Love To Die For: Story 2 of 27 – STATUE IN WHITE

Harry was in love.  Dawn’s body, her being, the whole idea of her obsessed him.  When he drove her to the school next day she lay along the bench seat, her head in his lap. She had seemed subdued when he collected her, waiting in the hotel lobby with her luggage, and spoke little on the journey.  He recited Francis Thompson, the lines resounding with her spirit, in his heart.

‘Leave thy father, leave thy mother, leave thy brother

Leave the black tents of thy tribe apart

What need hast thou of thy tribe’s black tents?

Thou hast the red pavilion of my heart.’

The school was set in woodlands. Before delivering her Harry drove the surrounding roads, found a place to park.  They wandered the woods, down to the river and watched the swans.  Her mood lightened.  He said he wanted to see her again.  He could drive down in one of the less conspicuous cars.  He left with his business card in her purse and drove back to London, to think about her and read her Holy Book, learn about their God of mercy and compassion.

In stolen moments they talked, made love, and talked again.  He had lived in her land and knew their ways.  Talk was the way they passed their days, sharing the tales their grandfathers told of the deeds of their forefathers’ fathers.  Dawn was keen to improve her knowledge of the English she spoke so naturally.  She had been in school at International College in Beirut until the civil war prompted transfer to the States.

‘Why not London?’

‘Bombs.  My father said it didn’t make sense swapping Kalashnikov for Semtex.  And IC has Ivy League connections so it was easy to get me in.’

‘You know about Kalashnikovs? Semtex?’

‘Man, I know the difference between the sound of an AK47 and the American one, the AR-18.  The PLO gets them from the IRA in exchange for hashish they grow in the hills.’  The laugh had gone from her voice.

‘How in hell d’you know that?’

‘Beirut. You need to know who’s shooting who in the street.  You get to know everything.’  In this insight into the life of a child in war he sensed an underlying tension.  Wanting to lighten up he said, ‘Sounds like the song.’

‘Oh-my-God!  I love that song!  It’s like he was there…’

‘The complete anti-hero…’

Dawn sang ‘And there stood I, a statue in white…’

‘Outside the blazing casino…did you?’

‘No, I was too young.’

They fell silent, side by side on a thick red blanket under the trees, leaves just starting to turn, swans turning on the river below less real than Peter Sarstedt’s word-pictures turning through their minds.  She rolled over and pillowed her head on his chest.  Could she know how that opened his heart?  She stroked his hair.

‘Enough past,’ she murmured, ‘enough of being scared most of the time, me and my kid brother.  Here am I, beneath the bough…’

‘A book of verse, a pitcher of wine, and thou…’

‘Beside me in the wilderness…’

‘Actually I prefer Le Galliene,’ Harry said. ‘Would’st thou forget a woman?  Drink red wine!  Would’st thou remember her?  Drink red wine!  Are your eyes burning just to see her face?  Then drown them in a mirror of red wine!’

‘Strange,’ she mused, ‘considering we’re not supposed to drink alcohol.’

‘There’s a lot we’re not supposed to do, in any law or language.’

‘Teach me some Anglo-Saxon, Harry.’

‘There’s a village in Dorset called Shitterton.’

‘No shit! Is this a limerick?  D’you have a Wankerton?’

‘Working at it.  They were normal expressions, like fuck and cunt.’

‘What changed them from normal?’

‘Normans.  Now they’re just for cursing and sex.’

‘People curse having sex?’

‘Try it.’

‘Fuck me, Harry.’  Giggling.  Great pupil.  They dove under the blanket.


*Yes, there’s more to this story, so read on with a click here!

Extract from a Story a Week for 27 Weeks, so come back soon – or take the short cut and buy them now with a click!

#CaptainHarry #Kalashnikov #semtex

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LOVE TO DIE FOR – Story 1 of 27

Sun glinted on steel, head thudded on sand, too far to hear.  Casing the black Ross Stepsun 12×50 binos, lenses shaded by leather hood, he started the long crawl backwards, elbow by elbow inching down the reverse slope, brushing his trail from the sandy ground with a horsehair whisk, souvenir of another campaign, another continent.

