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Stan I.S Law
If for you the world is not enough, read this novel. Stan Law accepts no limitations.
You might call WALL a Sci-Fi novel but most will find it a romance that mixes Love, Sex, and Immortality. Action takes place in Montreal - Canada, Milos - a fabulous Greek Island, and in realms accessible only to those who read this book.
There is more on heaven and earth than meets the eye, more than our senses can detect. We, you and I, can walk through walls, visit other realities, past and present, make love on Greek Islands drenched in sunshine, all by an act of our will. How? Let Ambrosia and Simon show you. The abilities lie dormant within us.
Review by: Patrick Johnson, on Dec. 11, 2011 :
I read a great deal about OBE and other esoteric phenomena in print and on the Internet. Yet it is only now, in this novel, that Stan Law makes our hidden potential real. I defy anyone who read this book not to try to leave their physical body, to visit places far away and, if successful, to return filled with awe. The novel is convincing by stressing how much effort and practice is required to achieve results. Like in this book, the effort makes is all worthwhile. Good luck and thank you Mr. Law.
Review by: Bozen H. on Dec. 06, 2011 :
Once again I had the privilege of reading this book in pre-publication form. Once again I had to keep reminding myself that I had a job to do, to proofread it.
The story swept me along, quickly, convincingly. The images were enchanting, the mystery growing, the characters enticing, the tension mounting, the love affair, well, find out for yourself. For a week after I finished I dreamed about Greek Islands. And then I just dreamed of the worlds, realities, which Stan Law has such propensity to create. Some will say that this might be his best. I love them all.
PART ONE — THE ANKLE
You don’t go to heaven. You grow to heaven.
In the Wild, Wild West men were men and women were what men wanted them to be. We all know that. What most of us don’t know is that in English Jesuit Colleges there were no women. Men in order to become men had to fight other men. They did so by playing rugby. Rugby, or rugger, is a game wherein men try to kill each other. The game is not unlike the American or Canadian Professional Football, but it is played without the benefit or protection of pads, helmets, or the game stopping every few seconds to collect the wounded.
In a Jesuit College, everybody was forced to play rugby. There were dozens of teams, but only one team represented the College. That was the First Sixteen. The best. The elite.
I’d managed to get into the First Sixteen. And that is how the story began. Almost. Actually it began a few thousand years ago, but, well, hear me out.
My ankle has been bothering me longer than I can remember. Even at school, Mt. Saint Ignatius College, in the Old Country where, as already mentioned, by sheer accident I’d made it into the First Sixteen Rugby team, my ankle would seize up, on occasion, quite unpredictably, without any apparent reason. Just, now and again, for a few seconds at a time.
Imagine, First Sixteen! That was as good as one could get. Prefects’ table in the Refectory, right-of-way down the long, cold, dank corridors; exemption from AROTC—the boy soldiers organization in the UK…
It made you something special.
Those were the days…
And then, within about three weeks, the stupid ankle went on the blink in earnest. Still only sporadically but, within a few months, the stiffness would last for minutes at a time. By the time it seized up for the third time in the middle of a game—that last time when I was about to score a try—my days of fame and glory were over. The SJs—that’s the Jesuits as in Society of Jesus for the uninitiated—sent me to the hospital in Sheffield. I’ve been examined within an inch of my life. Nothing at all.
NOTHING!? I could scream. I very nearly did.
“It must have been just one of those things,” said a frazzled looking intern. He’d sent for a resident.
“There is nothing wrong with your ankle, Mr. ah, Jones,” repeated the intern’s elder colleague, looking studiously at a series of X-rays. I was six-one, by then, weighing 220 pounds. In Canada, and just about everywhere in the world except for the States, that’s about 185 centimeters, and almost 84 kilos. The attending resident physician called me Mister. Then he glanced at my First Sixteen blazer and called in the Chief of Staff.
We waited a while until the illustrious orthopedic surgeon rolled into the examination room. At least he could have rolled in—he was fat enough. I wished then, as I do now, that physicians would set an example.
The solon confirmed both previous diagnoses. I was, he announced pontifically: “perfectly healthy, with, possibly a mild predisposition towards attacks of hysteria.”
I was big enough to slog the pompous jackass. I didn’t. To this day I wonder why.
