick up the tickets for the four of us, and smiled back as she looked up from making note as well.

“Flo, I thank you for your lovely work. There is a place in my garden that will set it off perfectly.”

Flo smiled. “The way your whole being lit up when you saw it, I just knew I had made it for you.” She took my hand and leaned in to me. “Thank you for appreciating it.”

I squeezed her hand, smiling back, and said nothing.

“Well, where shall I send this?” Flo asked as she stood.

Joining her in standing I gave her the picture-key through the co-ord ’bottie she gestured to, thinking the code image quickly and concisely. A moment later the lovely fountain was picked up by the Movers, a couple of the lift’n’tote ’botties, and they headed towards the nearest J.D.

I smiled and continued along the path after a final exchange of thanks. Little else stood out at all, and none I felt the need to have in my life. As I walked the first few paces, I gave placement orders to my house for the fountain, envisioning it standing where I thought would best suit both the garden and the fountain, and knew that all would be where I saw it in my mind when I got home.

I passed a band playing music with happy abandon, while many stopped to dance or listen. Perhaps SoundMan Sam had taken up with others to create this sound and one of the players I heard was him.

A short while later I tired of looking and listening, being hungry now, and yearning to paint – something, anything… Whatever came out on the canvas.

Seeing a J.D. handy, I held the vision of my memory key strongly in my mind – the image of a special moment in my life that told my home J.D. that it was me – and stepped into my house. I had given that key to my Datacube when I first had my home constructed, and it could recognize my image no matter if I was sober or (seldom) intoxicated. I never feared that someone would want to “break in,” as they called it in the Old Days. Whatever for? Sure, someone might covet my Old couch, I suppose, or one of my original paintings. But if someone wanted my Old couch badly enough to implore me for it, I would willingly let it go to them, for it must mean more to them than to me. And if anyone asks for my paintings, I am honored.

Asking for the fruits of another’s Love labors is the most common method of trade, though many times the Laborer offers Hume’s creations and they are usually taken gracefully.

I breathed deeply the scent of my garden, my jungle, then stepped along the path to the kitchen. I knew I could have a meal, in perfect prime and preparation, laid before me, but I found cooking a pleasure and usually did not rely fully on the replicator and serving ’botties.

I wanted something simple… To the replicator I asked, with visions of shell and yolk and clearness, for three eggs. And then a handful of truffles, some butter freshly churned, scallion and garlic, cream and cheese. I pulled the copper bowl from its place in my cupboards, and my whisk as well. Breaking the eggs, I whipped, the shells being tossed into the M.W.D. – the Molecular Waste Disposal, sort of a reverse replicator.

Setting aside the eggs, I chopped the truffles, the scallion, the garlic. Returning to the eggs, I added cream and whipped. And whipped a bit more.

Next a skillet came out of my cupboards, and onto the heat it went. Butter was melted and the chopped morsels leaped to a sizzle as I added them, stirring them, coating them in creamery goodness. As brownness set in to the mushrooms, scallions and garlic, I scooped out a spoonful to set aside, and turned once more to the eggs, and whipped again, then poured them into the truffles and scallion and garlic.

The heat I turned down, and a lid I laid upon the top.

While the eggs slowly hardened, I grated the cheese – a mellow swiss – and then peeked at the eggs. They were rising, like a flat soufflé, and I sprinkled most of the cheese over the fluffy surface, returning the lid to its place.

For a moment there was nothing to do, so I sent an image of my table in the dining area, set but lacking a plate, to my Datacube, my house, and knew the proper ’botties would be sent to do the bidding. Then I peeked again at my omelet to see the cheese well melted.

I pulled the skillet off the heat, removing the lid, and pulling a plate from my cupboards. I slid the omelet out of the skillet and onto the plate, neatly folding it as I did so. Cheese oozed from the edges invitingly. I sprinkled the creation with the last of the cheese, and then slapped the spoonful of truffle reserve upon the very top. My mouth was watering.

I lifted the plate, calling assurances to the ’botties that cared, that the kitchen could now be cleaned, and then moved into my sunny spot with a crystal-topped table, which was set for one, sans plate. I placed the plate in its appointed spot and sat. Again, I breathed deeply, and looked at last in the direction of the fountain, given in delight by Flo. It stood in a shady spot, all the better to draw attention to the light as it played with the water.