What memento would he take from this?  Brain-seared images: twisted features of a screaming girl dragged into his field of vision, face naked, body shrouded in torn black abaya that did nothing to shield tender flesh from a hail of stones until, hands clutching head, she dropped?  Or the helpless watching man in white thobe and ghutra, arms pinioned and fear-filled face gripped so he could not turn away?  Until  forced to kneel, ghutra lifted to bare his neck.  The curved blade rose, glittered, hovering a moment like a bird of prey sighting its target, then swooped: a crescent of light.  They were not the first to die for love.  Nor the last.

Sweat dripping into sand-colored dust, Lieutenant West reached the abandoned well.  He mopped his face with green-and-brown camouflage scarf, leaned over the circular wall of stone grooved from generations of rope lifting camel-hide buckets, and retrieved his water-bag and radio.  After moistening cracked lips and parched tongue he tuned in to Khormaksar Control, confirming his own position and the location, already marked by circling hawks, of the village where, just before the incident of what he guessed was a terminal case of domestic violence, he had spotted his quarry, the dissident leader Abu Haddad and his followers loading kneeling camels with Soviet landmines.

Harry West took shelter in the well, shelter from a desert sun, shelter from the rising din of war.


Rarely did his mind return to that harsh land until, what seemed a lifetime later, an identical incident of terminal domestic violence, witnessed in grainy images around the world, resulted in a decree that their women could travel abroad only if accompanied by a close male relative: father, brother, husband or son.

Waiting for a client making her last flight before the ban came into effect, ex-Captain West stood in Arrivals at Heathrow, holding a name-card, and wondering what she would be like.  Her uncle had given him no more information than flight number, the name she traveled by, and that the family were transferring her to a girls-only boarding school in the English countryside.  New York, he said, was getting too liberal.

Uncle, a minor prince with a major appetite, spent most of his time wheeling and dealing in London: engineers and lawyers by day, dancing girls by night:  Omar Khayyam in Regent Street, Cashlite in St James’s, Pars Persian in Earls Court.

With a brief ‘Get a movie set up for later,’ the Prince set off with one of the hotel drivers on a round of contract hustling while Harry headed for Heathrow by way of Clapham, where a garage-operator ran a sideline: a projector-hire business with a stock of films to the taste of princes.

Trolleys piled with Gucci and Louis Vuitton rolled by as First started to come through.  Professional anxiety pervaded the Terminal 2 chauffeur group: anxiety for clients to be alert for name-boards, not wander past to be hustled by some random pirate who would charge them half and think he was ripping them off.

Harry saw her.

‘Jee-zus,’ he heard from a Hertz driver, ‘just look at that.’

These many years gone by he sees her now as clearly as he saw her then, walking with thoroughbred grace through the concourse of stares and lip-licking tongues.

She comes closer.  His body goes hot inside the charcoal suit, his neck fills the collar of his white shirt, and his throat dries up.

She stops in front of him, looks up at the placard.  Can she hear his heart?

‘Hi.  Me.’

Face and body of a young Liz Taylor, rock-chick hair.  Sparkling eyes black as jet.  Honey-colored skin, generous lips.  A smile to make deserts bloom, please God…fleeting thoughts tumble round his brain.  If he lost his head he could lose his job.  And his head for real.  She could be stoned to death when, if, they got her back.

‘Hello-o.  Anybody there?’  She must have been used to the effect she had on men. Laughing sexy voice, soft American accent.

‘Er.  Sorry.  Yes, yes, I’m here to meet you, Princess.  Your uncle …’

Her face darkened slightly.

‘Is where?’

‘Sorry, ma’am. The Prince…’ She shrugged. ‘Cool!’  He took the trolley, led her to the parking lot, opened the back door to the Cadillac.  Not a happy family, then.

‘Can I sit up front?’

‘Of course, ma’am.’  Back in role.

‘Get you, man!   Your name wouldn’t be Hudson?’  Harry’s mind pictured the TV butler, a comparison with His Smugness he really did not appreciate.

