When I was in high school – my junior year, I believe -- I had a spirited young French English teacher. I can't recall her name these days, but she was thin and graceful – pretty and provocative. In class I would daydream about dating her, or of making love to her, and I remember wishing I was older or she was younger. She liked me; I knew that. And she knew I liked her, too. While I daydreamed I would often compose little poems in my notebook or on the back of a theme book. I never thought about what I wrote, barely aware that I was writing at all – kind of like doodling, I suppose. In my mind, she probably thought I was taking notes, though I should have known better. There was a girl who sat behind me every day, who was an excellent student of English and literature, and though I don't remember her name either, I liked her quite a bit, too. Whenever the French English teacher would say something poignant, the girl would lightly touch the back of my neck in a sensual way, the

In prison, one of the novels I wrote ( Mansions of the Moon: the Recluse ) ends like this (in part) -- after 1,088 hand-written pages and 272 thousand words leading up to a seemingly anticlimactic conclusion: . . . Were we playing the animal farm game? Was it necessary to kill and sacrifice in order to nurture and love? . . . Perhaps only Jeannie had understood it all, for she had said long ago that our struggle is not about good and evil but rather the preservation and renewal of life, including saving Gaia . . . . She was talking about creation and sustaining life and the earth in our own universe, I suppose. The struggle would go on forever; I knew that implicitly now, for infinity is as infinity does, and the will to procreate -- or to create -- can never stop, since all universes must expand forever. Once the tiny spark of creation began there could be no turning back, for creation breeds creation without consideration or reflection, but rather solely in the name of existence. The

Blogger's Note: This essay is adapted from the introduction to Mansions of the Moon: the Recluse , a novel in the throes of editing, by Albert Lloyd Williams. In the cosmos there is nothing more important than universal expansion born of never-ending procreation coupled with the eternal survival of that already created, for progressive creation is the ultimate power possessed by all living organisms. Every life form, on earth at least, is driven instinctively to create and nurture life of its own kind, and when all is said and done sexual union and procreation is the path that provides the way to eternal life and the divine honor of having created vital new life. Each life form intuitively strives toward perfection and the final reward of divine empowerment: the consummate sexual union between transcendent gods and goddesses, eternally united as one, creating the androgynous power of pure Consciousness. All life has within it the innate sexual drive to preserve and renew its own s

Hello . . . Before I die sometime in the next decade or two I want to get a few things off my chest, and I thought some obscure blogsite might provide a platform (read or unread doesn't matter much) to put my thoughts, beliefs, opinions, attitudes, prejudices, jealousies, anxieties, gripes, and so forth, in order -- at least for my own edification and comfort. Hopefully a few of you out there will respond with insights and thoughts of your own that I might benefit from and take to heart to strengthen my own soul, too. That would make this blog a forum, maybe, and that would be good. The thing is, I'm not very comfortable with the world -- especially with us human beings and how we interact with the rest of it -- and I'd like to blather on a bit about that in this blog. Again, it doesn't really make much difference whether anyone bothers to listen; at least it's therapy for me. And the good thing is that I don't have to stand up before any of you to expound (or