The Abundance Paradigm
by Amaterasu Solar
Foreword 2024
I wrote this novella in 2008, and have versions of it posted around the web. I will post each chapter in a separate post, and link to previous chapters as I go. There are 12 chapters to the book, and I may not post every day, so I don’t know how long it will be before We get to the end.
The first two chapters provide the setting for what things will look like in the future, and in the third, the diary of Amelia Ringer arrives to give offset.
I was much more naive back then, so do forgive the naiveté. I also changed a few things from the original, but mostly left it alone, including the lack of capitalizing Human pronouns, which I chose to do after writing it. May You enjoy the trip into Our best future!
Chapter 1
I finally crested that soft-gray world of half-sleep, stretching my every sinew under the luxury of silk satin. With eyes parted slightly, I looked around my terrace-garden room, breathing in the scent of lilacs and orchids and rich loam, listening to the song of the larks that made the zen-jungle of my house their home.
I had had the choice of whatever I wanted, of course, in devising my perfect house. I could have chosen anything – from a rustic cabin on Earth’s surface up to a palace on the Moon or Mars. My choice had been this aerie which floated above the solid land of the planet’s crust, with view of whatever beauty I chose to visit.
Built as a circle, the roof domed over the space in a crescent shape, leaving the center and half-perimeter as a terrace to the outside world. Under the roofed portion, there were no walls, except at the edge, defining my studio, Lee’s study and photo developing lab – Lee is the love of my life – and guest rooms. Under the main part, partitions stood, confining my bedroom, my bathroom, the kitchen, and dining room, with the living room open on the side facing the terrace. All the rooms were partitioned within my manicured garden-jungle, which had paved pathways running throughout, and sculptures in an Egyptian motif tucked here and there.
The windows and the terrace around the edge of my house were confined by an energy field, unseen but detectable to the touch. The field extended, completing invisibly the dome above.
I pushed away the sheet and sat, breathing deeply in satisfaction. Though I could have chosen to be cleansed, dressed and groomed by my robot valet, one of my many ’botties, there was something almost decadent in reaching for my robe and strolling to my cleansing fall – the waterfall and pool which holds hot water – to bathe myself. I dropped the robe on the floor and a ‘bottie came forth to pick it up and place it on a hook as I stepped into the pool. Stroking a cloth, so filled with sudsy sweetness, over my arms, legs and torso, I washed away what sweat and grime there was. I reveled in the application of cleansing cream, suited precisely for the skin I was born to, rubbing it, scrubbing it, into my face.
Floating in the pool, I rinsed myself, and then poured a generous amount of shampoo into my palm. The waist-length damp locks sudsed up as I applied the foamy liquid, and a sweet patchouli scent joined the earth-blossom richness of the surrounding flowers. I moved under the fall, which steamed as it fell, and rinsed the lion’s mane I call my hair.
Stepping forth from my bath, I grasped the ultra-plush towel which sat ready on a shelf nearby, and smoothed it over my damp skin.
Rather than use the insta-dryer, which would, I knew, dry and brush (and even coif should I request it) my hair, I picked up the abalone brush I had found in that queer little ancients shop in Belize – I had seen it and asked if the owner would part with it. He had smiled and suggested a small painting by the Infamous Isadore Illumente (my humble self) would be perfect payment. I offered him his choice of the paintings I had done and were still mine to give, calling forth my holoport – my “holographic portfolio,” for any distant historians – and, the shop keeper having chosen one (one of my darker ones called Struggling under Scarcity), the brush was mine.
Slipping back into my robe, I made my way to the terrace through my private jungle. The trees opened onto the wide, semicircular deck that seemed to drop off at the edge. A gentle breeze was detectable as I crossed the deck to the end of the stonework pavement and looked down. Below I could see the waters of the Colorado River winding through the walls of the greatest canyon on our planet. The walls, in fact, were higher than I was, though not by much.
Leaning against the force that kept me (and anything else) from falling over that edge, I began to brush out the kinks and snarls from my matted hair, taming the mane, allowing the abalone brush to separate the strands and facilitate drying. A long while I stood there against that invisible rail, feeling the sun and the breeze frolic in turn against my face and arms, teasing at the slit in my robe, carrying away the damp patchouli waters infusing my hair.