‘No.’ stiffly, ‘my name is West, Harry West.’

‘Harry.’ Dazzling him with a grin. ‘I guess you call my uncle Your Excellency?  Your Highness?’

‘He instructed me to call him by his name.’

She giggled, ‘You Brits,’ and turned her voice to posh English, ‘So, Harry, I instruct you to call me Dawn.’

He melted, held the door.  She sat, swung her legs in.  Dark flowered skirt, inch of white lace, dark pantyhose, patent shoes.  An Arabian Sloane.

He didn’t call her anything for a while.  He knew many of her people: princes, princesses, bodyguards, slaves, businessmen, but had never been alone with a young westernized girl.

She pushed the radio button.  Kenny Everett crooned, ‘Just cram your finger in the phone,’ plugged a product and played Dancing Queen.

‘Yuk! Abba.’

He kept quiet.  He liked them.  Delivering takeout to the Montcalm he got told off by Agnethe for bringing the wrong flavors.  ‘Don’t mind her,’ said Benny, ‘she’s missing her kids.’

Dawn played push-button and complained of the lack of music stations.  Harry made listening noises as they joined the traffic into Central London.  He felt excited she was there, beside him.

Harry loved his Cadillac.  It had space in back to lie full length on the floor, where he would provide full limousine service to the Prince’s girls either after their duty done, or warm-up beforehand.  But they were working girls and the one beside him now was altogether a different story.  Life in the front seat, mostly solitary, had its moments: Ingrid, Grace, legends, sitting behind but talking with him, seeming interested.  And other conversations, overheard.  Last week, tennis stars:  ‘What happened in the restaurant?  Where d’you go?’  American, Boston.

‘Out back.  In a closet upright we did it.’ European, guttural.

‘Howja know she would?  Maybe she just wanted your autograph.’

‘She held my look that little bit too long.  Autograph she did not ask.’

‘Did she say anything?’

‘No.  We made sex in silence.’

‘Like, was she on the pill?  Did you use anything?’  No response.  Boston went on, ‘Maybe she did get your autograph.  Maybe she’ll look you up some day.’

‘Ach, it was too quick for that.’

It was dark when they reached the hotel.  The concierge called the suite. ‘The Prince has been delayed, Harry. He will return later.’

‘Thanks, George.  Can you call up?’

‘Certainly.’  The understanding between servants, unspoken and crafty.

Dawn came out of her room, hair wet.  She’d changed into an electric-blue dress, tight lace-up front showing the upper swell of her breasts.

‘Like it?’ She twirled.  Yes, Harry thought, I do understand her family’s concern about the liberal ways of the west.  They’d have been more concerned about the libertine ways of ex-Captain West.  But had he paused to think how it would end, would he have begun?  Or was it written? He wondered how hard she found returning home for vacations.  How did she adapt to a culture where woman was ‘lower than a lame camel’?  Or was he just part of the furniture here anyway, a safe reliable retainer she could show off to.

‘Wow,’ he said carefully.  She pulled a face.

‘You don’t like it.  I’ll change.’  Her voice went croaky.

‘No, I do like it.  I really do.  It’s beautiful.’  To hell with it, he thought, to hell with the Prince, to hell with me. He looked straight into her eyes. ‘I like it, Dawn.  It is beautiful.’

Should he go on?  Dare he?  She stood one hand on the back of a brocade armchair; she stood very still and looked at him a long time.  He felt he could have touched that silence.  ‘And I think you are beautiful.’  His heart was thudding.  He held her gaze.  He was almost sure he hadn’t offended her, but only almost.  If he had, and if she told her uncle, he could be more than fired.  There were others like him who could get these very rich men anything they wanted at very short notice.

He saw her breath quicken, heard her voice thicken.

‘Where is my uncle?  When will he come?’

He felt a lurch in the gut.

‘Later.  I don’t know.  He’s been delayed.  I have to set up a movie for him.’

‘What kind of movie?’

‘I haven’t seen it.’

