This is an important and timely question explored in the highly acclaimed spiritual novel, SNOOZE: A STORY OF AWAKENING, winner of the 2015 National Indie Excellence Award for New Age Fiction.
Written with young adult and young-at-heart readers in mind, SNOOZE further proved its literary merit by being selected as a 2016 Readers’ Favorite International Book Award Finalist in the Young Adult-Coming of Age category and receiving an Honorable Mention in the 2014 Beach Book Festival Prize competition in the General Fiction category.
You’re invited to join—either with eyes or ears—Max Diver, a.k.a. “Snooze,” along the razor’s edge of a quest to rescue his astronaut father from a fate stranger than death in the exotic, perilous Otherworld of sleep.
This inspiring tale interweaves a plethora of paranormal and metaphysical subjects, from Bigfoot and enlightenment to the Loch Ness Monster and time travel via the Bermuda Triangle.
In her review of SNOOZE published in INDIE SHAMAN Magazine, June Kent had this to say about what she described as “superlative fiction”: “Engrossing, entertaining and occasionally humorous, SNOOZE also takes a look at a wide range of subjects including levitation, telepathy, lucid dreaming, spirit animals, parallel universes and shamanic-like journeying, giving a wide range of information effortlessly absorbed as you enjoy the story as well as much food for thought.”
Naturally, your generous review would be greatly appreciated even if you simply enjoy the full text now being presented on this blog and numerous podcast platforms. Keep in mind that paperback and ebook versions are for sale. A complimentary online version is also available for your reading pleasure.
SNOOZE: A STORY OF AWAKENING
By Sol Luckman
“I’m here on Wikipedia,” said Raul, seated with Pablo on his bed reading from his iPhone, “and it says the primary siddhis include—I’m paraphrasing—making oneself tiny; growing infinitely large, or infinitely heavy; becoming weightless; manifesting one’s desires; being able to go anywhere … I don’t see a word about telekinesis.”
“It probably falls under manifestation,” said Tuesday, who was in the process of stripping Max’s bed and changing his sheets.
Just toweling off after his first shower in longer than he cared to count, Max could overhear their conversation through the slightly ajar bathroom door.
“How I would love to become infinitely small,” said Raul. “I could be a spy in the house of love.”
“Give me a break,” groaned Tuesday.
Max wiped the steam off the mirror with the damp towel and stared at his pale, bearded face that really did resemble something out of a Renaissance painting. In principle, the beard didn’t look half bad—and he decided to keep it … for now.
“Seriously, Tuesday,” said Raul. “Max is supposed to be able to just snap his fingers and do all these things?”
“Certainly, not all at once, I’d imagine. And maybe not ever—at least not where mastery of all the siddhis is concerned. This type of thing takes time and dedication. Max has to learn to crawl before he can walk. Hand me that pillowcase, will you?”
Hardly breaking stride in the conversation, Raul tossed her the spare pillowcase. Max heard the cloth softly whistle through the air. “Even though, apparently, our good man can already fly—in his dreams, at any rate?”
“That’s just it. He only flies in his dreams. The siddhis are about doing the miraculous here in the waking world.”
“Why don’t you just let Max use the Bradelring to get back on track, if it’s so bloody magical?”
“I considered that. But I don’t think it would work.”
“Because it was made for a woman and only operates properly for women. In fact, according to legend, it would seem the Bradelring’s full power can only be harnessed by a female of Irish descent.”
“And you called me a sexist!”
“You are, aren’t you?”
“Tuesday, my dear, let’s not confuse sexist and sexy. There’s a difference, you know.”
Despite still feeling rather gloomy, as he pulled on his jeans and a long-sleeve shirt, Max couldn’t help grinning (another act he hadn’t performed in ages) at Tuesday and Raul’s playfully absurd banter.
“Tell me, are you still seeing that dreadfully boring history major?” asked Raul. “Skipper—or whatever his name was?”
“Right. Like Jimmy.”
“How did you know about us?”
“Word gets around, Tuesday. This is the Ivy League, after all, a place crawling with the idle rich. No secrets are safe.”
“Well, it wasn’t exactly a secret. And we just broke up anyway.”
“Did you hear that, Pablo? Tuesday’s single again. Now’s your chance!”