Looking out over the wide rift, looking mostly east, seeing the late morning sun splash the canyon into sparkles and shadows, I drank in the warming air. (I allow unfettered Earth air through my house whenever the weather is not inclement.) I saw a house floating along the river below, quite a bit lower down, moving downstream, and a short while later another whizzed past silently overhead in a southwesterly direction. I breathed and brushed and blended with the sublime.
After my hair was fully dry, I turned from the Grand Canyon view, idly contemplating, as I walked back to the stone-paved path through the jungle, where it would be that I would choose to wake up the next morning, and thinking it would be nice to revisit that hidden canyon off the beach in Northern California called Fern Canyon. Of course, my domicile would not fit in that narrow opening, but I could surely lower the ramp to the beach and take a stroll there with Lee, avoiding the little stream that runs through the rock-littered white sand that lay between the sheer, dark dampness of the walls barely seen in glimpses through the thick fern growth that grew up and up and up the tall walls that allowed just a very little sky above.
Yes, I thought, that is where I want to go.
Reaching the mirrored alcove, I cast an eye over my appearance. Deciding I would like to have my hair put up, I sent the thought out, and a little ’bottie slipped silently into the alcove with me. Taking my imagery as its design, it busied itself lifting my tresses here, sweeping them there, and pinning them just so with the dazzling pearl-and-gold pieces given to me by Auntie Suzy.
Auntie Suzy is a jewelry designer. That is her bliss. She has made an estimated 500 thousand bits of jewelry, and though many have been traded away for things she wanted, most she took full pleasure in gifting to her friends and to those who expressed deep affinity for a given piece.
I sent a thought to the wardie – the wardrobe ’bottie – to create my garb for the day. The wardie used my images and produced (ala the replicator in the kitchen) the rugged khaki pants, replete with pockets, and the lavender blouse I had in mind. Taking pleasure in the dressing ritual, I sent a message to the valet ’bottie to stay put. I really don’t know why I keep it around – I seldom need the speed it offers, and rarely use it.
The last bit of my attire was my Witness Necklace, of which I had several to match my outfits, all of which were artisan crafted. I selected a striking purple one from the collection and slipped it around my neck, settling the camera piece on my right shoulder, and closing the clasp. I always wear a Witness Necklace in public – of course, most everybody chooses to do so.
I reflected on the advantages the development of the Datacube technology offered (the technology which allowed plenty of storage to record every moment of one’s life, and keep Calendar and other records of important data, such as who had created that lovely table I had seen at Programmer Art’s place when Lee and I were there for Art’s secondary skill, culinary requests from the replicator. Somehow Art had the knack of combining ingredients into gustatorial feats of magic).
Every individual could record their perspective in their personal Datacube, and no one had the right to the data recorded but the Individual Humeself. (For historians, “Hume” is a genderless pronoun for a Human.)
Datacubes, of course, are unassailable. Amelia Ringer, bless her, I say, was instrumental in ensuring this for each one of Us. She fought to make sure that it was understood in society that each Individual owned Their own perspective, outright and ultimately. She argued that if there is a dispute over any issue, anyone may release any part of the data They, Themselves, have collected, and also cannot be forced to suppress what They know.
Amazingly, with that dual dam of data flow, where one cannot be forced to release one’s data, yet could also not be forced to keep silent, incidents of dispute dropped to bare minimum, as the practice of wearing some form of Personal Witness took hold, either overtly (as I wear) or covertly, as many chose in the beginnings of Datacube use. Most of Us now wear Our recording devices blatantly as a courtesy to inform others that Our perspective is being recorded.
I choose to record what I do out and about; it is Our right – or really, Our protection – and I have captured some hilarious moments that I have shared at parties, making it all worthwhile. And besides, when I connect to the camera I can look through its lens, seeing where it points – even behind me – without turning around. Most People choose to wear Witness devices, and One presumed always that there were recording devices going everywhere in public.