She reddened.  ‘I know what kind of movies my uncle and his friends watch.’

‘Have you seen any?’

‘No…’ serious face turned bright with mischief, ‘Hey, shall we?  Or will you get in trouble?’

He shrugged, as if it didn’t matter. ‘If I get in trouble he’ll just get another driver for you.  Anyway George will call up when he comes.’

‘I don’t want to get you in trouble.’

‘I’m in trouble already, Dawn.’ He kept his eyes on hers.  ‘Dead trouble.’

Face serious again, she came round the chair and sat, smoothing the dress beneath her.

‘I’m sixteen.  I’ll probably have to get married next year.  I’ll be locked away to make babies.  I don’t resent it.  It is written.  But first I want to have some fun.’

They both knew what her life would be, hand rocking cradle.

In a cold sweat he set up screen and projector, slippery fingers threading the film through little wheels and spools. He went to the door, hung out the Do Not Disturb sign, and locked it.

They sat side by side on the carpet.  He put his arm round her shoulders.  Dawn leaned her head back, wet black hair cool against his cheek.  The movie ran.  He felt her tense, then relax, as they watched a group of hippies making out in a trailer.  She whispered, ‘I’ve never done it before.’

That one word, before, told Harry what he was aching to know.

‘Do you want to do it now?’

*Yes, there’s more to this story, so read on with a click here!

Extract from a Story a Week for 27 Weeks, so come back soon – or take the short cut and buy them now with a click!

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Love To Die For – VALENTINE SPECIAL – The Erotic Adventures of Captain Harry West



From risking death to love a virgin Princess, through sex on the polo field, dance floor, boardroom, beach and freeway, to orgies made in Chelsea, these twenty seven tantalizing stories track the erotic adventures of a man who loves sex as much as he loves war.  Harry West lives for the fun of the fight and Fun with a K, from the rooftops of Wanchai to the debs of the King’s Road, pale lilies and dusky maidens.  Addicted to the taste of forbidden fruit, he savors the passion of contact, the moment of climax, the smell of conquest in and out of bed.  Until the moment his life, his career, flashes before his eyes as if he were a drowning man.

Men and women like Harry and Holly, Alice and Charlie, know what they want and go for it, spurring ahead  through triumph and disaster, laughing their way to climax after climax.  Come inside and join the Fun!

LK of London: Far more interesting than Fifty Shades, written by a Tantra teacher, and set in some fascinating places. Full of sex …

Mrs GM of Ireland: A wonderful piece of writing…intriguing, mind-expanding (especially the bit with the mother/daughter in Mother Love), cheeky, and witty, as well as the thrill of teenage kicks…. And Love to Die For was gripping: love, death, heartache, hope, escape….a real thriller!

GT London: This is quite an unconventional book of modern erotic tales, written by a Taoist Master in a style that is graceful, sensitive, and baroque enough to appeal to a woman as well.

Miss AA: Mr North has produced an erotic masterpiece, sensual, exciting and elegant, leaving chick lit and mummy porn fading into yesterday.

Come Inside and join the Fun with a click here!

STARTING NEXT WEEK: A Story a Week for 27 Weeks, so come back soon – or take the short cut and buy them now with a click!

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Are you an iPhone Widow or Widower?

‘We used to actually interact with one another during cab rides or walks. Now I sit there and watch him make love to that damn phone, his unblinking eyes glazed over with puppy love. He brings it to bed at night and reads it like a magazine.’

As far back as 2005, a survey by marketing agencies BBDO Worldwide and Proximity Worldwide revealed that ‘15 per cent of Americans admitted to answering their cell phone during sex.  Are people who constantly communicate through texting and e-mail becoming less socially or sexually active in general? Or are they actually more enamored with gadgets themselves than with humans?’

On the other hand, ‘…a new survey by a dating site for married people looking to cheat, found that out of 6,000 of its users, 45 per cent said they cheated because their partner spent too much time on their phones or tablets… the demographic most likely to stray because their partner was snubbing them with their phone use? Women ages 30-50, according to the site.’

