Modern Day Mystery Schools for Magical People (MDMSMP)

Akila

A system of tunnels, elaborate tunnels, arching up into legendary ski lodges (that were mostly closed off to ordinary clientele), out beyond the war zones of yesterday throughout and underneath the catacombs that had constituted the enemy lodgings before the War of 2020 was over, after long while pronouncing the world free though technically not that, exactly, since the wars technically hadn’t been fought between countries but between factions of magical peoples, the Dark Agenda and the White Knights otherwise known as the Golden Dragons. 

Indeed, wars had were frought underground in those tunnels for which the navy and military had been trained to the tune of trillions of dollars in funding by their parent-op governments. 

“We don’t speak of those years,” had pronounced the Headmaster Arther on one fateful dewy day, dawn spackling the clouds with intense light that since the dawn of the Magician’s Empire had only grown brighter and more pronounced than back in the dark ages in which a literal lapse of light had turned everything in the realm a despondent palette of mainly blacks and whites, to be honest with you. 

Deep within these catacombs is where the refugees from tyrannical Egypt went to stay back before they were used so perniciously and unrighteously during the wars of the dark ages. They’d seen the good, and they’d seen the bad, enough to know that light is all there is. Without light, how could there even be darkness? 

The transcendence of this plausibility is like, in a video game, not pursuing a mission, a task. Had the monks in the Himalayas conducted more aggressive peaceful forms of protest, they may have then succeeded their expectations about what’s possible instead of displaying what in retrospect, given the failure of the world to secede from war and warlike pursuits, was the mindless burning of buildings and ash. It’s hard to be in love with a world that wrecks itself from the inside out on a semi-regular basis in order to extract from it, cash. Entwined in brash reckonings of resolutions that never come to pass. Alas. We are intertwined not Akashically, but only of times past. In the days of today, capitalism defines our caste; and we are outlasted only by fidelity, where freedom is thrashed and chaos, never-ending, happy endings, never coming to pass, staying on the path so as not to be surpassed, as though life between itself were a competition for a throne that will not last, for a position of sylphs and plaths, positive riffs and raff, epiphanies coalescing through a mad and timeless daring devilish dervish of a dash (mental servitude to math), timeless cacophonies that reconcile eventually, but which are ever such a clash, such a wrath, the biting tongue ensnaring depth with righteous servitude, in whose direction caste, do the math, do the math, do the…

 ‘Recollect the quantum sphere of infinite possibilities at all times and resurrect your notions; stay true to your path,’ an altruistic sprite had told Akila when she was deep in the forests one fateful afternoon picking berries. She’d been happened upon by a lively tribe of fairies and sprites who had given her lovely advice; not all could be so lucky. But she was wearing her lucky gem-encrusted pendant that day and thinking happy thoughts and so, she attracted all manner of goodness towards her, the fairy world not exempt.

The former Israeli soldier Akila had many political aspirations for the world of humans, which she’d been so ceremoniously plucked from at an early onset, just at the beginning of her furrows into adulthood, as a young Israeli soldier placed on the front lines. One day when she was sent into an enemy internment camp to gather intel, counting herself lucky for not having to defend the borders with Palestine or Lebanon that day (a task too-often fraught with peril) she nearly was caught and saw the breadth of her lifespan up til then flash before her in the blink of an eye. A rogue soldier that had clocked in sick to work that day saw her nosing around their people’s camps and clipped her with a bullet that ricocheted off the protecting gold pendant that she wore around her neck to ward off the evil eye - the shape of a hand with a pupil in the middle, giving her enough time to arm herself with her own weapon and send the soldier running for the hills. 

She followed through on her mission that day, and for that she would receive a purple medal of honor, but that wasn’t enough for her. It wasn’t enough for her to blindly follow orders under the supposed claim of defending and protecting her country.  She knew it took two to tango, and that this age-old war was not entirely Palestine’s fault. They had claimed a home in Jerusalem the same as the Jew’s of Israel, long before back when they were known as Canaanites. She’d never believed the telling of affairs that the government had invested so much into promulgating, through great holographic imagery, a full-room spanning surround sound stereo system, and mists that came out of spritzers in the walls to make a point about the major regions of the land with waterfalls and geysers of drinking water.  Lake Kinneret - the Sea of Galilee, the Coastal Aquifer - along the coastal plain of the Mediterranean Sea, and the Mountain Aquifer - under the central north-south (Carmel) mountain range, 80% of freshwater reserves found in the north, and 20% in the south. 