The scent of the truffles mingled with the rich aroma of the jungle that grew in my house. And I began my repast.


After breakfast, I made my way to my studio. There stood my easel, with a canvas in pristine white propped in place, waiting for my creativity to spill forth. A palate rested on a small table next to the easel, with tubes of paint, rags, cleaners, brushes, and spreaders in easy reach. So focused I was on the object of my creative outlet, I hardly noticed the rest of my sunny room: the hardwood floors in a pale ash, the wide windows that looked out on the sky and the horizon, the seats beneath the windows, the shelves and drawers containing books – mostly for reference – and other supplies.

I wrapped a smock around me and sat upon the stool, which placed me in front of the canvas and in arm’s reach of the palate and supplies. In my mind’s eye I saw a young girl, smiling, glowing with innocent pleasure as she lifted a tolerant cat above her in her hands. With this picture burning in my head, I laid the first strokes of paint, and as the hours – which seemed to me mere minutes – passed, the girl and the cat she loved formed before me in paint and bliss.

The following morning I made breakfast, and, with the help of a ’bottie, I served it to Lee in bed, climbing in next to him and tucking the silk of the sheets around me. I loved to see his pleasure taken from my efforts, and if he had had none, I would not have bothered. But he savored each bite, and thanked me more than once. When the ’bottie had cleared things away, we made love again, with passion as great as when he first returned.

As we lay there in the gentle warmth of the afterglow, kissing each other’s noses, eyelids, and shoulders, I asked, “Is it time to read the diary?”

Lee smiled lazily, looking into my eyes. Finally he released me from his arms and stretched, then said, “Yeah. I think so.”

I called a ’bottie to bring the book and moments later it arrived. We propped our backs up with pillows and I carefully removed the diary from its plastic covers, setting it between us. With respect and a gentle hand, I opened the diary to the first page, and we began to read:



I looked at Lee. “Good thing something was done,” I remarked. “Otherwise we would not be where we are today.”

Lee nodded. “A very good thing indeed!” We both knew that plans had been in the works to kill off most Humans, enslaving the remainder through mind control, mind wipes, and propaganda. A new and false history wound be presented, a new religion instituted. The vision had been to kill most of us, through disease, starvation, “natural” disasters, nuclear incidents, all designed by evil, power-hungry beings and executed through HAARP, NEXRAD, and other facilities, using tech like 5G to destroy most of us – and then to take the few “pleasing” humans underground while the Earth healed, to emerge when the planet had become livable again.

Of course, that did not happen – because of Amelia and her Ideas. We turned the page and read on.



On the margin was jotted,



We read on, giving a soft grunt to let the other know the page could be turned – Lee was usually the first to grunt, though I was soon behind him, as we snuggled together, enjoying the love we had and the sharing of Amelia’s diary.



I sighed. Reading this, I reflected on the choices that were made and how grateful we humans were.

Looking up at Lee, I asked, “Break time?” He smiled and nodded. “Then come with me and look. I have something to show you.”

Chapter 5



Ah, the three Laws of Ethics. Though Amelia was not the author of the three Laws – they are ancient – it was because of her work that we, humanity, became aware of them as a whole. The Lizard Hearted did not teach these, the only Laws above all else, but rather stressed their legal system. Amelia pointed out that in abundance, there is no need for any other rules, regulations, edicts, acts, bills, mandates, constitutions, decrees, statutes, codes, declarations, etc. – which all our governing legislations were. None of them were called Laws.

The three Laws, of course, are:


1. Do not willfully and without fully informed consent hurt or kill the flesh of another Being
2. Do not willfully and without fully informed consent take or damage anything that does not belong to you alone
3. Do not willfully defraud another Being (which can only happen without fully informed consent)


A Being (with a capital “B”) is a sentient, sapient Being. The beings – animals, plants – which are not considered sentient and sapient are still to be respected, given comfort, if they are domesticated, throughout their lives, and for food, a swift, clean, honorable death. Of course, with the replicators, flesh can be created without the death of animals. Some, like Chef Alouba, still use flesh of animals which had been living, but the practice has mostly fallen into disuse.