And others make the best of both worlds: a ‘tantric masseuse’ confides that a certain celebrity client has phone sex with his girlfriend while she, the masseuse, facilitates his ‘happy ending.’

‘The effect of mobile phone use on sperm count remains a hot topic, and while there is currently no hard scientific proof that the two are connected, recent studies suggest that prolonged use of certain types of computers and laptops can affect sperm count.  ‘Reports suggesting that carrying and using mobile phones on a daily basis can reduce male fertility have yet to be scientifically validated,’ says a spokesperson at London-based fertility clinic The Bridge Centre. ‘However, recent studies suggest that prolonged use of laptop computers – especially those with infrared connectivity – may have an adverse effect.’’

For further information on our modern habits and the supporting research please see ‘From Stress to Vitality NOW: Secrets of Love and Life Mastery for Men and Women’

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Sex Love & Laptops


‘Our fascination—or worse—our obsession with electronic technology has replaced our interest in sex or intimacy, more generally,’ said Dr. Paul R. Abramson, a professor of psychology at UCLA specializing in sex. ‘Technology is an instrument for accomplishing things. For other people, it is an end in and of itself. The latter are most vulnerable to having technology consume their lives. The tragedy of this consumption is not the power or evil of technology, but the psychological deficits.’

‘A study by the Specialist PlayStation3 site of 1,130 British men found that one in three men would rather play video games than have sex with their partner. According to Genie James, M.Sc., Executive Director of the Natural Hormone Institute, hormonal imbalance and stress may be to blame for the study’s startling results. ‘It is very likely that these men are suffering from a hormone imbalance at a cellular level that causes them to lose interest in sex,’ says James. Lack of interest in sex is even starting to affect young men in their 20s. In the last several decades – young men living in industrialized nations have shown reduced sperm count and quantity of ejaculate.’

But it was as long ago as 2004 that scientists were researching the effects of laptop love on sperm count when ‘researchers from the State University of New York at Stony Brook undertook the first study into the effect of laptop heat on scrotal temperature. They found that using a laptop (on the lap) increased left scrotal temperature by a median 2.6°C and the right by a median 2.8°C. Several previous studies showed that increases in testicular or scrotal temperatures of between 1°C and 2.9°C are associated with a sustained and considerable negative effect on sperm count and fertility.

Lead researcher Dr Yefim Sheynkin, Associate Professor of Urology and Director, Male Infertility and Microsurgery at the University, said: ‘With the exception of an anecdotal report of genital burns, the effect of portable computers on scrotal temperature when they are used on the lap was not known. Laptops can reach internal operating temperatures of over 70°C. They are frequently positioned close to the scrotum, and as well as being capable of producing direct local heat, they require the user to sit with his thighs close together to balance the machine, which traps the scrotum between the thighs. We found that scrotal hyperthermia is produced by [this] special body posture and local heating effect of laptops.’ The median surface temperature of Pentium 4 computers used increased from nearly 31°C at the start of the experiment to nearly 40°C after one hour.’

A more recent study in the medical journal Fertility and Sterility also found ‘a link between laptop use and sperm count. The study took samples of human semen from 29 healthy men, and placed drops underneath a laptop that was using wireless fidelity to enable a download. When examined, a quarter of the sperm was no longer moving, compared to 14 per cent of the samples from a control group that was stored at the same temperature but not near a computer. Nine per cent of the laptop sperm showed DNA damage, which is three times as much as the control group. Fertility concluded that electromagnetic radiation produced by the laptop’s Wi-Fi was responsible for the lowered sperm count. A second test found that computers that were turned on but not connected wirelessly had little radiation.’

Of course it’s not just technology to blame: ‘Stress at work or home leads to high levels of adrenaline and the release of other hormones which can restrict blood flow to the testes and inhibit sperm production,’ explains a spokesperson at The Bridge Centre. ‘Stress can also lead to the release of chemical by-products, known as free radicals, which damage sperm.’

And Then There Was Porn!

