In American colloquial English, a “dog pile” refers to the crush of bodies piled on top of someone during a sporting event. Typically, this would be seen in a football game (American football), where the ball carrier is stopped and the opposing team players pile on top. It helps to confuse and cover activity to break loose the ball, for example. There is also the psychological value of letting this runner know if he tries any more heroics, there is a mass of human flesh that will crush him every time. These days any ball carrier worth having in uniform is not the least bit intimidated, and usually knows to tuck the ball in where it can’t be jostled loose, but they still do it in many games. It’s against the rules in the strictest sense, but it’s tolerated.

Iran is the ball carrier on the opposing team, and the US with all her allies are the dog pile.

If you could, for a moment, think back to 9/11. You may recall Rumsfeld admitted a day or so prior the Department of Defense had lost track of 3 trillion dollars. It was spent and they couldn’t account for it. One of the explosions just happened to destroy the portion of the Pentagon where all the accounting data was stored on computers and such.

But that’s not all. The Twin Towers were loaded with asbestos, and someone had just bought them and taken out double insurance on the buildings just shortly before they were destroyed. And Building 7 was the site for a massive storage of highly valuable materials in a basement vault. The vault was empty when the recovery workers finally dug down to it. And a lot of controversial background financial shenanigans was suddenly buried because vast hordes of accounting data was lost, as they were maintained on servers in those Twin Towers. I’m still waiting to find out the real reason for Flight 93.

In other words, 9/11 was used to cover up a tremendous amount of high crimes in high places. It’s hard to investigate when the evidence is not available. If nothing else, it was a clean up operation for all sorts of big shots. And we can probably throw in testing of some new technologies.

Iran is not just one thing. The business with nukes is just noise. Nobody who knows anything about it believes Iran is building nuclear weapons. Our own best intel, and Israel’s best intel, have already announced definitively it ain’t happening. This is about Iran’s attempts to withdraw from the international banking controls now taking over the world. It’s about Iran’s attempts to withdraw from dollar trading oil. That is, they want to sell oil without having to use dollars. And there are quite a few other background issues where Iran isn’t on board with the rising global government.

That’s why Libya was stomped, and it’s why Syria is being threatened. Real story? Syria’s current instability is because the CIA and Mossad have sent agents in to create the appearance of a revolt. In other words, it’s an invasion. Taking advantage of some genuine unrest, the US and Israel have sent clandestine troops in and turned it into a bloodbath. Our people are committing murder, acts of war, without a declaration of war.

Everything the official sources say about Iran was said about Iraq, almost word for word. The track record for accuracy here is about zero.

I’m not going to claim some brilliant clear vision. I learned from people much smarter than me. When I predicted how the OWS stuff would turn out, it was nothing more than collating information from people who understand these things, but people who get little hearing from the public. And it is all coming out as they predicted, and as I guessed it would. We are seeing Syrian-style violence against the protesters in places like Oakland. But when the US does it, it’s okay, right? My instructors are pretty smart people.

But they would tell you it’s not a matter of who they are, but what they teach. It’s paying attention to people who are actually there on the ground, people who don’t really have a political agenda beyond merely telling the truth. Connect the dots for yourself; they are there, though seldom offered in the MSM, at least not with the proper connections a real journalist would point out for you. And if you want to call it “critical thinking,” that would work, too. Question everything. When someone makes a big announcement, without a doubt it’s sleight of hand. There is no such thing as a real announcement these days, when everything is covered under veils of secrecy. The only reason to make any noise is to draw your attention away from something more embarrassing. Whatever it is they admit to, the real issue is far worse.

We’ll go to war with Iran. The only way to prevent it will be mostly a matter of dollar-based oil sales and banking integration. There are some other issues, but those are the easiest to see. It’s a dog pile.

We could debate the terms and argue the definitions, but I still maintain we can best understand the Internet as the means for a new civilization rising over the current Western Civilization. This became one of my recurrent themes during the past year, and I have tried to warn people to think differently, to see the implications of this new Network Civilization.

One of the most fundamental elements of human existence is interacting with other humans. The presence of a global network changes more things than most people realize. Too many mindlessly absorb the methods without giving a single moment’s thought to major implications, letting things drift aimlessly, which makes it particularly easy for the savvy to control things for their own ends.

The computer geeks were the first to seize upon this, which transformed the world for them. They are now the new priesthood of world religion, though only a few of them are fully aware of the governing forces which control them, in turn. Try to remember religion is merely a word for the cultural construct of how people interact regarding the substance of life itself, not necessarily with any real connection to spiritual things. Regardless of ultimate truth and the moral fabric of the universe, religion as the cultural perception of such things reflects the combined guidance of the priesthood.