My Datacube not only recorded my perspective, it gave my instructions to the various ’botties, and in general was the heart of my house. On top of that, I could communicate with it instantly from anywhere on the planet (or even the universe) through scalar wave technology.
Dressed for the day, I ask for my Calendar – a scheduler, it is really, for whether it was Monday or Saturday only made a difference in whether some art or activity was scheduled for that day, and not in things like whether there was something one HAD to do – like go to work or pay taxes. Though I remember quite well my plans for the day, there have been times I thought I did – remembered the plans – only to discover I had forgotten something, so I made it a habit to check just in case.
As the Calendar formed its holographic self where I expected it, in air over my lap, I leaned back into my favorite couch. It was an Old Thing, my couch – something that came from before the labor was done by ’botties, by someone’s hand and attention – and thus to have found it was a stroke of luck for me. Most everyone I knew who cared about Old Things had at least one or two.
My sole Old Thing was my couch. It was deep maroon, a sort of Cleopatra’s lounge affair. The brocade upholstery had held up well; it too was Old. The addition of some spun gold lace at strategic points hid well the fraying spots, and I could proudly say there was no stain that I could see. I had done the sewing-on of the accent gold myself, for I love to do that sort of thing now and then. The wardie created the exquisite lace to my concept, and the result pleased me.
It sat in the living room, against the partition furthest from the terrace, with palms standing in back of it on either side. Pots with gardenia growing clung to the partition, in between which ran a small trickle of splashing water which fell down a staircase of protrusions from the wall that the partition provided, resulting in a quiet slip down the wall punctuated by a soft giggle of particularly exuberant fluid.
The Calendar displayed my expectations: the theatre guild was showing the latest of Ogden Pierce’s plays, but I wasn’t in the mood. Maybe next week… There was the bazaar, as usual this time of the cycle, and I thought it was a good possibility I might go. But really, today was not the day I looked at. It was tomorrow’s single item that tickled my eyes. Tomorrow Lee would be home.
Lee was my love, and through all the years we had known one another, Lee always came back to me. He loved to go on photographic shoots in the wilds of the planet that seemed to move below me as the house made its way gracefully through the air, heading for the northern coast of California. I had a number of my favorite of Lee’s photographs in my gallery here, in the spaces below my house; we intersperse our respective art there, and offer much of it for view should anyone ask. A great deal of our work was often used by those whose bliss was to publish nature journals or educational material, in Lee’s case, or offered in holoart groups on the web, in both our cases.
Lee had no house, though if he wanted one, he could surely have had one. He liked my house and was content to call my house his home. I, in turn, adored it in him that he was so happy to call my house his home.
I went to Humanity.web and checked my “local” section – nominally I live in Florida. Nothing new, no problems to solve there, and, moving upward to the regional section, I saw that some hurricane damage on Barbados was an issue. I really had no solution to offer, but it surely looked like a problem, so I voted it up. Others with more to offer in helping would see it and respond. I would just be in the way. I also cheered a suggestion made for a solution there. At the continental and planetary levels, I saw nothing new, having already voted on what was there. Thus, my civic duty was dispatched, and I returned to plans for the day.
After thought, I decided that I would spend only a little time at the bazaar, and come home to my own bliss – painting.
I got up and made my way out of my sanctuary, down the jungle-path hall to the J.D. The Jump Door was encircled with Egyptian themed symbols and icons. Sculptor Jed had offered to decorate the portal and, I must say, I found it to be a perfect addition to the garden that surrounded it. With intent in mind, with the place I was headed to, I stepped through the portal.
I looked around and took in wares, spread out on the steps and tables that were formed in a long river below me in the open free mall. This was a place that more often was a maze that lovers and children wandered through or played games in, but this cycle day, it was filled with the work of artisans. I stood at the top of the winding path, looking at all the New Things. All the things, created from love, by the proud Merchants languishing in repose, or seated in conversation with a prospective taker. Or perhaps animated, and inviting a look from those who passed by.
I had chosen the entrance at the top of the mall, liking the down-hill slope of the stroll through the seats and tables and alcoves used to display work and choose owners. There was much to see, laid out: jewelry and furniture and hand-sewn clothing, sculptures and paintings and decorations of all kinds. I thought it might be soon that I would bring my paintings here again to offer in their original to exchange and gift.