Lee and I read on.



Amelia had been mostly right – artificial intelligence became a “thing” for a while and it is used now in a few areas that need quick thinking, but mostly We don’t need it. We see Heaven now daily. Every individual can now choose the style of life they wish to live – in the community of those who share their preference, or as hermits, even. In abundance, it is a choice. Most groups maintain a presence on the Web, and can be found and read up on. People have a tendency to flock together by interests, though with the J.D.’s, family ties are kept by most. I tend towards hermitism, with Lee as my other half. But there are people who make house rounds daily – everybody is going to open parties or throwing open parties or both. In fact, lots of parties, from subdued intelligencia rationally playing with the puzzle pieces of life to the frat bash style, parties are ubiquitous.

Entertainment of others by hosting parties has become an art.

But what flourishes most is Love.

It’s hard to imagine seeing the vision of what could be and not having everyone else saying, “Well, duh.” It’s hard to imagine the blinders the scarcity paradigm wrapped around the minds of those who lived within it.

Then again… There had been those who deliberately amped up “scarcity awareness.” They amped up fear. They plotted and planned and folded information to show as little as possible of what was really going on, in politics (which was just a play they sold as “reality”), in tech, in cures, in spiritual growth, in ethics. Selected ignorance was the fare of the day, and many of these who had resources also plotted ways to take over the Human race, bring it back to a more “manageable” number, keep it in slavehood.

Amelia called them Lizard Hearted. Most everyone now knows who the Lizard Hearted, the psychopaths in power, were, and that Amelia called them that. Interesting that many of those she called Lizard Hearted had a specific gene that caused psychopathy, and they started out as the families running the operations here on Earth.

The Lizard Hearted were also developed on Earth, but lacked the DNA of galactic royalty – which Humans all have – and the ability to love. Many of the “leaders” of Earth had been Lizard Hearted, preferring to toy with the humans they led, making plans to assert power, derived from the scarcity paradigm through the accumulation of the money that kept them in control.

It’s rather amazing how much of the truth of our history was available in the infosphere even back in Amelia’s time. Most people that encountered it did not believe it, however, preferring the picture that the Lizard Hearted painted, calling the truth “myths.” The Terra Papers, written by Robert Morning Sky and taken from the Hopi teachings that were given to them by an ET in 1947 – the Papers were online. They described well the history of Earth – but few who read them actually believed them.

But as Amelia rose in the awareness of the infosphere, as more and more contemplated what she had to say, the Ideas she had…more and more secrets began to break the surface, like so many bubbles from an underground hot spring. The human “toadies,” who did the elites’ bidding, saw that there was no need to stay true to their elite masters, nothing was (or would be) held over their heads, because their knowledge would free all humanity from reliance on the elite, making them elite no more. More and more people aligned themselves with the efforts to build abundance for the human race, and in short order, the truth came out and Humans claimed their collective throne of the planet and solar system of Eridu.

Amelia’s diary continued…



“Ah, yes!” Lee exclaimed. “That was what really got the ball rolling.”

I nodded, “Yep. That episode is a classic. Bless Stephen for having the sight to see what it all meant!”



I smiled. Yes, though she didn’t grasp that the government was a corporation and we had no control of how it spent the money it took from us, Amelia was right. And thanks to Stephen Stewart, her message hit the tipping point. We made the right choice, and the rest is history.

I reached up and ran my fingers through Lee’s hair. “Tomorrow is the annual show in San Francisco. The house is headed that way so that we can have a good vantage for what the Fireworks Boys have in store for us tomorrow night.” The Fireworks Boys was one of the best fireworks enthusiast groups around, though they included “girls” too.

“Great,” Lee responded. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen fireworks – at least four months!”

I called to the house, asking for a meal of fresh, small Brussels sprouts, lasagna with Portabella mushrooms, crusty, buttery garlic bread, and a freshly baked raspberry tart with lots of whipped cream for dessert. I suggested to Lee that we head to the dining area for our dinner, and after a quick query about the menu – which he approved of – we headed that way.