“Would you like to go out with me, Pablo?” asked Tuesday.
Judging by his energy, Pablo seemed willing—though he was too shy to speak his mind.
“So what was wrong with old Jimmy Carter? Were his teeth too large?”
“He was … boring.”
“Ah, yes, I should have known. Boredom has killed far more relationships than infidelity.”
Max reentered the room as Tuesday, having finished making his bed, was just sitting back down. “How does it feel to be clean?” she asked.
“I, for one, prefer to be dirty,” interjected Raul.
“I feel … cleaner. Thanks. And thanks for making my bed. You didn’t have to do that. I was going to get around to it.”
“And when would that have been?” wondered Raul.
“You’re welcome,” said Tuesday. “I wouldn’t have done it for just anybody. But you can take care of your laundry yourself.”
“I think I can handle that.”
“And drop the facial salad, Max,” said Raul. “I realize you’re a solitary creature. But the beard makes you look frightfully monastic.”
“I don’t know,” said Tuesday. “I kind of like it.”
“So what do we do now?” asked Max, sitting on his freshly made bed and pulling on a pair of socks.
“We return to basics,” said Tuesday, “and clean up your system—especially your pineal gland. Given your lifestyle, I’m sure it’s pretty calcified.”
“What’s so bloody special about the pineal gland?” asked Raul.
“Well,” said Tuesday, “it produces two important hormones: melatonin, which helps with sleep, and serotonin, which regulates conscious thought. But it may also make something called DMT, dimethyltryptamine, which generates hallucinogenic experiences and, according to some theories, may grant access to the spirit world.”
“It says here,” said Raul, having googled “pineal gland” on his iPhone, “that Herophilis, a Greek anatomist, described this so-called master gland as ‘a sphincter which regulates the flow of thought.’ Curious word choice, that. You mean to tell me we’re putting so much time and energy into a sphincter?”
“It’s not describing an actual muscle, Raul,” said Max. “‘Sphincter’ is just a metaphor.”
“And all this time I believed you didn’t know a metaphor from a stethoscope,” said Tuesday.
“I may prefer stethoscopes,” said Max, “but I know what a metaphor is. In this case, Herophilis’s poetic terminology indicates he believed the pineal acts as a valve between—in Reciprocal Theory terms—the material and cosmic realms of space-time and time-space.”
“How I love poetry,” said Raul.
“You do?” said Tuesday, surprised.
“Naturally. ‘Poetry is the journal of a sea animal living on land, wanting to fly in the air.’”
“Are we going to discuss poetry or the pineal gland?” interrupted Max.
“Sorry,” said Raul.
“We have to get your pineal clean so it can do its job,” said Tuesday. “The best way to do this, that I know of, is through food.”
“You mean I have to go on one of those awful health food diets?” moaned Max.
“Why doesn’t he just see a doctor?” asked Raul.
“A doctor?” laughed Tuesday. “What can a doctor do in a situation like this? As soon as Max mentioned what’s actually happening, he’d be diagnosed with a mental disorder.”
“Besides, doctors don’t know the first thing about nutrition. They’re basically drug pushers for the pharmaceutical industry. And all those pills they dish out don’t do anything but poison you anyway. Sorry if I’m stepping on your toes, Max.”
“It’s okay. There’s some food for thought in what you’re saying.”
“Really, Tuesday, you should focus on learning to formulate a definite opinion,” said Raul.
“I suppose I do have strong views. At least, they’re based on a lot of research combined with years of experience. The food pyramid, for example—which doctors study when they study diet at all—is a complete lie. Just turn it upside down and you’ll be closer to the truth.”
“Like everything else,” said Max.
“Don’t get me wrong,” said Raul. “I positively loathe doctors. Just consider the arrogance implicit in the doctor’s question, ‘Now, what seems to be the problem?’”
“What should I be eating?” asked Max.
“It’s not just what you eat,” said Tuesday. “It’s also what you don’t eat.”
“So what don’t I eat?”
“No processed or fast foods, Max. Ever. Organic foods only. No GMOs. No sodas. No seafood containing heavy metals. No fluoride. Which means switching your toothpaste probably and drinking only reverse-osmosis water, preferably in bottles free of BPA.”
“GMOs. BPA. Our world is a carnival of confusing acronyms,” said Raul. “What’s next—no FUN?”