Akila is named for girls and Akilan is named for boys. Akila means intelligent, brave, strong and Wise. In sanskrit Akila means complete and in Tamil it means universe. Akila is a Hindu name originating from the Sanskrit word Akhil-- or everything.

The Academy had found her whilst sending one of their “magical,” technologically enhanced drones into the base of her military camp where she’d been residing for a few months so far on active duty through Israel. Their satellites had picked up an unusual number of golden pi radons, which is another word for the smallest unit of atomic particles that connote luminosity, that literally operate at the highest frequency, are undetectable by most instruments, scientific or spiritual, and which kind of label the essence of an organism through space. 

These drone also had the ability to, thanks to supernatural magical wiring fastened by Arther (greatest magician of the universe thus far) as it were “see the future,” and could sense that Akila was in create danger, irrepressible peril, should she continue on in her missions with the Israeli guard. So… he had the drone sort of… message her (which can be done parasynthetically through creating a biomimicry in its host thanks to special flashing lights in order to communicate a message) that allowed her to sense its presence and once recognized, gave her the option to hop aboard through a drop-down ladder and a 1-seat ticket up to the magical alpine territories of the private academy up in the clouds of northern Himalayas region, in the Kashmir mountains near the Autonomous Region of China.

“You’re important, Akila,” the grandmaster had said to her, something no one had told her before. “You’re special; magical, to be precise.”

“I am?” she’d asked incredulously, biting her tongue at once for letting slip her insecurities. 

“As far as I’ve detected.”

“What about my life back home,” she’d asked him. “My squadron. My family.”

“You were signed with the army for another five years. Wouldn’t it be better spent here?”

“Okay, but the stipend. How will I support them when I get back home?”

“I can arrange for you a scholarship. Nothing huge, but perhaps an opportunity to make some money, by working at our bookstore, simple things. Maybe some special ops missions up here if I need a skilled right hand man.”

She’d looked at him, agape. “But you barely know you.”

“And yet what I do know of you exceeds expectations. Simply from the data I’ve procured in your files here… it looks like you’ve always been at the head of your class, life hasn’t come easy to you as you were born into…. Quite a large family it looks like, multi-ethnic representation, a large file about your work with… animals?”

She blushed. “I’ve spent some time at the zoo.”

“Your local zoo wouldn’t put you on for long, since you seemingly unwittingly left the barracks gate open for the wild horses to roam through. Good thing that didn’t go too poorly, eh?” He looked down at her through his spectacles. “You have an uncanny and unique degree of compassion for wild things that cannot speak for themselves.”

“I have a way with animals,” she quipped back.

“And a way with words,” he remarked. 

She shrugged. “I guess so.”

“You… guess so.” He made a note in his file, jotting down something impossibly hard to read and ostentatiously cursive, an earned gesture by his annotation skills learned in central Japan at calligraphy classes, which ironically came in handy during his fencing and sky sword dancing techniques, coming to inform some of his self-designated martial arts designs and lyrical designations both on land and in the airs, the vapors, whilst foot dancing in the skies of wherever he resides at the time. 

“Thank you for saying so?” she said somewhat hesitantly. 

He jotted down another note… in her file.

“You’re welcome, dear,” he responded, an avid conversationalist himself. “Don’t mind me for saying so. I mean nothing by it but the stark truth, clear as daylight my dear.”

Well wasn’t he a fatherly influence.

“I’m going to need you to pass our exam for new students, of course. My offer isn’t without some pre-work… but I think you’ll be able to jump through my hoops of fire quite easefully. I think of and see in you only the finest craftsman and completer of tasks. I hope I should not be disappointed in my decision.” He’d stood up, scarlet-gold dress robes flaring and blazing behind him like a controlled wildfire. 

“Oh no, sir, you’ve made no mistake,” she’d replied. She remembered it vividly - a fully lucid conversation, such that happens when both parties are fully and simplistically present with one another and with the exact contents of the consideration, who aren’t multitasking in their heads. 