The next morning Lee and I took our breakfast on the terrace, gazing at the bridge, gilt in actual gold now and glowing in the early sun, and at the bay, and the skyline to our right, also now a mostly golden sight, with the hills of Sausalito to our left. Others were gathering in the skies around the bay, and though no one was nearby, I would guess that already three hundred thousand houses had found their viewpoint for tonight’s display. The whole shoreline of the bay was dotted with houses, parked at many levels above the surface, none close to one another except as it might appear so in the distance, and except for groups that were connected to share the experience together.

We had a team of ’botties place a sofa facing the view of the bay over the edge of the terrace. As they brought a table laden with finest caviar, fresh coconut, and other organic delights, we sat and tasted the spiral of anticipation sensed around the bay, seeing a house here and there settling into place, sometimes close enough to distinguish it was a house, but most often as a dot off towards the city or Sausalito, with the field filling in across the bay throughout the day.

Our repose led to expressions of our love, and in repose we languished for a while, nibbling on the delights from the table and each other.

Finally, I said, “I really want to read more of the diary.”

Lee knew well my particular gratitude and interest in Amelia, and we both implicitly understood the synchronistic aspect of his discovery, and so he understood my shift of focus. Besides, he, too, enjoyed the bits of history he discovered on his phototreks, and this was as exciting to him as it was to me. We both relished the fact that we could share this find.

Lee nodded eagerly, and at my thought, the diary was retrieved from its last location and brought forth by a ’bottie. It still sat on top of the brown plastic bag which sat atop the zipper bag, and the ’bottie laid the stack beside me. We settled in to read with a final kiss.



Lee and I smiled at one another.



“Hey, I wonder if Cara and the gang are free,” I commented as I stretched. “I wouldn’t mind inviting them over for the show. What do you think?”

Lee stretched along side me and nodded. “Sure, if they’re available. Sounds like a plan.”

Cara, Tim and The Kid – who was not a kid, actually; that was just his name – were friends with an interesting arrangement. The three of them were married, and all three had their bliss in social reporting. They attended soirees, parties and events and then reported on them on the Web – on their blog, TiCK.net. Their site on the Web is highly trafficked, and they have a reputation for good suggestions as to public events to attend. Often they were busy, but now and then they had nothing to do.

“I’ll call and see if any or all of them are available.” I got up and, with another stretch, called to have myself connected with their house.

Tim’s hologram appeared on the terrace nearby, sitting in an ornately carved wooden chair. “Izzy! Long time no talk! What’s up?”

“Hey, Tim. You and the gang busy tonight?”

Tim reached and pulled a holographic bowl of cereal from the air nearby, stirring it with a spoon, and said, “Well, we are in San Francisco for the fireworks. You know about the show?”

I grinned widely. “Sure do! In fact… That’s where WE are!” I laughed.

Tim took a bite of cereal, chewing quickly and swallowing before responding. “That’s great! Wanna get together?”

“In fact,” I offered, “that’s why I called. I thought it would be great to have the gang over. Interested?”

Tim finished another bite and replied, “Let me check with Cara and The Kid. I’m thinking it doesn’t matter whether we report the perspective from here or there, so they’re not likely to mind. They’re out at the moment, but I’ll call them and get back with you.”

I nodded. “I’ll await your call with bated breath,” I said with a wink and a smile, and Tim blinked out.

I looked over to Lee, and he grinned at me, then beckoned me to his side. We cuddled and stroked each other, building desire but holding back in anticipation of Tim’s return call.

Shortly, I received notice that Tim was calling, and I instructed the house to put him through.

“Hey, Izzy. Does 6:30 sound good? Cara and The Kid said it sounded splendid, and we can be there.” Tim’s smile spoke of his pleasure at the coming evening.

“Oh, that’s great! 6:30 is perfect. I’ll have a meal waiting, so come with empty stomachs. We’ll see you then!” I returned Tim’s smile.

Tim nodded. “Thanks for the invite.”

“Most welcome, Tim.” I waved and then Tim vanished.

I turned to Lee and gently bit his ear. He cupped my breast, and as I instructed the house to welcome the gang anywhere from 6:00 on for a while – remind me later if they don’t show up by 8:00 – I crested on his shores.