‘Many men in their 20s who started watching porn at a young age (as early as 14) and currently consume porn daily have a low libido or even inability to get an erection, according to an Italian Society of Andrology and Sexual Medicine survey of 28,000 men.’

‘The American Society of Addiction Medicine’s definition of addiction states that all behaviors that are rewarding, not just substances, can become addicting including sexual activities. ‘That is what’s called a process addiction,’ says David Smith, M.D., past president of the American Society of Addiction Medicine and coauthor of Unchain Your Brain. ‘Evidence shows that you can become addicted to dopamine and because behaviors like porn, eating, and gambling release squirts of dopamine they can lead to addiction.’

The Internet allows for immediate access to porn, which wires the brain for that type of constant visual stimuli.  New or novel porn jacks up the release of dopamine but can eventually lead to an inability to masturbate without it, he says. So once they get in the bedroom with a real girl and the lights are off they can’t get the visual stimuli they need and can’t get it up.’


For further reading and the research studies quoted please see From Stress To Vitality NOW Secrets Of Love And Life Mastery For Men And Women

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The Farmer’s Boy and the Virgin

Rumor had her a virgin. He stepped over that threshold himself, a few months before on a warm night up-country in the tractor-driver’s hut. Mwala in an idle moment lasting half the day asked, ‘Done it yet?’ knowing full well he had not.

‘Not yet,’ said Harry, springing to attention in a dark place down there, bending forward hand-in-pocket to conceal in his khaki shorts a stalk of lust for a high-breasted coffee-colored coffee-picker in ragged homespun that hid nothing. Worn by Kate Moss it would be high fashion.

‘She likes you,’ said Mwala, lounging against a tractor wheel.

‘That one? Bikira?’ He whispered in awe as she went by, arrogant as a supermodel, sunlight glinting off the four-sided drum of plucked cherries on her head for which morning’s work she would receive one sumuni – half a shilling.

‘Ha-ha, ha-ha, ha-ha,’ Mwala jumped about in his blue overalls, slapping his thighs, head back and mouth wide in full-throated laughter. Had Harry made the best joke this side of Thika?

Mirth subsiding at his crestfallen reaction, Mwala shook his head. ‘No. Yes, she probably likes you, certainly likes you, perhaps even adores you, how could she not, ha-ha, ha-ha,’ forcing his face straight, ‘but she herself has not yet done it! And would be worth many cows fewer if it happens before she marries. No,’ he pointed with his chin, ‘Over there,’ at what could have been Bikira’s mother, a Kamba woman with leathery breasts, soon to be bouncing on top of Harry on a rickety African bed like a squeaky trampoline.

Mwala put his head round the drape before he finished.

‘Everything good, young man?’ Firelight reflected off his broad copper-skinned face.

Harry’s ancestors had their consummations witnessed, but that thought came later. Mwala’s pork-pie hat flung a shadow on the mud-and–wattle wall. Funny, what you notice when it’s not just your mind on other things.

‘Yes, for Gods sake,’ Harry cried, jerking his way to the first hot squirt inside something other than his fist. Well, not entirely true. Horny young beast, he took advantage of little orifices encountered on his wanderings in the African bush: holes in rocks, forks in branches…why, one steaming day he even whipped two green plastic cushions out of the Jeep, placed them side-by-side on the ground and aligned his throbbing teenage manhood between. Excited by the grip of hot plastic, he pumped to onanecstasy.

This was some decades before entering the world of tantra that elevates masturbation to meditation, a spiritual practice removed from the guilt-edged pleasures of boarding school where priests preached purity from the pulpit before sliding hands up altar-boys’ legs in the sacristy, settling in the confessional to hand out penance after eliciting the fullness of the sin.

‘And how many times? And did you take full pleasure? Every time? And did you do it together? And were you touching or just watching? And how many of you together? And did you climax together…Aaah!’ as with each question the words came faster and Father Confessor’s breathing heavier. They swore they could hear his cassock coming up and his hand going down.

‘Did you think he was really wanking?’ said Piers Minor, later expelled for submitting a drawing of an anchor on the letter W in the competition for a new school emblem. He ended up in finance, turning his hand to banking before being exposed, poetic justice.