But the priesthood of geeks, witting or not, serve another grand force. This force has always been a mixture of multiple threads, a fabric which has a character derived from the fluctuating dominance of this or that thread over time and place. We can discuss the whole thing, or we can focus attention on one thread or another, but it takes a bit of thinking to see how they relate. We can’t afford to be simplistic about this. Thus, I often insist “the Illuminati” is a term which does not refer to some unified grand force, but is just as partisan and riven inside as any other human political organization. We can characterize the effects of their work at any given time, and we can trace out the individual threads of their internal politics (if we can get enough information), but by the time we can organize it for posting here and there, or write a book about it, the information is probably out of date. It takes a good bit of internal intellectual organization within our individual minds to keep track of it just for ourselves. That is, if we care. But that there is a global conspiracy of control is self-evident, and what matters here is they are making good use of the Internet.

I rather like the summary offered by The Daily Bell at Lew Rockwell’s site. The particular subject of the day is Facebook and their IPO plans. The Bell correctly notes this is not some happenstance of entrepreneurial genius. It may have begun as just a hobby that grew in popularity, but for it to ever go above hobby level required some serious money. That kind of money will always have some kind of purpose. A great many “useful idiots” are in the service of this global cabal, and Zuckerberg is just one more. Whether he knows it or not is for him to decide and reveal, but we can deduce quite a bit from watching this thing. That Facebook serves as a data source for government intelligence agencies is not in dispute; the only people denying it are those paid to do so.

This is no different in purpose from the heavy emphasis on getting as many people as possible onto the phone networks with smart phones as their primary means to access the Net. I’m hardly the only person who sees how tablet computers are being integrated into this, because some people just don’t like those tiny screens. Never mind how well they suit our common habits of use; few would want such a device were it not for the services available. Those services are not developed randomly, because the pattern of investment alone shows a conscious purpose. Along with turning the Net into a one-way service for consumption only, there is a powerful effort to get everyone on Facebook, Google, and every other data-mining operation out there.

We might not know just when Microsoft and Gates became complicit with government based spying, but it was surely a part of the lawsuit settlement when MS was charged with violations of monopoly laws. The way in which the business with the NSA Key in Windows 2000 was hushed up was a classical intelligence service squelch. People who know, and could get away with saying it, have long pointed out how Windows, from a commercial standpoint, was merely a mechanism for delivering the user to the advertisers. Would it be any less a delivery mechanism for users to government spying?

It’s much easier to overcome privacy objections without laws, simply by enticing the world to surrender their personal data voluntarily. Every point along the way, the trends of computer software, OSes and the Internet as whole, is best understood from this viewpoint. Not because of how it will all turn out; God alone controls that. Rather, what we can expect from the various providers is more easily predicted when we understand the only reason it hasn’t all been brought down already is because it’s too valuable as an intelligence source. Marketers are permitted to profit only when they play along with it. We should expect the likes of this brouhaha over Carrier IQ to arise again and again, even as the really serious breaches of privacy go unnoticed. What difference does Carrier IQ make when there’s Facebook?

Nor is it so wise to panic about every part of this. My point here is not fear, but awareness. There’s a certain amount of change necessary to move forward and accomplish those things we feel are our reasons for living. We have to keep up with the way civilization as a concept is morphing in itself, along with how it morphs from Western to Global Network. We have to understand the new ways of doing things at a fundamental level. For example, it’s one thing to have friends I’ve met in the flesh, with whom I’ve shared some experiences which serve to enable friendship. It’s another to make friends on the Net whom it is unlikely I’ll ever meet in the flesh. I still have to find a way to make them genuine friends, find a path to building that shared experience without the geographical sharing. What I must do with my remaining years of life requires that added dimension of reaching across the wires and creating that same sort of warmth in other souls. It’s a matter of knowing what it will cost me along the way so I can pay the full price willingly.

This intelligence gathering will happen regardless of the means, the venues where it takes place, etc. Be aware. I don’t participate in Facebook, Twitter, etc. I try to avoid letting Google have too much of my life, by using other services, including search engines (I use Startpage and get the same results without the tracking.) I try to avoid using Windows or Mac, because both of them are open to spying, as is Android. My choices won’t work for you, because they are mine. You need to consider your own life’s purpose and decide what fits.

More important than what you decide is that you decide consciously.

Americans were not ready, and things were chaotic. Thomas heard bits and pieces, and realized he could never go back. European governments were generally more stable, at least where there hadn’t been huge immigrant populations from what had been third world countries. Even with generational culture shifts, the Europeans themselves were fairly stable, preferring to keep their lives as orderly as conditions permitted.

Somewhere in southern Finland, the couple living in the cabin on the hill became the center of a resurgent spiritual life in what had become a rather isolated village in a very depressed economy. If anyone remembered how it was back in the spring when the woman first wandered into the village, they pretended they did not. She was a good ten kilos heavier, and didn’t really look the same, anyway. Quite the beauty now, her equally beautiful singing voice filled the chapel during their frequent gatherings, and no one seemed to tire of hearing her.