Lee and I awoke, tangled in each other’s limbs. “Good morning, Beautiful,” Lee murmured into my ear. I nuzzled his neck in response, feeling the warm firmness of his body pressed against mine. Our passion built slowly as we kissed and stroked and sought the spots we knew so well would bring the other pleasure. Then we boiled over into one another’s climax, to rest then and whisper our gratitude and love.

“Let’s read more of the diary,” I finally suggested as our sea of love came to a calm, sending the request for the book to be brought again. Silently the ’bottie slipped into the room, placed the pile on the bed beside us, and moved out again to where it awaited the next request. I lifted the book and brought it between us, thumbing through the pages to where we left off.



Lee and I stretched in unison, breaking from our reading. “Oh,” I said. “Tonight I am meeting the artist of the fountain in the garden – her name is Flo – to see the new Ogden Pierce play in Manhattan. Care to join us?”

Lee popped his Calendar up on his lap before him and scrutinized his schedule. “Sure,” he responded. “I have a meeting with the Photobuffs – but they are always meeting and I am willing to miss that to see Ogden Pierce’s work performed. With my favorite person in the world, of course.” He winked, and I winked right back.

We meandered into the kitchen together, now hungry, and I made a minor feast with pancakes, omelet, fresh cantaloupe, and rich coffee with stevia to sweeten it for me and sugar for Lee. I prefer stevia in my coffee, though many prefer sugar. In the Old days, in the money-driven hell that it was, stevia was suppressed. Though it was a natural herb whose extract was 300 times sweeter than sugar, and supported a healthy blood sugar level, the sugar and artificial sweetener Corporates passed laws that kept it from being called a sweetener, and the “Food and Drug Administration” raided places that were using it in their products, confiscating product, along with the tools and equipment being used, often leaving the companies that tried to offer this better choice to people bankrupt and incapable of further production.

Though there was a “loophole,” in that stevia could be called a “nutrient,” it did not sell as well with “fortified with stevia” as it would have if the label could have read “sweetened with stevia.” And, of course, the mainstream media – the “MSM” – never mentioned stevia in any consistent, comparative fashion.

In fact, until people “woke up” to the possibility of abundance, there was a lot that never made the MSM. The general media was, of course, controlled. The Lizard Hearted used it as they used the laws to control the Human Hearted, keeping them enslaved in their wage/debt-slave misery. They whipped up nationalism with lies and half-truths to incite wars – to the profit of the war suppliers, the war profiteers. They used it to discredit those who brought truths up, with character assassination as the primary tool. They insinuated that there was something inherently wrong with altering one’s consciousness – except with alcohol, and patented drugs, to the profit of drug companies and the medical establishment, as the patented drugs caused illness and organ deterioration, sending the people to the doctor to find relief from these further issues.

They used it to suggest that sodium fluoride – a toxic waste product – was somehow good for the body, never reporting the myriad studies that showed quite the opposite. They even tried to suggest it was “natural,” pointing to calcium fluoride which does exist in nature, as merely “fluoride” and trying to make a case that sodium fluoride was basically the same.

They never reported the hundreds upon hundreds of studies that showed only benefits from cannabis, because it threatened the profits of the dubious patented drugs in its efficacy and lack of side effects. They did not report its anti-cancer properties, its effectiveness in treating pain and depression.

They used the media to distort the view of the world, supporting the draconian Codex Alimentarius – part of what was called the “New World Order’s” efforts to nutritionally starve the “excess humans” on the planet.

They did not report the fact that new teeth could be stimulated to grow where only a root was left in the jaw. They did not report the costs of their “War on Drugs” in terms of functional families broken, disenfranchisement of citizens, and the money spent to hunt, sting, process, try and incarcerate “offenders.” They did not report the effects of breathing the exhaust from the old internal combustion engines, ubiquitous in that day (but profitable to the oil Corporations), yet exaggerated the effects of second hand tobacco smoke – which actually seemed to counter the effects of the sodium fluoride they pumped into the water supplies…

It was a very bad time indeed. But because of Amelia… Well, I suppose it’s obvious by now why I have such regard for her, why her history has been a passion of mine, and why having her diary to read is such an exciting thing for me.


