P4: (57 minutes remaining)

PHolding no awareness of location, presence or time, P must assemble fragments of the past, present perception and possible purpose to ensure survival. An inability to collect, collate and create from the surrounding environment will result in total oblivion. There can be no in between. Without an identity, P has a one hour countdown to annihilation.



There was a car accident.
There was sickness.
There was vomiting.
There was a loss of consciousness, but no concussion.
There was blackness as the car left the road and swayed across several lanes of fast-moving traffic from the middle lane across the overtaking lane to scrape the central barrier and back across all four lanes to wind up smashed against the barrier on the verge.
There was a tapping on the window.
There was a show of concern.
There was an explanation.
There was yellow vomit all over the dashboard and over his trousers.
There was a little Buddha.
A stone Buddha.
A stone Buddha on a window sill surrounded with flowers.
Yet it was winter.
Maybe late winter and approaching spring.
So maybe daffodils.
Or imported flowers from abroad. From somewhere in the south, maybe. Most likely.
There was a winter holiday in the Alps.
Yellow sunshine up on the mountains.
Hot grog and flaming braziers in a kiosk-lined market place.
The mobile was still blinking its little red light – its last red death throes – when it pinged and a little band lit up along the top, saying WhatsApp Message and in a line of glowing tiny green-white letters:
…on my way…
But who was on their way and where to? Without the power cable or PIN he was unlikely to ever find out.
He looked around the room: square, about five metres from wall to wall, painted perfect white, with four exits: one with a permanent-looking heavy wooden door leading to an ante-room and steps down to another imposing-looking door; an internal closure of two narrow wooden doors (from where he had emerged less than four minutes ago?); two similar-looking internal doors, but glazed, off two steps up into what was probably a kitchen; and two big sliding doors out onto a vertigo-inducing veranda.
It didn’t look like a room in a sanatorium, which was some kind of relief – wasn’t it?
It meant he was probably here under his free will – originally, at least. He wasn’t a patient of any kind. (That was a definite relief!)
He examined the low wooden table, and saw it unexpectedly contained a drawer. Inside the drawer was a sleek, silver-coloured laptop with a lead coiled beside it.
Yes! He was saved.
He took out the equipment and plugged it in to a socket on the wall and waited for it to come alive.
Boing! There it was…
And then, an error message and warning:
Repeated failed attempts to access this device. Power on and wait for two hours before attempting again.
Two hours! But he only had one hour to live. Less than one hour. In fact, fifty-six minutes was all that remained to save himself.

Follow the new instalment posted every Friday night GMT.

Stories by GLYN F RIDGLEY available @ Amazon & bookstores worldwide


P is for Peace

Recently, this blog has been receiving an unusually high number of hits from countries not normally associated with its main readership. So, I would like to say a special and warm ‘Welcome’ to those reading my posts in places from far and wide, such as China, Pakistan, Philippines, Russia, Hong Kong SAR China, India, and any other countries not included in this list.
I would like to think this interest from around the world is inspired by a desire to be part of a global community made up of self-reflective individuals who take pride in their own identity and locality, yet seek inclusivity within a broader spiritual recognition of humanity as a whole.
This desire can only be based upon a hope for peaceful co-existence among communities around the planet.
World harmony is a wish placed within the heart of most individuals – only the callous, self-serving destructive nature of some influential people and the institutions they represent prevent peaceful relations from becoming the norm.
Much more needs to be said about this, and the nature of this situation is graphically explored within the pages of my ten novels (published in English but available worldwide).
As a matter of fact, the publication of these works may be seen as the culmination of a personal destiny.
As for the blog, I suddenly began taking it much more seriously following the previously mentioned increased interest in recent posts and, in particular, as a result of activity after the posting of P is for Revolutsiia.
I want to make it absolutely clear that not for a second would I welcome a re-run of the 1917 Bolshevik Revolution in Russia. I have a university degree in Russian, have lived and worked in Russia, and was in fact present at the very moment of the collapse of the Soviet Union (as I have written about elsewhere). In other words, I am too knowledgeable to ever want anything like the Soviet system ever instituted anywhere or at any time in the world.
Unfortunately, too many state systems even today are implementing repressive measures and using propaganda in an attempt to control the behaviour of their citizens.
This is where the internet can still be used to break down the frontiers of ignorance which are used to distance peace-loving peoples from one another.P
Regarding the P series, this is a serious attempt to reveal the true nature of human identity and in so doing make it clear that every person is fundamentally the same, and that it is these shared qualities which enable us to seek and share peace with one another.
We each have our own personal identities, but together we are stronger.
(NB I modified the concluding paragraph of P is for Revolutsiia immediately I recognised how easy it was to misread symbolically that which was originally posted. All comments welcome.)