There were many stateless refugees in those days. She and her husband were simply two more. But because she had a unique talent for translating so many languages, the village drew quite a few families seeking a new life in a quiet rural home. They brought important skills. So the village was a bustling place, with all the rental space taken by permanent residents. More housing was under construction. There were new businesses, a health clinic, a new school, and the village was planning a new chapel, as Thomas was now the de facto pastor. The village had little interest in getting all the right paperwork. Because they paid taxes and tithes, officials far away said little.

It was as if someone in the village had turned on a light, and as the world became a more dark and difficult place, the beacon burned ever brighter.

Last month I received notice it was time for my annual Veteran’s health check. That means heading downtown OKC (the hospital district is just east of downtown) to the VA Hospital. I prayed it would be a warm morning, because I wanted to ride my bike.

It was 50°F. I even bought a new set of lights so I could leave early. It was a nice 16 miles going out, and I had no trouble with drivers acting crazy. Of course, along with the lights I wore my biggest, brightest reflective safety vest. And my helmet has a reflective coating, too. I suppose they saw me.

The doctor was envious of me having the chance to ride that far. He looked at my lab work and all the numbers and said I was in better shape than guys much younger. He asked if I was willing to come out and play role model to other veterans. He hates having to push pills on so many because they won’t take care of themselves. He threw my prescription sheet away.

I guess I’m doing okay. This also explains why I didn’t post as early as normal.

There aren’t that many Ron Pauls to go around.

So we assume everyone going into office is corrupt. Things would make a lot more sense if we started from that position. Instead of lying to us about what they’re going to do, if we could just come clean, be honest about the corruption, I’d be a lot more likely to play along.

Even the Zionists in our government are dishonest. Their supporters are pretty honest in telling you their agenda — everything for Israel and America be damned. We understand that. But the politicians who carry out this agenda aren’t even honest about that. They always charge a high fee by way of corruption to do it. They aren’t the true believers all of their supporters appear to be.

People get involved in government because they want the extra leverage to enrich themselves. You know it; I know it. They know it and lie about it, and we agree to believe them. What I want is not a stack of Ron Paul types, because I know they will never exist. What I want is a chance to see open dealing, for a politician to tell you where and how they plan to tap that vast stream of revenue. Not the amounts; that’s just a variable about which we’d simply have more lies. Just tell us what your special interests are, whom you favor. Then, carry out your contracts. Just be ethical enough to execute your own corruption honestly.

If just a tiny minority of politicians began doing this, I’d go register to vote. Taking graft is something we should expect, and stop fussing about all that Orwellian talk of “good and honest government.” Good moral people would never allow themselves to be railroaded into government such as we have now. So everyone in government is a crook already, or they wouldn’t be interested. All it would take is just a few being honest about this and I would willingly participate in elections again.

Until then, there really is no point. It’s all fixed at some level, and your vote means less than nothing. You pay extra for the privilege of being raped.

“When people work outside a lot, their bodies adapt by doing a better job of both warming and cooling as needed. It’s just a bit chilly this morning, but I won’t wear long sleeves because I’ll be warm enough once I start working. You can decide for yourself, but you have to take the time to notice how your body feels. You can learn to anticipate how it will respond to things you’ll do later.”

She left the coat in the cabin as they began climbing the hill into the woods. He began explaining the concept of ego boundaries. Quickly outlining normal human development, he started with infants who have no ego boundaries. “For newborns, when they are hungry, the whole universe is hungry. Parents are just an extension of their desires.” Then he described the normal process of development, the awareness of self, and others as separate. Most people are aware they cannot force others to perform their wishes, because other people have their own will.

Arriving at the last place he worked, he pulled the small tarp open and took out the double-handled saw. The first thing he did was take her to a rather large broken treetop, something that fell in last winters’ heavy winds. He explained how some things required coordination between two people. He showed her the saw could do more work if she was on the other end, pushing while he was pulling, and vice versa. Yet, even he was surprised how much more was accomplished once she got the hang of it.

They worked through the morning, stopping to rest from time to time. An hour short of lunch time she was sweating just a bit, and they had already drained the water jug he had brought. They stopped to rest at the wood pile, which stood at the top of a rise some ways behind the cabin. He heard the sound of an approaching vehicle, not the old man’s tractor. It was an old car pulling a rather large trailer.

He waved at the driver, then commented to Lana, “People can’t see your smile from a distance, so we wave to welcome them into our presence.” She tentatively raised one hand, then dropped it again. She stood silently in place while Thomas went to greet an unusually animated old fellow driving the rig. That is, he was somewhat more subdued than Thomas, and smiled a good bit more than most Finns. He owned one of the cafes in town, and chatted about how slow it was this summer.

Tom helped him load up as much wood as they dared in the trailer. He waved again as the car braked hard to control the descent back down the long gravel drive toward the main road. He found Lana sitting on one of the logs. “Ready for lunch?”