Some years later, there have been times, months at a time, when I would walk normally and then, when crossing the street, or raising my foot to the break pedal on my old Chevy, my ankle would seize up. It wouldn’t bend. Solid as a rock. Minute of two later, little cold ants would crawl down from just below my knee… they would descend, lethargically, effortlessly, to restore the flexibility in my lower joint.
I was glad when finally, on arrival in Canada, I could drive an automatic, thus treating my left foot as an appendage dedicated to walking only. Even if, occasionally, with a limp. Sometimes. However, no break pedal (or had it been the clutch, I don’t remember), and certainly, no rugby exacerbated my condition.
Year after year I’d visited orthopedic surgeons, later physiotherapists. They x-rayed my foot more often than any man in the history of the Montreal General Hospital.
“Sorry, Mr. Jones, ah, Professor, but as I told you before, there is nothing, absolutely nothing wrong with your foot. Nothing at all, Mr. Jones.”
Yes. Professor. I think that did it—my becoming a professor, I mean. Specifically, professor associated with comparative religion, hence Associate Professor. Just kidding. Since three years ago, I have been appointed Associate Professor at the Department of Religious Studies. The day after my appointment, my ankle seized up for a week. Yes, I had to walk with a cane. There was little pain, but the discomfort made up for it. Try walking without bending your ankle.
I suppose I have the SJs to thank for that. Not for the stiff ankle only for the professorship. I matriculated with distinction in religion. No other distinctions—just religion. The other distinguished marks were mostly passes, some with credits. To this day I have no idea why I found religion so… absorbing?
Actually, I do. It must have been to avoid the strap. In those days, the Jesuits were strong advocates of corporal punishment, a method of persuasion I was never enamoured with. By being a scholar of religious subjects, I must have been assumed to be a practitioner of them. By excelling in religion they, the SJs, practically left me alone.
Actually, I only got down to religion, in earnest, after I got kicked out of the First 16. The ankle, remember? Before then, the ‘colours’, as they were called, gave me sufficient protection.
They must have hammered the history of the Church, Apologetics, and all the peripheral religious subjects, well into my youthful head. Daily Mass—attendance compulsory—with occasional Vespers, Confirmations, a funeral or two, took care of the liturgy. The moment I left college, I checked out other religions to see if any of the stuff I’d learned made any sense to other people. The pagan. The unbelievers. To the sheep from other stables.
After a little while, I found it quite fascinating to learn that people will believe anything if you repeat it to them a sufficient number of times. When civil authorities do so, it’s called brainwashing. Solzhenitsyn explained that. When a Church, any church, does it… well, you know the answer. Obey or you’re on a one-way ticket to hell.
My reasons notwithstanding, I now had a good base for Comparative Religion. After only three years of post-grad, that is Canada already, I became accredited at the McGill University of Montreal.
That only left me with my hysterical ankle. I wondered if I should test myself for excessive female hormones. No offence, but hysteria is supposed to be a woman’s prerogative. Men should have prostraria, or something like that. Really.
Still as a student, I decided to take my ankle into my own hands. No pun intended. I tried massages, salt baths, soaks, compresses, eastern teas, effusions and other concoctions, powdered Chinese extracts, and a dozen of more esoteric cures. I got pretty serious.
They all worked—until the next time. Until the next time I raised my leg to step down from anything and landed flat on my face. And that wasn’t the half of it.
I’ve also lost a lot of weight since my Rugby days. Once a solid 215-220 lbs., now a slim 185—mostly to take the weight off my ankle. It didn’t help. The fair sex must have preferred my previous macho contours, or… it could have been my ankle, but my social life was somewhere between dismal and none. My dating was limited to one dinner per month or two, no dancing, no romantic walks in the park, and a lot of prayer that I might make it to my car without tripping over my own legs. Actually it never happened, yet, but I developed an acute case of cold feet. Ankles. One ankle.
The very thought of what might happen if the stupid joint would seize up was enough to keep me glued to my TV set when others, my colleagues, were scoring with the chicks. I must have been the most frustrated senior student in the history of McGill.
I remember, on one occasion, I got as far as the girl’s bedroom. Actually my bedroom, but with a girl in it. She in her late teens, cute, slim, well equipped, looking experienced (probably was)—I desperately trying to lose my virginity.
It was a case of now or never.