Books by GLYN F RIDGLEY available at Amazon & bookstores worldwide


P2 : 59 minutes remaining

P2: Different Ps (59 minutes)

The first thing that became obvious was that there were three of him. Three Ps, at least.
The first one was able to make his body parts move; so that he was able to move his eyes and look at the clock, for instance, or pick up the black oblong object from the table and push the side buttons.
(Ah, yes – a mobile – telephone – device.)
Then there was the second P who knew stuff – who remembered stuff, like just now: had access, as it were, to a store of knowledge.
Finally, there was a third one – a third P – which kind of overlooked everything that he was doing [just like he was doing now], which might be considered the super-P: the Overseer.
But it was access to the second P he most needed right now, he realised: the one which stored memories and, hopefully, provided him with enough information to make decisions based on that knowledge.P
His life might depend on it.
So, a mobile telephone device. How did that help him?
He switched it on again.
The small white dot of light in the upper left corner turned red. That probably wasn’t a good sign. A square made up of numerals ranging from 0 to 9 lit up in the centre. A prompt required a PIN.
The good thing was that he could recognise numbers and letters of the alphabet and could understand what was required from him.
That part of his memory remained.
The bad thing was he couldn’t recall this particular anagram: P.I.N. PIN. Pin. What did that mean?
He remembered ‘pin’. To pin something. Or a sharp pointed object. A safety-pin. A drawing pin.
A safety pin.
A drawing pin.
A safety pin.
PA safety pin!
A safety pin.
A safety pin. Something to keep your pin safe.
A PIN number.
A P – I – N.
A Personal Identity Number.
What was it, his PIN? He had no idea.
The mobile’s screen had gone blank.
Without the number he could not access the data it contained.
Was that a bad thing?
What could the phone tell him about himself?
Contact numbers, of course. He could contact somebody and ask them if they knew what was happening, who he was.
He would say, ‘Hi there, this is me, P. Do you know me?’ And they’d say, ‘Hey, I thought this was X, or maybe they’d say, ‘Hi, X’, when they picked up.
And maybe there’d be his own contact details stored on the phone already. Maybe he’d recognise his own name if he saw it. Remember who he was and where he lived.
And then there was other information available, he remembered, like Google and Google maps so that he could at least find out where on the planet he was located.
Then again, his intuition and capacity for lateral thought seemed to be kicking in pretty well now and maybe that would be the best way of recalling just who he was.
Maybe a more authentic ‘him’.
Actually, anyone would do right now: a Google him or a real him, it really didn’t matter.
The main thing was that he saved his life.P
And this was probably the fourth P, he realised. The unthinking P. The P that wanted just to exist in some form at all costs.
The primeval P, if you like. The sub-P.
He was wasting time. A look at the clock told him another minute was almost up. Only another fifty-eight minutes remained before he was extinguished entirely.
If only he could remember that damn PIN…

Audio: the previous instalment (click below)



NOVELS by Glyn F Ridgley @ Amazon & bookstores worldwide

Background to ‘P – a Viral Story’

P – a Viral Story, is the original tale of someone who wakes up to discover that they can remember nothing at all about who they are or where they live: not even their name.
All they seem to know is that they have one hour to recount all this information or they will be completely obliterated as a human being.
The full story is broken into each remaining minute of the narrator’s life while they try desperately to figure out their unknown identity in the time available.
Each new – as yet unwritten – instalment of P will be posted at midnight GMT on Fridays with the text of the narrator’s painful and almost unendurable attempts to discover the information which will save their life.
Any comments will be appreciated – they could even inform the final narrative structure unless the commentator explicitly states otherwise (no worries).
An audio version of the previous instalment will be available at the end of each freshly posted text.
By pressing the FOLLOW button your own identity remains anonymous, however it ensures that you receive each instalment of P at the moment it is posted.
As a backfill to the completed story you may wish to visit other posts on this ever-evolving blogsite which add to the composition of the – as previously stated, not yet written – tale of P.

NOVELS by Glyn F Ridgley @ Amazon & bookstores worldwide


P – a Viral Story for our time

He had woken from a dream and forgotten his name or where he lived.

At the same time, a voice in his head told him that he had just an hour to recount this information or he would be dead.

One hour. To save himself from obliteration.