She nodded her head and he reached out his hand to help her up. She paused, looking at it. “It’s both to help you and to touch you as a friend.”

“Friend,” she repeated with just a hint of a smile, and took his hand. She continued holding it for a few meters as they walked.

He sang an old hymn about friendship all the way back down to the cabin. Near the end, she began faintly echoing the chorus with him. After lunch, he realized her help was making the food disappear a little faster. Time to visit the village, but not just for food.

Thomas coudn’t gauge what a slow season would look like, but the village was neither bustling nor sleepy. Most businesses offered multiple services. Even the old Lutheran chapel was actually more of a community center. There was no resident pastor, though at times one would visit there on his vacation and perform a few simple services. During most of the year, a deacon would visit monthly for standard social services. There was only a part time secretary living in what would have been the rectory attached to the chapel.

Sometime in the past, when people cleaned their holiday rental spaces at the end of the season, finding random pieces of clothing and the like, they duly turned them in to the mayor. The stuff collected in a closet of the chapel because there was no other place for a lost and found. Nobody ever came looking for anything. When the current secretary was hired, being a hard core neatnik, she organized the closet, and quickly began using it for charitable purposes. Tom heard about this and was hoping to bolster Lana’s wardrobe beyond a single outfit.

But he was just a bit nervous, wondering if he would encounter any resistance to getting Lana help. If she had worn out her welcome in the village, it might be a little difficult. He was hoping his own good relations would overshadow things. As it was, the secretary either hadn’t encountered Lana, or pretended so, and took her in charge, rifling the closet for usable clothing which might fit her. At least Lana was being more verbal than she might have in the past, so things proceeded in Finnish while he waited. Eventually Lana came out with a couple of bags filled with clothing. On her feet were like-new trainers and frilly socks which matched. He decided to let her carry her clothes for now as he thanked the secretary. At the door, he thought to ask about underwear, and was told the little variety shop had some.

Making sure Lana could tell him what sizes she wore, that was the next stop. He picked up a few other items, as well, including a cheap day pack and some reusable shopping bags. Then they crossed over into the grocery section. By the time they left, his pack was loaded and both of them were carrying the garishly colorful shopping bags. If anyone was uncomfortable with Lana’s presence, he never detected it.

As they lugged this baggage back up the road toward the cabin, Thomas turned and asked, “Do you think you’ll be staying with me a while?”

Apparently she hadn’t thought along these lines at all. Finally, she said, “Don’t send me away.”

He stopped and turned to face her. She halted with him. “In the hospital, you were just an object among many which justified keeping the place open. You weren’t a person. When you left, you didn’t know how to reclaim what the hospital had taken from you. Out here in the world, you have to stop acting like an object. You have to be a person, or you’ll always have trouble and pain. The hardest thing is not living with abuse, as you already know. Once you figure out who you are, the hardest part is dealing with other people who don’t abuse you, but don’t care, either. You have to give them a chance to care, perhaps taking as much as they are willing to offer.”

It was not staring, but she gazed intently at him. He continued, “I’m not your custodian. I’m your friend. I don’t have to take care of you, but I want to. Maybe we can be more than friends someday, but right now that’s a lot for you. As long as you don’t do anything to hurt me, make me feel sad, I want you to be with me. But more than that, I want you to find your self.”

As they resumed walking, he turned his head and added, “I hope you believe I am the one person you can trust right now, because I don’t intend to hurt you, or let anyone else hurt you.”

When they got back to the cabin, he helped her organize her things while pointedly refusing to make too many decisions for her. He took some of the shopping bags for temporary storage of his stuff so she could have her own space on her side of the bed.

Finns were not particularly demonstrative, so he wasn’t sure if it was something she saw, or where it came from. After going down to start dinner preparations, there was a moment she came up beside him. He didn’t look directly at her, and after waiting a bit, she said his name. “Thomas.”

He stopped what he was doing and turned to face her. In his mind, it was a big moment simply that she would call his name to initiate contact on her own. How big the moment, he would not have guessed.

Looking down into her upturned face, he saw clearly the liquid pooling on her lower eyelids. She reached out her hands, not quite touching his shoulders. “Hug me,” she said simply. He complied, taking her in his arms gently, letting her decide how it should happen. It was clumsy, slightly stiff, but it was a start. They held each other for a while. The rest of the evening passed as if in another world.

In the middle of the night, he awoke on his back. Lana lay on her side in relaxed slumber facing him, her arm across his midriff. What woke him was what he felt sure was a familiar, audible voice. It was attached to a vivid memory of his Osage friend, walking away into a glowing cloud, turning just enough to speak a couple of words. “Farewell, Thomas. You are home now!”

After awhile, he faded back off to sleep, never to see that face again in his dreams.

Then, using his own brush, he carefully detangled her hair. It was almost white, and bore a slight natural wave. He mentally added to the list of things to buy some ingredients to make a natural hair treatment. He told her look in the mirror, turning a bit to see. “When it dries, it should be nice and full.”