I was doing all right. We finished our drinks, together. I offered another, she declined. I slipped next to her, on the sofa, my hand finding its way along her slim leg, upwards, slowly, very slowly, insinuating itself where it oughtn’t. She responded by leaning back, tilting her head backwards, her lips parted, inviting.
This was in the days when I still lived in a bed-sitter. I still had muscles from my Rugby days. I lifted her in my arms to deposit her on the bed. I didn’t quite make it. At least, my ankle didn’t. We both landed on the sideboard. Don’t laugh. She twisted her… ankle!
A message from the gods?
If there were any justice in the world, she would have twisted something else. On top of it all, by the time I picked her off the floor, my ankle was perfectly all right. My ankle, not hers. That was the last time I’d invited a girl, a woman, to my digs.
For the next three weeks my ankle behaved itself. I almost forgot I had a problem. Then, must have been a month or so later, I repeated my performance in a different girl’s bedroom. Yes, this time I actually got to her digs. It was great fun until I tried my macho lifting trick. At least his time it was her elbow, not her ankle. Things got quiet after that. Quiet for quite a while. In fact, more or less, until I finished my post-grads.
Two years later, after I got, what I’d hoped would have become, my tenure, I met Ambrosia. Yes, I know what it means: nectar of the Gods. I only caught a glimpse of her, but right there and then, I’d be willing to drink anything she’d deign to offer me, a mere mortal. Anything.
Well, all right.
I hadn’t actually met her. I’d fallen down the stairs at her feet. She hadn’t said anything. At least, I don’t think she had. I wasn’t quite myself.
As an associate professor, I now rent a one-bedroom apartment, on the 26th floor, overlooking Mount Royal. A beautiful view. A view specifically designed for seduction. For making love without having to draw curtains.
High up, among the gods…
Only the gods I’ve studied all my life weren’t on my side. Perhaps they didn’t like anyone peeking into their private business. The SJs hadn’t told me that. The apartment is still waiting to lose its virginity.
For weeks after the Ambrosia incident, I’d lie staring at the ceiling, trying to recall the goddess I’d fallen into. Onto? She was tiny, a Dresden Figurine, dark long hair, dark complexion, as though she’d just descended from Olympus where she was basking in close proximity of the sun. Icarus, eat your heart out.
Some months later I ventured into hypnosis. Self-hypnosis was the last hope for my ankle. If that didn’t work, I’d be destined to remain a virgin for life. I’m sure no goddess would tolerate such grievous prostrarical imperfections in mortals. Prostraria, remember? Masculine hysteria.
I bought a book in a second-hand shop on St-Catherine. Judging by its cover, it’s been used by a number of men. People? I suppose women may well have had psychosomatic problems as well as men. Although no physician, other than the rotund surgeon, ever said so, I now firmly believed that my ankle’s misbehaviour had been in some form psychosomatic. I looked it up in the dictionary:
1. of or pertaining to a physical disorder that is caused by, or notably influenced by, emotional factors.
2. pertaining to, or involving, both the mind and the body.
As by now it was obvious, even to me, that my ankle problem did not have physiological origins, I was either mad or there was some kind of psychosomatic base to my problems.
I once read about a case of man who walked with a limp. Like in the case of my ankle, he had been examined a number of times by professionals, and nothing could be uncovered that could in any way cause him to limp.
Finally he went to a hypnotist.
After a few sessions under expert hypnotic regression, the doctor discovered that once, during an operation—while under anesthetic—which his patient had some 12 years ago, one of the residents assisting in the operation mentioned that the patient might have to “learn to live with a limp”. The poor fellow had learned to limp in order to stay alive. He continued limping until a skilled hypnotist cleaned up his memory of the event. After that, he never limped again.
It appeared that while his body, and presumably his conscious mind, were subject of anesthetic, his subconscious remained receptive. Perhaps it never slept. Perhaps at some level we have inner bodies that do not need sleep. I wondered if Dr. Steiger knew about that. He could put the subconscious body on his divan and pretend that it’s asleep.
It seemed that the self-hypnosis I’ve been practicing was intended to teach me how to program my subconscious to act in accordance with its dictates even when fully awake. Like the man with the limp had.
The problem was that I never had an operation on any of my extremities. Yet my ankle liked to act up. On occasion. When I least expected it.
Ah, yes. Dr. Steiger was the resident psychiatrist at the McGill. You haven’t met him yet? Perhaps you’re lucky.