“Very FUNny,” said Tuesday. “GMOs are genetically modified organisms. They’re found in a lot of foods these days—and they’re very, very bad for you. BPA is an endocrine-disrupting chemical in most plastics.”
“Who would have thought it?” said Raul. “It’s as if we’re all just canaries in a coalmine.”
“Sometimes it feels like that,” said Tuesday. “Fortunately, there are ways to cleanse and protect ourselves from environmental toxins.”
“Here comes the FUN part,” said Max.
“We need to get you on a strict protocol,” said Tuesday. “You can borrow my juicer. I recommend juicing beets, turmeric, ginger, garlic, kale and celery twice a day.”
“How perfectly delicious,” said Raul.
“It wouldn’t hurt you to try some yourself,” said Tuesday.
“Me? Thanks, but no thanks.”
“What else?” asked Max. “Your tone suggested you were just getting started.”
“You need to limit your grains. Most grains contain phytic acid, which blocks mineral absorption. That means no bread and no pasta.”
“Which means no FOOD,” said Raul.
“Root vegetables are fine,” continued Tuesday. “Potatoes, sweet potatoes, tapioca.”
“I love tapioca!” exclaimed Raul. “I practically grew up on it Brazil.”
“Good,” said Tuesday. “You can show Max how to make tapioca pudding.”
“We also need to get you drinking wheat grass juice and eating foods with high levels of vitamin K2.”
“I thought K2 was the second highest mountain in the world,” said Raul.
“Never heard of it,” said Max.
“That doesn’t surprise me, Dr. Diver,” said Tuesday.
“So what is K2 and what does it do?”
“Oh, it’s just the single most important nutrient for lots of things, including decalcifying the pineal gland.”
“Where do I get it?”
“Butter and other dairy products made with milk from grass-fed animals, for starters. Gouda cheese is an excellent source.”
“I hear it’s quite gouda for you,” said Raul.
“Organ meats in general, and goose liver in particular, are high in K2,” continued Tuesday. “You’ll have to start shopping at a health food store. You know what that is, don’t you?”
“Now, I could get serious about some goose liver pâté,” said Raul. “Ever try it, Max?”
“Not that I can remember.”
“I daresay you’d enjoy it. Think: stinky socks. But in a good way.”
“Is that everything?” asked Max.
“No, there’s one more thing,” said Tuesday. “Wear this at night.” Opening her backpack, which she had tucked under her chair, she fished out a small package wrapped in brown paper and handed it to Max.
“Let me guess. It’s a hairnet!” said Raul. “Or perhaps a beard guard.”
Inside the wrapping, Max discovered a blue silk sleeping mask covered with gold stars, moons and dolphins complete with an adjustable Velcro strap. “It’s to keep light out of your eyes and help your pineal gland come back online,” said Tuesday.
“Thanks. It smells like lavender.”
“That’s to calm your nerves.”
“A little warm milk or chamomile tea before bedtime wouldn’t be a bad idea either.”
“You really think all this stuff can help me, Tuesday?”
“I know it can. How much, though, is probably up to you.”
“I was afraid you’d say something like that.”
“Just remember, Max,” said Raul, “if you get frustrated with your progress. Scientifically speaking, the bumblebee shouldn’t be able to fly—but it does.”
Copyright © Sol Luckman. All Rights Reserved.
Introducing Sol Luckman’s new visionary novel, CALI THE DESTROYER. Learn about the single most censored story in the history of the human race—and why it matters today.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Sol Luckman is a pioneering ink and acrylic painter whose work has been featured on mainstream book covers, the fast-paced trading game BAZAAR, and at least one tattoo on a female leg last sighted in Australia.
Sol is also an acclaimed author of fiction, nonfiction, and humor. His books include the international bestselling CONSCIOUS HEALING, which you can read free online, and its popular sequel, POTENTIATE YOUR DNA, available in English and Spanish.
Sol’s popular book of humor and satire, THE ANGEL’S DICTIONARY: A SPIRITED GLOSSARY FOR THE LITTLE DEVIL IN YOU, received the 2017 National Indie Excellence Award for Humor and was selected as a Finalist in the Humor category of both the 2018 International Book Awards and the 2018 Best Book Awards.