‘Course he was.’

‘Father Feeley had a stiffy, I saw it.’

‘Yeah, Jones, bet you felt it.’

‘It’s only three Hail Mary’s if you do it alone.’

‘You don’t have to tell them.’

‘It’s supposed to be confession!’

‘Do priests confess?’

But back to the farm. Next day, morning roll call, in front of the whole coffee-picking gang, some eighty men, women and totos, she presents Harry with two live chickens, a brown and a white hanging by their legs. Everyone was laughing and he was burning. Burning for more but he remembered feeling something wasn’t there, down there up-country in the bush, but at least now he knew where to find it, an experienced sixteen-year old ready to give a girl a good time.

Soon he found one looking for just that. Drinking in the New Stanley, Harry, teenager in Palm Beach shirt, Elvis hair and sullen good looks, black jeans and motorbike boots not made for walking, tinkled the ice around his gin and tonic, feeling the stirring in his jeans, waiting for Mia…

Read more in the Erotic Romance collection of short stories Love to Die For

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It’s perfectly normal, isn’t it, to want a better life, achieve ambitions and fulfill desires, solve problems, let go some baggage, drop a few unnecessary habits – especially the more expensive ones! Lose a few fears or phobias. Funnily enough, once we’ve started on something it seems to spread into other areas, a kind of vicious cycle of well-being, satisfaction, and achievement, from the magnificent to the mundane.

What greater achievement than to change someone’s life for the better. To change our own! Understand our self, inspire your Self, start an avalanche in the mind. To under-stand the universe Einstein wanted to know ‘how God thinks.’ To understand a human being we must find out how we think – what motivates us; the feelings of your heart, the songs in your head, the thoughts in your mind. And to make the change?
Stanley, a musician, wanted to change an out-of-date way of thinking. He could lose himself in playing, but really found himself in conducting. ‘Ah, then, I am God!’ By visualizing, imagining himself as one of his orchestra, watching and following the instructions of the conductor, he succeeded in making his change, ‘by frequent rehearsal.’ Just a tweak, shifting from normal to another. In his world, his language, the language of the senses was the sense of hearing. Not surprising for a musician. It just needed adding the Visual, watching – and following – the conductor.

Are we not sensual beings, we humans? We love to watch movies, our favorite movie star, our football team, even our favorite soap, to see our favorite picture – would that be the one on the bathroom wall? To be seen in our favorite dress, our new heels or sneakers. Appearance is all – ask any hairdresser!
What were the pictures populating your mind as you read those words describing what we like to see? That’s your VIP: Visual Imagination Power, a Power-Tool for Transformation.
And do we not love to hear music, Mozart to Gaga, certain voices, sounds of na-ture, songs of the city? We love to taste, good food – good drink.
We love fragrances, scents, flowers, and perfumes. Britney and Madonna like to be associated with their own fragrance, and then bring out their own fashion lines, adding the power of appearance. And don’t singers love to act, crossing the edge from auditory to visual. Using new technology Abba made the first pop videos, motivated by the desire not to travel – Agnethe hated leaving her kids!
The power of the senses is easily understood when we look at the money invested in their gratification: selling and buying movies, TV, sports, music, perfumes, food … and the language of the senses is how we each express our own world. Understanding this helps us change – change what we want to change and keep what we want to keep. We need to know why, our motivation for change. Knowing this, we can learn the right technique.

And we love to learn! We learn to speak each other’s language, the language of the visu-al, if you see what I mean, or the language of the auditory if you hear what I’m saying, the language of the kinesthetic if you catch my drift, yes, smell the freedom – how does it taste? The sweet smell of success, the taste of achievement, the sound of letting go, the feeling of a weight off your chest, a load off your mind, seeing yourself, as you really want to be, the past in place – a place to learn from and move on.