Around me swirled many a shopper, showing delight over this thing or that, with Merchants drawing them in for conversation and gifting. Now and again a Merchant expressed doubt that the shopper was the right one to receive their special creation. The shoppers would sometimes state their case for their appreciation and perhaps the Merchant would change his or her mind. Often the shopper would reconsider their desires and agree with the Merchant, moving on.
After some minutes perusing, my eye was caught by a fountain, which seemed to combine water and somehow light in ways that the light caught the water, cupping it with no discernible bowl yet holding it still, and then tossed it in arcs and streams and sprays to again be caught or showered downward in gemstone hues.
Seeing my gaze, hearing perhaps my gasp of delight, the Merchant approached me.
“Do you see something that appeals?” she asked.
I smiled. “Yes, I do indeed! That fountain is lovely!”
The Merchant smiled in return. “Who might I be having the pleasure to give this work to?” she eagerly inquired.
“I call myself Izzy,” I replied, “but I am called by others, ‘Infamous Isadore Illumente.’” I cast my eyes downward, a bit modest of the name. It was given to me when I was a wild and crazy teen, and though I wouldn’t say I had done anything really infamous, the title stuck and I chose it as my Web Name. “And you, what name do you have, Artist-Merchant?”
“I’m Fleur d’Eau to many, but I call myself Flo.” Flo’s smile brightened. “‘Izzy,’ you say? Then Izzy I shall call you! Come here and sit, Izzy. Let’s talk a bit.” She reached for my hand and I was led to a curved seat along the mall’s edge on the other side of the fountain.
Together we sat, and I learned that Flo was a water-and-energy sculptor, she had two children who usually were there to help her find the right recipient of her work (and who offered a piece or two of their own, now and then) named Sam, who was 13, and Dee, who was 8 – Sam had found a name as SoundMan Sam Hobson, as his bliss was music, and often he was asked to play at celebrations. Dee was still dallying with things, finding her bliss. At the moment, though, they had both chosen to see what was out there in the bazaar and had gone off, promising not to be long.
Flo’s partner Jacob, the father of Sam and Dee, was exploring the solar system and would be back in six months. Flo and the children missed him a lot.
Flo learned that I had not yet chosen children, but that I had Lee in my life, and we might someday choose children. We talked about the play by Pierce, and soon discovered we both had seen many of the same works. I suggested that we might meet up at Pierce’s play, with any of our friends and family who wanted to come along, on the third day of the cycle next – Flo said it would be just her and her daughter, as Sam was not very interested in plays unless they were musicals. I had brought up my Calendar and, seeing the spot open, I had suggested it. Flo, checking hers, agreed, happy that her time was free then too.
I made the note, offering to pick up the tickets for the four of us, and smiled back as she looked up from making note as well.
“Flo, I thank you for your lovely work. There is a place in my garden that will set it off perfectly.”
Flo smiled. “The way your whole being lit up when you saw it, I just knew I had made it for you.” She took my hand and leaned in to me. “Thank you for appreciating it.”
I squeezed her hand, smiling back, and said nothing.
“Well, where shall I send this?” Flo asked as she stood.
Joining her in standing I gave her the picture-key through the co-ord ’bottie she gestured to, thinking the code image quickly and concisely. A moment later the lovely fountain was picked up by the Movers, a couple of the lift’n’tote ’botties, and they headed towards the nearest J.D.
I smiled and continued along the path after a final exchange of thanks. Little else stood out at all, and none I felt the need to have in my life. As I walked the first few paces, I gave placement orders to my house for the fountain, envisioning it standing where I thought would best suit both the garden and the fountain, and knew that all would be where I saw it in my mind when I got home.
I passed a band playing music with happy abandon, while many stopped to dance or listen. Perhaps SoundMan Sam had taken up with others to create this sound and one of the players I heard was him.
A short while later I tired of looking and listening, being hungry now, and yearning to paint – something, anything… Whatever came out on the canvas.
