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"A product of the expansive cultural landscape of our times, Law, an architect, sculptor and a consummate student of ancient myths, fuses the teachings of Lao Tzu, Jesus, St Thomas Aquinas and Indian mysticism with contemporary issues of family, youth, feminism, fame and power to deliver a singular vision of what it could mean to be human." (Bryn Symonds, Montreal writer and editor)
"Fantastic Book: A fresh, intelligent and invigorating book which forces one to reevaluate their perspective of spirituality and science and the connection they undoubtedly hold. The author is an enlightened being and it is very evident in this masterpiece." (Michael P. Tinsley, Poplar Bluff, MO USA)
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Stan I.S. Law, writer a.k.a. Stanislaw Kapuscinski
Stan Law fuses the teachings of Lao Tzu, Jesus, St Thomas Aquinas and Indian mysticism to deliver a singular vision of what it could mean to be human.
Stan I.S. Law, author of over twenty books is releasing his latest jaunt into the uncharted realms of human potential. The Avatar Syndrome (prequel the the spiritual thriller, the Headless World) follows Anne from childhood, to womanhood; from a troubled, taciturn youth, to a world-renowned violinist; from misunderstood recluse, to messiah of a higher truth and beauty.
5 star reviews on Amazon:
A thought-provoking work that stimulates and challenges ones mind. Filled with wisdom, The Avatar Syndrome is an intriguing and fascinating book. I recommend it. (F M J Clouatre, Qc. CA.)
[from chapter 16: Virtuoso]
Anne was coming to the end of the first movement.
Where did she find such depths of emotion? The intense longing for something ineffable, perhaps forbidden, still unknown... Could it have been a longing for love? Not as we humans define it but at a still deeper, much deeper level, something that had its source in the realm of the divine.
Peter's thoughts wandered, incongruously, to a song he'd heard as a teenager.
Where have you been when I've been standing yonder, blinking at a star?
He wasn't sure of the words. Her long dress of green taffeta clung to her girlish hips only just beginning to swell into womanhood, then flowed like molten emeralds down to her feet. The colour was a perfect match to her eyes. She looked taller in her gown. The high collar framed her face from below, while her fiery hair flowed freely, dancing with each movement of her head. Only her long arms were left bare. Bare and so incredibly talented.
Gigi... you're not at all that funny, awkward little girl I knew....
Actually, Anne was never awkward. Unpredictable. Sometimes quite impossible, but never awkward. It was he who often felt awkward. Anne was still, at least in the legal sense, a child. He had to keep reminding himself about that. A funny, if not awkward little girl....
She really did justice to the Adagio di molto. Her legato was much smoother, much broader than anything he, himself, had ever been capable of. God knows, he had tried. He'd shown her the fundamentals. That was about all. All too soon she'd taken flight on her own.
Her music rose and fell in flowing waves, interwoven with the Finnish lakes and forests and the endless fields stretching into the distant, misty unknown. Here, her longing was filled with sorrow, or resignation. No, it was more like acceptance.... Or perhaps reconciliation? A question or two, then peace, serenity of a summer's day hovering over a lustrous lake....
Anne... when did your sparkle turn to fire?
The music no longer belonged to Sibelius. She took it from him, she appropriated it with such ease. There was no act of usurping this jewel. Anne and the music were one. A single entity. Both magical, both beautiful, both....
The Allegro (ma non tanto) snapped him out of his reverie. Peter sat up straighter.
The joy of another morning . . . sparkling, brilliant, boisterous. All nature coming to life, awakening, swirling in a dance of life . . . soaring, receding, plunging only to rise again towards the sky. And God said, Let the waters bring forth abundantly the moving creature that hath soul and fowl that may fly about the earth in the face of the firmament of heaven... When did I hear these words? All creatures of the air...
Out of the corner of his eye, Peter glanced at John and Michael and Diana, who sat between the two men. Not one of them moved a finger. Not one even blinked. Anne's music had that effect on people. He had experienced this same magic so many times when she was practising. She refused to have anyone else present. Just him. Music was something he and Anne shared. She trusted him completely. He often felt the burden of that trust. After all, who was he to pass judgment on this angel?
"You are my friend," she would answer, trying to get rid of the reservations painted on his face. "You are the only one I trust to tell me the truth." It was a gentle plea as well as affirmation.
He had. Only seldom had he made remarks which made her wince. It was when she attempted to introduce her ego into a phrase. You don't own the music, he would say, the music owns you. Until now. Now the music was hers. If there was anyone who could find a way to separate the two, then he or she was better than I am, he mused.
Anne seemed frozen in immobility. Was she still playing? Am I hearing her bow dancing arpeggios with such ease just to amuse us? No, Anne wasn't frozen. It had been he who had wanted her to stop. To play no more. He refused to share her with this crowd. But jealous nature would not release her. It drew her inexorably into her mysteries.
...ephemeral dragonflies gliding on gossamer wings rose, carried on the breath of a forgotten zephyr, a sigh of a girl in an emerald dress, a winged fairy, a squadron of nymphs, mysterious, following her every turn, lithe, prancing, her feet barely touching the grass, playing . . . rising, and falling, only to alight, silently, on wild petals, swaying, barely, in tune, in tempo . . . allegro ma non tanto....
...rising again . . . allegro, joyfully, allegro ma non troppo, lightheartedly . . . tiny feet whisking across the water, ripples, a tremolo . . . her tiny feet skimming across the furrows between the crests, little, shimmering....
...beyond a crown of a forlorn willow weeping good-bye . . . a whole forest, echoing firs, pines, hemlocks....
...weeping good-bye . . . to Anne still standing, still so far, inaccessible.
Anne, come back . . . come back....
The roar was deafening. People were standing – all of them. People cried. Then they shouted – then cried again. Diana took a step towards Peter, put her arms about his neck, kissed him on the cheek.
"This could never have happened without you. Thank you. Thank you so much...."
Just then Anne looked down from the stage. For the briefest of moments their eyes met. Her smile told him the rest. It said the same thing Diana had just said. And more.