Then he explained a little about interacting with people. “If more people paid more attention to their own voices and visions, the world would be a much better place. But they don’t. You have not been able to ignore them. Instead, the voices and visions have caused you to ignore the people around you.”

She seemed more relaxed than before. He sat her down at the table again, and told her to keep her knees together, then showed her how to cross her legs at the ankle and pull them back to one side. “It’s not always the most comfortable, but if you aren’t wearing pants, you really need to sit that way — always.”

He pulled out a small radio. “Do you know how to sing?” She shook her head no. “It sometimes helps to make the voices quiet, and the visions not so blinding.” He turned on the radio, then dialed it around a bit until he found something he recognized, old pop music. He began singing in his best voice to the songs, and encouraged her to try making some of the same sounds.

It was almost a whisper at first, but soon enough a very breathy mezzo soprano came leaking out of her mouth. For now, the mouth shaping would have to wait. Just getting her to hear and copy music was much more important. He wanted her to become conscious of the sound of her own voice.

“I’m going to take my shower now. I hope you’ll keep trying to sing while I’m doing that. I’ll try to keep up, as well.”

The bathroom was just a walled enclosure, open at the top. He could hear her stopping now and then, but she didn’t actually quit. He sang snatches of songs he recognized and kept hearing her less and less breathy voice bouncing off the ceiling. He came out wearing athletic shorts and another t-shirt. She was still trying, but it sounded like her voice was tiring. He turned off the radio and she fell silent. But she was looking at him, with a fairly normal, if blank expression.

He then taught her about eye contact. She seemed to absorb everything quickly. He explained how it was fine to be aloof when there was no need to interact with people. She would simply have to learn by example, watching how to interact with others. “It’s not exactly the same for women and men,” he warned her. Then he explained how she would have to learn to strike a balance, neither staring nor avoiding eye contact with someone to whom she was talking. She should look at them, then look away at something else briefly. He called her attention to how he had been doing that.

In the process, he realized how utterly critical it was he had taken that theater class in high school. What everyone took for granted as natural behavior, down to the smallest detail, was studied and mimicked with a purpose in acting, to make the behavior both exaggerated and still seem as natural as possible. He played a game with his hands, directing her to look at him, then wherever he pointed, as he was talking.

At one point, she yawned. It was both a very good sign, and a signal to stop the lesson.

“Are you ready to lay down and sleep now?”

She nodded. He led her up the stairs. “I usually sleep on this side,” pointing to his left. “Will that be a problem for you?” She shook her head.

Pulling back the cover, he invited her to lay down. She simply crouched a bit, threw one leg on the bed and stabbed it under the cover, lowering herself and sliding sideways. He looked away and decided not to comment on the exposure. Covering her up, he let her find her own place. “I’ll get in bed in a little while, but I have something to do first.”

He stepped quietly down the stairs and removed her clothes from the laundry machine. Folding them neatly, he lay them across the foot-board of the bed at her feet. Stock still, frozen like a statue on her back, she seemed from below already asleep.

He sat down at the table and prayed, meditating over the voices in his own head. He pulled his Bible down from the shelf above the table and read for a bit. Then he closed his eyes and mediated some more.

Finally, he turned off the single light mounted in the apex of the ceiling. All that was left was the faint glow from the appliances, with their continuity lights showing they were connected to power. He silently climbed the steps and lay down carefully in the bed. She never moved, and he turned on his side, facing away from her.

When the first rays of sun shining through the window woke him, making a bright pattern high on the wall, he waited before moving. He realized she was in a fetal position against his back, with the fingers of one hand wrapped in the fabric of his t-shirt.

When he stirred, she went rigid, rolling over on her back, eyes wide open staring straight up. He sat up and turned toward her just a bit. Reaching out his hand, he held it palm up several inches above her torso. “It’s okay to touch some people, people who care about you. Touching is entirely normal, but most humans don’t do it very well. So we have lots of crazy rules, but underneath them all, it’s okay to make friends and touch some people in places that aren’t private.”

She glanced at him, then pulled a hand out from under the cover and placed her fingers in his palm. “Friend.” The word was almost alien to her. It was then he noticed her hair was more beautiful than he first expected. Letting go of her, he turned and got out of bed. Without looking at her, he pulled out some clothes and went to get dressed in the bathroom.

After he came out, he sat on a chair and began putting on socks and shoes. She took the cue to grab her clean clothes and changed in the bathroom. When she came out, he was making coffee and had breakfast started. She held up his green t-shirt with a question in her eyes. “Just toss it on the foot of the bed. I normally wear the same bed clothing two or three times before washing them.” She could see his shorts there already, so walked past the little stove and tossed the shirt. Apparently throwing objects in this fashion was a new skill for her, though it landed well enough.