Seeing a J.D. handy, I held the vision of my memory key strongly in my mind – the image of a special moment in my life that told my home J.D. that it was me – and stepped into my house. I had given that key to my Datacube when I first had my home constructed, and it could recognize my image no matter if I was sober or (seldom) intoxicated. I never feared that someone would want to “break in,” as they called it in the Old Days. Whatever for? Sure, someone might covet my Old couch, I suppose, or one of my original paintings. But if someone wanted my Old couch badly enough to implore me for it, I would willingly let it go to them, for it must mean more to them than to me. And if anyone asks for my paintings, I am honored.
Asking for the fruits of another’s Love labors is the most common method of trade, though many times the Laborer offers Hume’s creations and they are usually taken gracefully.
I breathed deeply the scent of my garden, my jungle, then stepped along the path to the kitchen. I knew I could have a meal, in perfect prime and preparation, laid before me, but I found cooking a pleasure and usually did not rely fully on the replicator and serving ’botties.
I wanted something simple… To the replicator I asked, with visions of shell and yolk and clearness, for three eggs. And then a handful of truffles, some butter freshly churned, scallion and garlic, cream and cheese. I pulled the copper bowl from its place in my cupboards, and my whisk as well. Breaking the eggs, I whipped, the shells being tossed into the M.W.D. – the Molecular Waste Disposal, sort of a reverse replicator.
Setting aside the eggs, I chopped the truffles, the scallion, the garlic. Returning to the eggs, I added cream and whipped. And whipped a bit more.
Next a skillet came out of my cupboards, and onto the heat it went. Butter was melted and the chopped morsels leaped to a sizzle as I added them, stirring them, coating them in creamery goodness. As brownness set in to the mushrooms, scallions and garlic, I scooped out a spoonful to set aside, and turned once more to the eggs, and whipped again, then poured them into the truffles and scallion and garlic.
The heat I turned down, and a lid I laid upon the top.
While the eggs slowly hardened, I grated the cheese – a mellow swiss – and then peeked at the eggs. They were rising, like a flat soufflé, and I sprinkled most of the cheese over the fluffy surface, returning the lid to its place.
For a moment there was nothing to do, so I sent an image of my table in the dining area, set but lacking a plate, to my Datacube, my house, and knew the proper ’botties would be sent to do the bidding. Then I peeked again at my omelet to see the cheese well melted.
I pulled the skillet off the heat, removing the lid, and pulling a plate from my cupboards. I slid the omelet out of the skillet and onto the plate, neatly folding it as I did so. Cheese oozed from the edges invitingly. I sprinkled the creation with the last of the cheese, and then slapped the spoonful of truffle reserve upon the very top. My mouth was watering.
I lifted the plate, calling assurances to the ’botties that cared, that the kitchen could now be cleaned, and then moved into my sunny spot with a crystal-topped table, which was set for one, sans plate. I placed the plate in its appointed spot and sat. Again, I breathed deeply, and looked at last in the direction of the fountain, given in delight by Flo. It stood in a shady spot, all the better to draw attention to the light as it played with the water.
The scent of the truffles mingled with the rich aroma of the jungle that grew in my house. And I began my repast.
After breakfast, I made my way to my studio. There stood my easel, with a canvas in pristine white propped in place, waiting for my creativity to spill forth. A palate rested on a small table next to the easel, with tubes of paint, rags, cleaners, brushes, and spreaders in easy reach. So focused I was on the object of my creative outlet, I hardly noticed the rest of my sunny room: the hardwood floors in a pale ash, the wide windows that looked out on the sky and the horizon, the seats beneath the windows, the shelves and drawers containing books – mostly for reference – and other supplies.
I wrapped a smock around me and sat upon the stool, which placed me in front of the canvas and in arm’s reach of the palate and supplies. In my mind’s eye I saw a young girl, smiling, glowing with innocent pleasure as she lifted a tolerant cat above her in her hands. With this picture burning in my head, I laid the first strokes of paint, and as the hours – which seemed to me mere minutes – passed, the girl and the cat she loved formed before me in paint and bliss.
As My regular readers know, I ask for no money as payment for My work for Humanity. I ask for payment in shares. Please, if You feel My work has value, share with ten or more People. This will be the only way the information is spread.