Motivation is the key to changing lives, habits, our way of being. A friend, a woman, a vegetarian pacifist who would never harm a soul, but wanting to learn a martial art as a form of self-development – getting out of her box – baulked at the idea of violence. It took a single thought to redden her face and bare her strong white teeth as her blue eyes flashed fire, her hair stood on end and her hands seemed to grow claws of a tigress. And what was that thought? Well, you’ve maybe guessed it was about her children being threatened. Violence had a place in her brain she didn’t even know was there, but the limbic memory sprang into action. Now, for a mother, isn’t this perfectly normal?

Some of us had difficult childhood experiences. Now it’s obviously not possible to change the past, but what about changing our perception of the past? If past experiences color your perception of the world today, your world in the here and now, that’s Perfectly Normal. Are we not the sum of all that has ever happened? The good we have done, the bad we have done, the good done to us, and the bad done to us?
How might you have reacted to a situation in that childhood, with the resources of now: the knowledge, experience, the mental strength – even the physical strength? It is but a small step to imagine yourself in that same situation, but with your clear and present grown-up resources.
In this way we change our world, for what is our world but our perception of it? Make life a rich rewarding lesson. Someone told me I was lucky to have had the experi-ences I had, been to the places, met the people, done the things. Was I really lucky? Lucky I lost my father when I was a toddler? Lucky in the stepfather who raised me and my brother as his own – and abandoned us? My view of the world was perfectly normal for someone with those early experiences. When I took the conscious decision to change it, my new world became perfectly normal. It’s never too late and no dog learns new tricks so well as an old dog that simply adapts the old tricks.
And it’s not just scars from childhood, is it? That more recent past, not so far behind: wounds of betrayal or cruelty, deception and disappointment, heartbreak or humiliation, can we let these too distort our view of the world or can they too be placed in perspective, processed and dealt with. Some might call this a life of suffering but those same also say we cause that suffering for ourselves. Calling out from the depths of a vale of tears holds us in those depths, and we can leave them, and we can learn how. We have a choice, to dwell in the past, to long for the future: but meanwhile the present slips by.

It is a simple process, to find motive, and then to associate it with a desire. Imagine now, or remember, a moment of total pleasure, or a peak of achievement. Think of a time when you felt wonderful, from a moment ago to years ago, a moment when everything was right, perfect, in that moment, for however long or short a time. In your mind’s eye, see what you saw in that moment, the picture, and see where it is, in front of you or all around, colorful or black-and-white, moving or still, framed or panoramic –yes, that’s right, see what you see – are you in the picture or looking at it? Hear what you heard in that moment, feel what you felt, and where did you feel it? Where in your being? Was there fragrance, a smell or a taste?
Re-live that moment with all your senses and now, double the size of the picture and turn up the volume, double the feeling, the smell or the taste, and double again and again and again until your whole being is filled with that moment; all your senses, be there, in it all around, capture that look, that feeling, all those sensations, savor them, let them linger in your being, your mind, your body … and now, just be aware of how far you went, how deep, how you lived that moment as if it were now! That moment was your moment, special to you: where you were, what you saw, how you felt, what you heard, smelt or tasted.
We take that peak moment and anchor it, so that it can be revived and relived, at will. Then, we associate that moment with something you want to do, to achieve, to change, and instill the motivation deep inside you. Imagine now, how effective this can be in making change, achieving what you want, or desperately need, freedom from nega-tive programs drummed in from childhood, freedom from unnecessary habits or out-of-date ways of thinking, freedom even from the past – the past is where it belongs, behind you, and, if you let it go, completely over and done with! Freedom to move on, to let go, to cut the chains of the free.

Stress itself is Perfectly Normal. It’s how we react to Stress that gives us a headache. We all have our problems, difficulties, hopes and dreams but at some deep level within us dwell the resources to make the change you need to make and it’s just a matter of learning how to help yourself make those changes. And who knows, by changing your mindset you may come to find that more success, fulfillment and happiness can be … perfectly normal.

But now a new and insidious normal is seeping in, a normal that thrives on Stress and threatens Vitality.


Look Inside: From Stress to Vitality NOW! Secrets of Love and Life Mastery for Men and Women

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