With breakfast finished, Lee went off to the Web again, and I was left to my own. I had a ’bottie bring me a sketch pad and I began drawing out the concept for my gown for the evening. Having come up with something I thought would be most fitting for the affair, I sent instructions to the wardie to have the garment ready at 7:00.

I wandered over and watched my new fountain, thinking of how nice it was that I would be seeing Flo again, as well as seeing Ogden Pierce’s work performed.

Finally I moved on to my studio. Little Buddha and Companion was nearly finished and I was looking forward to adding it to my gallery, and hopefully finding someone who wanted my creation for their very own. I pulled a smock from a drawer, wrapping it around my body, and sat. I lifted the pallet, clean and waiting, from the nearby table and squirted paint of various colors onto the white surface. I selected a brush and turned my awareness completely to child and her cat.

At 6:00ish, I looked over my work, well pleased. It was done. There was the innocence and delight I wanted to capture. The patience and good sport of the cat. I called a ’bottie to clean up and to bring a camera. When the camera arrived, I snapped a photo of the painting and then left the studio, making my way back to the living room and my Old couch. I called up the Web, which formed in front of me, and accessed my site. I uploaded the picture to my holoport and had the house send emails to my list – which now was in the hundreds of thousands – to let them know I had added a piece to the gallery, with the image I had taken of the painting embedded.

I checked my email and Humanity.web while I was at it, finding nothing of interest, and then hit the history sites. There were many, like me, who were interested in one aspect of history or another, and they had formed groups and associations, with new finds and information added daily to their growing catalog of facts. One specifically was devoted to Amelia, and I was looking forward to having the diary scanned and adding that to the site. What a stir and commotion it would create. But I wanted to finish reading it before I let anyone know of the find.

Of course, the diary itself would go to the Museum. The Museum was maintained by a group whose passion it was to collect artifacts of the past. And Amelia’s diary was sure to be something THEY would want as well. As the donor, I would have rights to bring it back home to show to friends, but people seldom used that right. Just jump to the Museum to see it, safely ensconced and protected from time. I doubted that once I gave it to the Museum I would ever bring it back here.

At 7:00 I got up to dress, finding my gown, a rich purple affair with a single strap over my left shoulder and a wide gold accent belt, hanging in the bedroom. I bathed quickly, again meeting Lee as I lifted myself from the waters of the pool. He reached for a towel and daubed the dampness from my skin, kissing me gently as he did so.

“Thank you. Love,” I said when he had finished.

“Truly my pleasure,” Lee responded with a wink and a grin. I grinned back and then began the process of dressing for the play. Lee bathed and then did the same.

When I had completed dressing, I had my hair done in braids and then swirled about my head with amethyst pins peeking from the plaits. I made my face myself, lining my eyes and coloring my lips. When I was done, I found Lee – who had dressed in short order in a black tuxedo – poking on the Web in the living room.

“Going OLD school, are we?” I teased.

Lee grinned. “Yep. I thought a night on Broadway should be met with formality. Do you like it?” He stood and modeled the suit for me.

“Indeed I do. It makes you look sexy – not that you aren’t sexy in anything you wear!” I assured him.

He looked me over and replied, “As you are sexy in anything you wear! That’s stunning on you.” He offered his arm, which, demurely, I took, and together we headed for the J.D.

Lee and I bathed away the sweat of our exertions, the hike and our passions, relaxing in my bath. The waters of the fall splashing downward rinsed and refreshed us, and we languished there a while, listening to the song the water sang in gurgles and gulps around us.

At last I spoke. “Shall we return to Amelia?”

“Yes. I am curious to see how she viewed the experience of being on the Stewart Report that night.”

Amelia’s appearance with Stephen is, of course, historic, and school children are shown the footage in history lessons; we all knew what was said that night. But her perspective was largely unknown, so the diary was a blessing for any (like me) who wanted more of the story.

We pulled ourselves from the waters, pausing to dry one another with the thick towels at hand and moved into the bedroom where we found the diary as we had left it, sitting on the now made bed, awaiting our return. We snuggled in, rumpling the smooth surface of the spread.