She stood by him in front of the hot plate where meat was sizzling in a skillet. He had her repeat the name of everything he could think of, then explained cooking time and temperature for the things he was preparing. A random passing thought about biscuits made him remember something.

“Just now, a voice in my head reminded me how much I missed having American style biscuits.”

She looked at him with her head to one side. “Your lips didn’t move.”

“It’s not necessary. In fact, it bothers people when you do that. I don’t have to let all the voices use my lips, just the ones I use for communicating to others, or for singing, for when I’m alone and talking to myself or to God.”

She stared at him for awhile, then remembered to look away. Apparently she was testing the idea of not letting the voices have her lips. When she looked back, he finally cracked a smile. “Did that hurt?”

One corner of her mouth twitched, she paused, then, “No.”

Over breakfast he explained smiling. “Most people smile even when they aren’t trying to communicate. It’s a natural response of the body to something which makes you happy, or seems funny, humorous. On the other hand, I’m sure you’ve seen plenty of fake smiles, when people weren’t feeling happy, and were trying to disengage from you, or trying to get you to do something.”

She was still practicing eye contact, but obviously heard him. “It happens when I go to new places. After a few days, they quit smiling and starting yelling or saying ugly words.”

He started, “They don’t understand you…”

“You do,” she shot back.

“I’m working at it, Lana. My problems weren’t as big as yours, but I had problems. Different problems.”

“Your voices lied to you.” She took a bite of food.

She was right. “Do none of yours lie?”

She chewed for a few seconds, then swallowed. “Sometimes. But they argue.”

“That’s normal, good even. The voices can each live in their own little apartment, but you have to find one you can trust to play referee, to be your real voice. It will be the one which decides what and how much is released outside to the world. Then you can find out which of the others to trust, and the referee lets them speak internally. Somewhere among the voices, one of them has to be you, Lana.”

She froze for a moment, staring at the far edge of the table, then took another bite.

He continued, “Most people pay no attention to all of this. They never hear more than one or two voices. The rest are buried deep inside the dark space of the mind, and people often have no idea what goes on in there. It makes the world a crazy place, but we have to keep trying to help them.”

She smiled, and a spurt of breath was just barely audible as her stomach visibly tightened just a fraction. “There,” he pointed out. “You almost laughed.”

“You said the world was crazy.” Then she half snorted again, before the smile could fade.

He blurted out, “You have such a beautiful face when you smile.” Then he realized blushing was something he would not be able to teach.

Slowly, she got involved in the work. He was surprised Lana could do much at all, but made no comment. At most, he simply gave directions when it appeared she didn’t quite understand what he wanted. Yet he never had to tell her anything twice. Her mind seemed to work well enough, just very differently. Mostly he allowed her to do whatever she wanted.

When he was ready to quit for the day, he noticed there was a small, yet significant difference, with a higher pile of wood. Something told him this was a very good sign. He was guessing she wasn’t useless, just had trouble functioning the way every one else did.

Back inside the cabin, he suggested she take her coat off and have a seat at the table. He pulled out one of the chairs. Almost as if programmed to obey, she hung the coat on the back of the chair and sat down, revealing a thin pale brown long-sleeved tunic tucked into the sweat pants. She stared at the wall, sitting with her hands in her lap. He had mapped out the events in hopes it might be this easy.

Pulling out dishes and food, he began preparing a simple meal. She turned in her chair to watch. He asked, “Ever do any cooking?”

As usual, her verbal response was delayed by some internal activity. Eventually she answered, “Not in a house. Outside.”

He decided to take a risk. “How much time did you spend in hospitals?”

Again, the long pause. “Four countries, six hospitals, twenty six years.” It was almost like a mechanical summary of her case file.

From childhood at least, there would have been no exposure to normal human company, normal human routines. Mental hospitals were notorious for reducing everything down to the convenience of unmotivated employees. He doubted it was any different where she had been compared to what he had seen in the States. “How long have you been out on your own?”

This time, without the long pause. “Three years.”

She was fortunate to be alive, he thought. Then again, she was certainly intelligent enough. Another thought occurred to him. “How many languages do you know?”

Some delay. “English, Deutsch, Français…” Carefully naming each according to the what the language called itself, she ran down the list. Thomas didn’t recognize any but the first three. He counted a total of eight.

Having no way to test that, he let it hang in the silence. Her problem was not mental capacity, but a matter of internal traffic control. A few minutes more and he brought two plates of food to the table, some flatware, then brought two empty glasses. He filled each with some inexpensive German wine. He hoped alcohol triggered no problems, since she was probably not on any medication.

She ate quietly, with the same precision, but with odd inventions typical of neglect. Eventually she modified some of her movements to copy his. Finally, she rested her hands in her lap. Suddenly, she looked up at him. Her gaze was softer than before, but her focus was directly on his eyes. “I hear voices, see things.”

“So do I,” he offered. “Most people do, but they pay no attention. People like you and I can’t ignore them.”