“We’ll duel in the airs far later in your schooling, I expect,” he said, casting a ceremonial wink in her direction that made her wince. Her? Fighting an expert? And no less, a man? She was used to being the most skilled female within her division, but would never dare go up against the opposite s*x for fear of assaulting his ego with her technical prowess and savvy. “Both with swords, of course.” And like lightning, he’d disappeared in a flash. Literally.

Well, the academy hadn’t been all jelly beans and mind games. She found herself in the Corridor of Examinations along with the other students that were lined up vertically so none of them could sneak a look at anyone else’s answers. 

The lesson was in her Human Politics of Morality class, which she’d been enlisted to take because she was one of the magicians that had opted to go back into the world of mortal humans at the end of her term in four years. Arther’s theory was that they ought to consider moral issues rationally in order to have a better comprehension of what beliefs to advance when they returned, given the understanding that their very attention was indeed extraordinarily powerful, especially now that she’d be bringing back wisdom from the higher spheres to the earth domain.

She mentally reran the thoughts through her head, slashing some rhetoric, adding some more, to make it all make sense in a sort of grandiose, yet precise, way. She fiddled with her type 2 pencil, reflecting carefully. Truth be told, she cared deeply about the general good and welfare of the people. She imagined a world with no war, no predation upon the citizens by an anonymous elite. She reminisced about the fate of her Uncle Jack, who was killed in a drug bust off the I-95 interstate in the back alley of some 7/11, who’d gone about his job (albeit of the black market) honestly, with truth, decorum, and integrity, but who nevertheless had been pursued out of greed. The facts are that with an unregulated black market, anyone can get away with anything; even murder. The grisly details eluded her since she’d been just an infant at the time. Looking back on pictures, she could see that he was easily the most attractive man of her family, with a crazy sort of kindness in his eyes, the glint of the fantasmical, the paranormal. Deviants don’t often subsist in the world of humans without encountering some kind of trouble, even when they mind their own business. 

The cops would have put Jack in jail if they’d found him. They don’t care. They don’t even differentiate the soft drugs from the hard ones, petty crime from true sin. It isn’t like an extension of the heavens, it isn’t like there’s a god or a moral or a hard evidenced justification for their types of actions - the lawmakers are the leaders of society, and cops just pigs employed to provoke the people and keep the status quo of tyranny humming, to reinforce the hierarchical structures of dominion and power, to make sure that none get out alive, that they stay on top, to reinforce their rule. If it were up to Akila, there would be no homeless, and none in prison. For some, jail is a safer alternative to the streets. Her father knew of a guy that would get out of jail only to throw a brick at someone’s window so that he’d end up back in jail because it was preferable to being homeless. She’d rather be homeless, she knew and reckoned as much. The street urchins around her block were all super talented and nice and simply didn’t care for society and the rules that it played by. There’s integrity in that; there’s sovereignty in that.

Ending the private prison system, Akila couldn’t help but reason, is sort of like quitting nonorganic meat while murder is still occurring. Is there really an ethical way to kill an innocent life? Is there a kosher way to m**m or kill an individual with a soul for no purpose other than to satiate a momentary craving? A problem of physiology or of conscience?

The reason why rehabilitation will yield higher rates of recidivism than punishment and torture, is that once an individual understands how they can undo their mistakes by doing good in those sectres in which they were exploitative or desecrative, they enter the feeling realm of a theme called Redemption that takes reverse rotating low-vibe cancer cells and propels them into life-positive dimensions. You see, cancer is a biological form of regressivism (possibly in correlation to a life badly lived, certainly in terms of habits), an instance of cellular activity in the body biome spinning the wrong way, circulating backwards, causing acidic, non-alkaline conditions in the blood. 

You have to have the full picture in mind, alongside the vibration of it, in order to manifest it. The back of the brain transmits to the front of the brain the images, and life is literally the result of the images that we meditate on which is why human interaction and art is so important, because it fills us with emotion to learn of things outside ourselves. Meditation clears the imprints of the night or day so that we may begin dreaming again anew, in more vibrant colors and without the emotional drone and yapping of our subconscious minds, poisoning and afflicting us with its feelings of propriety, of shoulds and should nots, generally attempting to sap our energy reserves at the expense of any real nitty gritty action that we might take in the real world.