Links to My work for Humanity:
Electrogravitics – My Knowledge of Free Energy (article): https://peakd.com/informationwar/@amaterasusolar/electrogravitics-my-knowledge-of-free-energy
Blueprint for a Society of Ethical Sovereigns (article): https://peakd.com/informationwar/@amaterasusolar/blueprint-for-a-society-of-ethical-sovereigns
Accounting For the Energy We Add (article): https://peakd.com/informationwar/@amaterasusolar/accounting-for-the-energy-we-add
It IS a Planetary Problem! (article): https://peakd.com/informationwar/@amaterasusolar/it-is-a-planetary-problem
Social Currency (article): https://peakd.com/informationwar/@amaterasusolar/social-currency
The End of (Social) Entropy (article): https://peakd.com/informationwar/@amaterasusolar/the-end-of-entropy
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Endia – A Short Story by Amaterasu Solar
http://tapyoureit.boards.net/thread/260/endia
Quite the Opposite – A Short Story for Change – by Amaterasu Solar
http://tapyoureit.boards.net/thread/72/quite-opposite-short-story-change
The Abundance Paradigm – A Novella by Amaterasu Solar
http://tapyoureit.boards.net/thread/242/abundance-paradigm-novella
My father taught Me never to believe anything. He told Me to place probabilities and adjust them as new data come along, asking the question, "Does that explain what I see?," when evaluating data. He was an aerospace engineer, and worked with T Townsend Brown (see My featured vid on Odysee or YouToilet). From a very early age I was concerned that the way I was told things worked, in terms of government and social affairs, did not explain what I saw. So the first few decades I worked to determine WHY this was.
I wound up in banking, seeing the flow of things in the headquarters of a major bank in Los Angeles. I became intimately familiar with the flow of money, and economics. I asked the question, "Why do We use money?"
When the web arrived, My research capabilities flourished, and I learned much that explained what I saw, but the only explanations I found for why We use money started with trade and barter, which are still money in a direct form, and did not answer the WHY. Then, I came upon the explanation that these were used because, with a finite amount of stuff, it was to ensure that We got Our "fair share" in a scarcity environment, in exchange for the work We added.
From this I realized the WHY. We were accounting for Our energy input into things. And that We needed to do this because the Human energy was scarce compared to what We needed to be produced (back then).
I also discovered that over half Our planet's wealth was "owned" by fewer than 100 Humans...
I was very interested in psychology, too. And studied it deeply, being fascinated by psychopathy, focusing on that aberration, learning that They had discovered a gene that manifested Individuals who were incapable of love, compassion, caring, and empathy for Others – primary psychopaths. Seeing that the wealth was so disproportionate, and that the families who "owned" it inbred, what would explain what I saw would be that They wanted to retain that psychopathic gene. Given that the wealth could feed, clothe, house ALL of Us (and give Us freedom) abundantly and many times over, and yet None set forth to care for Humanity, I had to give probability approaching 100% that They are psychopaths, as that explains perfectly what I see, and answers My quest for why the way I was told things worked did not explain what I saw.
And I asked... If I was a psychopath, with enough wealth to buy anything and anyOne I wanted to, and given that money = power (power over Others is something psychopaths seek), would I be motivated to create a false "reality" for the masses and thereby manipulate Them? I think You can figure out what answer I came up with. And would that explain what I see? Absolutely.
Now, given that money is merely the accounting token used to account for Our Human energy, it would follow that free energy would threaten fully the accounting for Our energy. If I was a psychopath, with enough money to buy sites like Wikipedia, the media, the education system, etc., would I do all I could to suppress and hide free energy?
And given I personally know that electrogravitics offers both gravity control and energy from the aether (the electromagnetic field that pervades the universe), and that it went into black projects, such efforts to hide and suppress would explain what I see completely.
So I am neither a "conspiracy theorist," nor am I a "conspiritard," but rather... I am a conspiracy analyst. And given this analysis, knowing that conspiracies are the NORM in history and that they didn't just stop some years back, I conclude that conspiracies abound. That explains perfectly what I see.
Love always.