For once, she showed a whisker of emotion, as her head tilted ever so slightly to one side.

He continued, “But I know where they belong. I give them a place to work and they don’t get in the way.”

He barely finished speaking when she shot back, “Teach me that.” The intensity of her stare could have blistered paint.

“I’ll try.” As he took the dishes and put them in the sink, he tried to explain it was not simply learning like she might learning cutting and dragging trees, or cooking, or any of the other things he wanted to teach her. She could learn handling the voices and visions only by absorption. He could explain parts of it, but only to help her find her own way of handling things.

She stood and moved next to him, began drying the dishes. He noticed for the first time the top of her head reached about to his chin. She looked even more frail up close than before, without her coat to hide under. She needed everything, and he was hoping she could stay around long enough to gain weight, gain stability, and learn some level of mastery over the distractions inside her own head. His own distractions were probably nothing compared to hers, but he felt sure the same power was there somewhere, waiting to be identified and called upon.

When the dishes were put away, he turned to face her. “Do you have any other clothes put away some where?”

She looked at the floor, her lips moving silently for a moment. “No.”

He pointed to the laundry machine. “I want to wash your clothes…”

Before he could finish his sentence, she began undressing right there. He restrained her with both hands. “Wait.”

She stared at him with her hands still wrapped in her shirt tail. “You’ve been allowed to develop some bad habits. This is part of why people don’t like you. Let me explain something missing from your awareness.”

She relaxed her grip on the tunic.

Without touching her, he leaned down. With fingers extended on his hands, he drew an invisible line across her legs about mid-thigh, moving his hands out from the center. “Starting about here,” he then turned his hands vertical, and drew long lines up, “to your shoulders, and across to the center. Imagine there is a box, front and back. Inside this box is private space, your private space. No one can see it or touch it unless you really want them to.”

He stepped back. “You should not let me see what’s inside that box right now. There has to be a very good reason to change that rule. It’s your space; it belongs to you alone. Don’t share it too easily. Keep it covered. That’s how the rest of the world does things. I’ll give you something to wear while your clothes are being washed.”

He walked over to the loft and went up the stairs. From the shelf he pulled out his largest t-shirt. It as solid pale green, the fabric rather thick. Stepping back down, he paused near the door of the little bathroom. “Step in here and close the door. Take off your clothes. While you are in there, take a shower if you know how.” He waited until she nodded her head in the affirmative. “Dry off with one of the towels, and put this on, then bring your clothes out to me.”

She stood stock still for a few moments, staring at him. She breathed deeply, then let it slowly. Walking gingerly toward him, she paused, took the t-shirt and went inside the bathroom. The door closed gently behind her.

Had he seen a hint of tears forming on her lower eyelids?

Thomas was not a small man, but was glad none of the trees lying on the ground were huge. Indeed, most of it was broken limbs, windfall and such. It was the usual mixture of pines, elm, birch, linden, and so forth. The pines were used for pulp, and he stacked them separately from the rest. He was allowed to keep a few pieces of hardwood for his own stove.

The little cabin was sparse, a summer vacation hut typically rented, but there had been no visitors this year. It was more than sufficient for his needs. There was a small table with two chairs in the near corner. A hotplate on top of the counter, and a small refrigerator under, and a small sink set in the counter next to them. Open shelves under the counter held a few dishes. At the far end of the counter was an odd little washing machine which also dried the clothes, and used no soap or other additives. Above it was a fold out drying rack nonetheless. This was all in the area on the right of the door.

To the left was a small bathroom built into the corner, just a shower and stool with a few shelves on one wall above a towel rack. His hosts had provided a stack of ragged old towels. Because the cabin was on a slope, the bed sat on a sort of loft about a meter higher, at the back of the cabin. There was a short stairway just beyond the bathroom, but everything else was wide open. On either side of the bed was an open hanging rack and shelves built into the wall.

The wood burning stove was more or less in the center, just below the bed loft. Because it was summer now, he seldom had a need to light it, but kept himself a pile of wood against one side of the cabin just in case. If he stayed into winter, that pile would have to be much larger.

Between the ax, several sizes of old saws and a set of splitting tools, he could whittle down and drag out most of the logs and limbs he encountered. He estimated it would take all the way up through autumn to make much of a dent in the first section of forest. That was the immediate goal. Staying longer depended on too many variables.

But Thomas was more curious in the much real task which his non-conscious mind knew was here. So far, the semi-nightmares ending with the Osage wise man’s face always came with a change in direction, and an important job with one or more people. People were the only thing that mattered to Thomas. Or rather, bring truth into their lives in some special way always more obvious as situations moved and morphed around him.

