Dave is a character in my mind. He has a job. He get’s sad. It is all very dramatic and entertaining! He is the one writing this. He is the one on your plane of existence could meet and experience with your senses in three-dimensional spacetimemind. To me, on the fifth dimensional axes, Dave is the aspect of your consciousness you would designate as ego. If it helps, think of it this way. I am the entirety of the consciousness of which Dave is but a part. His, higher-self – as it were (‘though I find that term needlessly condescending and in poor taste).
My name is Zardak, and in the fifth dimension I am writing a book about Dave. In this book, Dave is writing a book about Earth’s first sorcerer…
… a teenager from Corbyville named Andy Crowley.
As it turns out — in a thematically beneficial, as-above-so-below kinda way — Andy is a writer too. And he is creating a role playing game with the intent of re-introducing humanity to the ancient paths that lead inward — to the multiverse within!
I am Zardak, the Dave, the Andy Crowley, the Abraxas, High Scribe of Promethean Farlore, but please just call me Zardak the Dave
This story begins, at a little school on a quiet country road. The sweetbread smell of Canadian whiskey being distilled hangs in the frosty air.
In an elementary schoolyard here in 1977, in winter, a boy of nine years should know that absentmindedness is not an option. Andy Crowley was by no means absentminded (omniminded is what historians would later refer to him as) but he was thinking about so many things at once, that he had casually strayed onto the frozen stretch of laneway between the staffroom and the soccer field. On other days he had pondered whether the janitor secretly flooded the stretch so the teachers could basque in imagined coconut sounds as the child’s mind after child’s mind was smashed mercilessly into the ice. A perfect spectacle to complement a pack of Players and coffees with a splash of Royal Reserve. Proud Canadians.
But today, while Andy was doing the sacred geometry homework he didn’t get from school, he had strayed onto open ice — and he had done so without a wingman.
He saw grey whisps in the blinding blue winter sky and his stomach flipped over. His much beloved “Six Million Dollar Man” lunchbox would be exploding into shards momentarily.
He had forgotten that he still clutched the Platonic solids in his hand. He squeezed them into a ball.
Zoxathaso a-ooee Zozazoth, he had just enough time to say it
Then, the indigo night with the emerald stars: that sight one less mystically trained than Andy is might mistaken for the back of one’s eyes.