“I’m hungry,” I announced.

“Me, too,” Lee replied. We set the diary aside and headed towards the dining room, deciding that lunch would be best fixed by the replicator since we were both too famished to wait for preparation.

I suggested scallops in a creamy wine sauce, with broccoli and baked potato. Lee said that sounded awesome, and so I gave the instructions even as we were making our way to the table.

Shortly after we sat, a ’bottie served the requested meal and we dug in.

“Where shall we go next?” I asked as we nibbled a delightful dessert of rich coconut cake.

“Interested in some spelunking?” Lee queried, looking at me in hopeful anticipation. “Maybe Carlsbad Caverns?”

I shook my head slightly and responded, “Spelunking sounds great, but Carlsbad Caverns is so crowded!”

“True,” Lee replied. “Well, I know of some volcanic caves, runnels of lava that cooled on the outside and drained the liquid interior to create caves, out in the desert of southern California… They shouldn’t be overrun.”

“Ooo, sounds interesting. Tell the house where they are and let’s go.” I smiled in exuberance.

Lee nodded and then paused briefly. The house asked if instructions were approved – although Lee is “authorized” to request things of my house, things like a change of location get verified with me. I sent my approval and saw the world out beyond the house begin to move.

“Hey, let’s see if Lil is free. Maybe she would like company…” I suggested.

“Sure. Call her up,” Lee agreed.

I asked the house to connect me to Lil, and shortly Lil appeared nearby.

“Oh, Izzy!” exclaimed Lil when we connected, “I was going to call you! I’m having a few friends over this evening to play cards. Interested?”

“Great,” I responded. Lee was nodding, and though Lil couldn’t see him, she could tell by the direction of my look and my acknowledging nod that Lee was for the idea.

“See you around 7:00 then?”

I smiled. “We’ll be there.”

“We have about eight hours. Diary or Dangle Park?” Lee asked when Lil’s hologram had vanished.

I weighed the options. Dangle Park was the amusement park that hung high above Rio de Janeiro. It had energy rides, slides, and other excitement. It had been a while since I had visited Dangle Park, and I adore any amusement park, but on the other hand, I was looking forward to the uploading of the diary scans to AmeliasHistory.org, and I needed to finish reading it before I did that so that I could say I was the first (with Lee, of course) to read what she wrote. That was a status perk and I wasn’t going to let it go.

“Maybe we can do Dangle Park next cycle, after we finish the diary.”

Lee agreed, and we headed back towards the bedroom. As we were walking, the house tapped me on the mind and let me know that another house was coming up on us and was asking to dock. In the same breath it let me know that it was the Horny Toad Society. I made a face and asked the house to thank them for the visit but that there was no one here interested in their gifts.

The Horny Toad Society enjoyed orgies with strangers, approaching houses at random and offering their gifts. They had become well discussed on the Web, and many chose to accept. Lee and I had discussed how we felt about such offers and had agreed that we were committed in keeping energies flowing in focus between the two of us and not weakening our bond with energies diverted elsewhere.

In fact, Cara had once shyly suggested Lee and I might join her with Tim and The Kid – they both thought it was a cool idea, too – in a ménage a many, but Lee gently explained that he and I were connected spirits and that we maintained the energy in a closed circuit between us. We both thanked her and assured her that her offer of the gift was appreciated.

So when HTS made its offer to us, I felt confident in passing up the offer for Lee.

Still, I informed him after the Society had moved on, in case he had changed his mind since last we spoke of it. “The HTS just offered their gifts. I presume you’re uninterested?”

Lee laughed, “Darling, you don’t know HOW uninterested I am.” He stopped to take me into his arms and lift me off the floor. Kissing me deeply, he stroked my back and buttocks with one hand while he held on with the other. I relented to his touch, pressing my breasts against him and wrapping my legs about his waist. He carried me into the bedroom, as on my fleeting thought a ’bottie scurried to move the diary out of harm’s way. He laid me across the bed, sliding atop me as he did. As I welcomed him, I thought, the diary can wait a little longer.

After we had cooled the circuits, kissing and cooing our thanks for one another, I idly called for the diary and the ’bottie came forth.