Thus, lunch time found him sitting on the porch, leaned back against the post. His left leg dangled off with his foot on the ground, his right stretched across the porch deck. Today was a special meal for lunch. He had run across a gypsy wagon in town a few days before, offering, off all things, Mexican food. So far as Tom could tell, it looked and smelled about the same as the stuff from the taco stands back home, only better quality. He had purchased a half-dozen burritos and froze them. Two had been thawing in the sun all morning, and were just about warm.

But no hurry. First he poured a cup of coffee from the carafe. The cabin sat facing the old road used by the tractors which came and dragged away the logs Tom hauled out of the forest. It didn’t matter who came to get it, since there was only one old sawmill in the area. It was actually a large saw in a small shed, with a sliding rack. No power equipment could enter the forest, so he pulled the wood out into the open. His host had just finished tying up the load from this morning, and walked over to chat with Tom a minute.

He pointed out on the road coming up from the village. A lone figure approached, rather uncertainly. The first thing Tom noticed was the long, almost white hair tied back and flapping in the breeze. It could have been female, but walked with an androgynous gait.

The old man announced, “Her again. She is crazy, you know. If you feed her, she will never leave. She hangs on like an octopus, acting strange and frightening the children. You would do well to make her leave.” With that, he turned and mounted the tractor and drove off down the hill past the figure. Neither the man nor the girl acknowledged each other’s presence. It was clearly a somewhat small, skinny female. As she drew closer, she stopped, frozen for a few moments. Her eyes stared at the roof of the cabin. Her mouth moved as if talking very quietly to someone next to her.

She was not old — obviously younger than Tom. The skin of her face was pale white and still smooth despite exposure from being homeless. The hair was tangled and slightly matted, and a little dirty. Her clothing was also a bit dirty, though carefully composed. Thomas thought the coat was too heavy, but remembered he had been working six days per week for two weeks already, and his metabolism was very high. So if the old man wore long sleeves, a homeless woman might wear a coat. It had once been a bright orange and red, contrasting with her dark blue sweat pants. Her feet sported battered old hiking shoes with mismatched laces and socks.

She walked up and stopped a couple meters from him. Tom thought to himself she might even be pretty if she didn’t look so anorexic. She paused there for a long moment, then fixed her eyes directly on him. Her gaze was intense, yet utterly empty, without the slightest emotion.

So this is why he was here.

With precise UK English uncommon for the area, she spoke in rather flat tones. “Could I have some food?” At least the emphasis and tone were correct, but there was no apparent emotion in any part of her facial movements. Without taking his eyes from her face, he reached back with his free hand and picked up one of the foil wrapped burritos. Extending his right arm over the left hand which gripped the coffee mug, he held it out to her with a mild, but unsmiling look on his face. There was no sense confusing her with unnecessary inputs.

Instead of simply reaching for it, she first moved and took a seat opposite him on the porch, just a short distance from the foot resting on the deck. She sat rather bolt upright without leaning or curving her back. Once seated with legs crossed, then she reached out and took the offered food. He watched her, but not intently.

She unwrapped the foil covering, holding the burrito in her left while managing to fold the foil neatly with her right. She placed it carefully halfway between them on the deck of the porch. Straightening back up, she held the burrito horizontally and precisely in the fingertips of both hands, a foot or so from her face. She paused, staring at it, then made a few of the small mouth movements, as if whispering to it. She closed her eyes tight for a few seconds, then suddenly bit into the center of it, not quite deep enough to sever it in two. Tom unwrapped the other burrito partway and ate from one end, while casually watching her.

She chewed with her eyes closed, making no other movements at all. After swallowing a couple of times, she sat again, motionless. Then she opened her eyes and bit again, this time breaking it in two, each hand spinning it around like a baton. She closed her eyes again while chewing, now holding the two parts vertically in each fist.

It was a fluid motion which surprised him, but he didn’t flinch. Without a word, she passed the portion in the right hand to the left, and reached out in an impossible stretch over her folded legs, taking his coffee mug from his fingers. He didn’t react at all, simply watched as she took three sips quickly. Then she reached back and returned it where she got it. He simply gripped it again when it came back.

Then she returned one half of the burrito to her right hand again. Another pause with eyes closed, then she nipped a small bite off each piece. He noticed her teeth were very well kept, unlike everything else he could see about her. This pattern of behavior continued, until after a few more sips from his cup, which he kept at least half full, her burrito was gone. He finished at about the same time, folded the wrapper like hers and laid it on top.

Looking up, he said with his own rather flat tones, “I’m Thomas. What should I call you?”

Before she answered, a well worn toothbrush came from somewhere and she scrubbed carefully every tooth from every angle possible. That explained the nice teeth, at least. She grabbed his mug again, took a larger mouthful. She held it while swishing it around. Swallowing, she took another sip, then placed the mug back in his hand. The toothbrush had disappeared again. She wiped her coat sleeve across her mouth, then announced in that same flat voice, “Lana.”

Pushing his back off the post, he rose, telling her, “I’m going back to my work, Lana.” Then he walked back uphill toward where his tools waited in the forest.