It is better and generally less cowardly an approach, to weigh out desires over aversions. I tend to do a regression analysis of both, from a futuristic point of view (the point of view of my “higher” aka more evolved, self, given that things either tend to evolve or to die given the weight of natural selection). 

People are after a time jaded. Certain things lead to stereotypes, certain subject matter brings up their free associations and belief sets, which prime them to exercise maladaptive compensatory counter-responses and relief efforts like drinking, taking control of the situation through aggressive verbiage, or simply creating a long list of assumptions out of a simple-enough encounter in order to feel cognizant and in charge of the situation.

And now,for your political commentary:

I won f*******: and for that I deserve a Grammy 

But moreso than that, if Portugal has their way in the claims against censorship for this world wide platform, it seems reasonable that control of f*******: should be delegated to the person who has participated the most, who has the most posts and the most thought through profile, who has been the most authentic, true, and just. The most brazenly heart-on-their-sleeve candidate in what is most certainly a scholastic international competition. 

***

“I’ve been so scared of life, that it’s going to devour me, my finest parts, that I’ve allowed simple silence to do its work instead. I could have had love, freedom, and all the riches in the world, all that life has to offer, its gems, its sweet moments, its quirks and zygotes and eccentricities but instead I play know-it-all behind a screen, behind the windows of my eyelids, knowing nothing, wanting for nothing at all and nothingness altogether.”

“Life is like bicycling tirelessly up a hill. It never feels like you’re making any progress at all in the moment, even though each pump takes the breath from your lungs. It isn’t til you finally reach the top that you realize, you were making headway all along.”

***

Shawna looked around and spotted the Ashley’s. It was amazing that in the midst of an emergency broadcast assembly, the Ashley’s had found a way to nonchalantly play the whole event (whatever it would become) into a gala-esque frivolous type of affair. I guess that’s how they dealt with intensity in the world around them -- gossip (the dragon blowing the smoke to catch the flames upon the self; sheer taunting, fire-esque behaviour). 

They were chewing out a girl that had tried to go for one of their boys (men). The fact that they think they can own sovereign male beings simply because they…. Called dibs or something…. Is a whole neurosis of its own. They really ran a type of harem predicated upon control, with a tad of destroy and conquer, by way of malicious “heresay” most of which aren’t even begin to be true and the rest are exaggerated hyperbole, conflated to suit the viewpoint of the speaker and to slander the non-assailants aka victims that didn’t even get a voice to speak their side of the story, whatever it was or wasn’t.  Luckily Shawna had never been the brunt of such wrath, and this was one reason why she didn’t do anything interesting ever, except for study in the humongous library and people watch there, sometimes on the castle grounds in the central square underneath the spires and cathedrals. One of the Ahsley’s stood up and scratched her back with a sword.

“Oh, and don’t bother coming after Theo again,” Shawna saw her lip sync. Theo? Her mind started racing. Was her harmless little crush going to get her into yet more trouble than she could handle? 

“This is what you need to know about Theo,” Ashley One went on, Shawna hanging on her every word. He presents himself as very vanilla… at first. But underneath… honey, that man is kinky. Beyond kinky. Things could get bad, if he is attracted to you. That man is a sweet, rich dark chocolate and the vanilla you see on top to lure you in? That’s the ice cream a la mode. As in, his modus operandi, to give you a taste and get you wanting, giving more. That man is trouble with a capital T. Tay-oh. 

Very curious, indeed. Clever, for from an outsider’s perspective the ulterior motus was somewhat evident if not starkly bubble wrapped box jacked hopscotch criss cross obvious with a capital….. Theo. There was something strange, unusual, different about him, resonant from a prior epoch. It looked like he could have waltzed out of the picture frame of a timeless time period from the past, perhaps the renaissance of the 70s. At every event he was so composed and poetic, externally placid like a lake, like an austere soldier with the inside contents of his mind evidentially flying a mile a minute for when he came out of his staunch repose, his reverie of one to speak, it was with true elegance and some real type of profundity. 

“Settle down students!!!” The familiar kindly crone, one of the most magical professors there, Professor PcPattinson appeared. “There will be a very important announcement.” The silence she drew from the crowd was mystifying and utterly palpable. 

He didn’t offer an inch of respect about you. And he doesn’t have a lot to spare to begin with as it is!