He looked at the round disc hanging on the wall; a white background in a wooden frame ringed with a series of black Roman numerals going from I to XII and A Newgate written in an elaborate script with LONDON designated bold and square below. An inner ring was marked with five dashes between each of the numerals. Three pointers – or arms – radiated from a black point at the very centre of the circle: one moved as a thin black line and at a rate he could see (alarmingly). Another arm about the same length was of a more elaborate design and pointed to the XII; as did the shorter arm, of the same elaborate shape.

On the low wooden table before him was a thin black rectangle, which he picked up. On the side of the contraption was a long button and a shorter one. He pressed both. Almost immediately the whole front shone with white luminescence, words shot out, and the word Android remained in green for a moment longer.

Android, android, android…

“City black, encase the time

World full of men, who all are blind

Who walk and talk and say as one

‘Androids are we, heir to no son’

Adjust me

Adjust me

Adjust me

Adjust me…”

Androids. A memory. That was good, wasn’t it?

A memory?

The face went black then re-illumined and four white digits showed – 00:07.

A quick glance revealed they matched the fast-moving hand on the round disk which had moved past the I symbol-numeral and pointed to the second dash within the segment leading to the II symbol.

Then to the eighth dash, matching the figure 8 on the illuminated screen

8 seconds.

Now he remembered.

Analogue and digital

Hands and numbers.

Eight seconds had been removed from his life.




Quickly think.

Think quickly.

That’s twelve seconds.

Sixty minutes. Minus twelve – no, thirteen seconds.

The circle. Twelve numbers. Divided by five. What did they mean?

Twelve fives equalled sixty.

Sixty seconds.

360 degrees in a circle.

Sixty into three-hundred and sixty = six.

Was this meaningful?

Could he count his life by degrees?

Or would seconds be better?

From the clock face he could count in degrees or seconds; from the rectangular square digits only time, numbers, no shape.

60 seconds. One minute. Sixty minutes. One hour. He had fifty nine minutes and forty-three seconds to remember who he was and therefore to maintain his existence, to save himself.

PHe would call himself P to save time.

P for person – and he would designate P also as the place where he lived, P from the Land of P, since P also signified people. For he was sure there were other people around even though he wasn’t aware of any right there and then.

So, for now, he – for he was sure that he could remember his gender – was P from the Land of P.

But who was he, really – and where was he?

He rubbed the rectangular screen with his thumb and a numbered grid of numbers appeared. They looked familiar. A shape.

Then the rectangular screen glowed and a recurrent sound rang out. Two circles appeared: red and green. Arrows emanated from the green disc. He pushed the green circle in that direction. A voice spoke although he couldn’t understand what it said.

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘Your package is ready for collection. At the pharmacy.’

‘Thank you . I – ‘

The back rectangle fell silent and a red button glowed at its base. He prodded at it disconsolately.

“At the pharmacy.”

The pharmacy.

The pharmacy.

Yes, the pharmacy! He remembered it. Another green symbol, in the shape of a snake. Two snakes, on a pole.

The pharmacy. Yes, that was it. The pharmacy.

They had a package for him.

What package?

He would find out.

He looked at the clockface. The fast-moving hand – the second hand – was approaching the XII symbol; the other long hand – the minute hand – was nearly on the first dash.

A minute had passed.

Fifty-nine more remained.

NOVELS available @ Amazon and bookstores worldwide

Next part available every Friday midnight GMT

How to Unlock the Universe

universe (n.)

1580s, “the whole world, cosmos, the totality of existing things,” from Old French univers (12c.), from Latin universum “all things, everybody, all people, the whole world,” noun use of neuter of adjective universus “all together, all in one, whole, entire, relating to all,” literally “turned into one,” from unus “one” (from PIE root *oi-no- “one, unique”) + versus, past participle of vertere “to turn, turn back, be turned; convert, transform, translate; be changed” (from PIE root *wer- (2) “to turn, bend”).  – etymonline.com


The Universe is a massive lock. Yes, it contains many secrets and by way of those secrets the difficulty of opening the lock may make it appear impregnable. Yet, it is a lock in itself. You do not unlock the door to the Universe. You unlock the Universe itself, and thereby discover what exists on the other side – beyond.

The Key of Love provides the means for opening the lock.

The discovery of the Key of Love is merely the beginning of the procedure, and you will find out how to obtain this Key through the blog, the extended writings – the projected videos – and, most importantly of all, your own mental processes.

No matter how far advanced you are in the discovery of the Universal secrets, the Key of Love will aid in the final realisation.

There is no picking of the lock. One final turn with the correct key is the only possible manner of opening the whole. Then – and only then – will what lays beyond be revealed to the inquiring mind.

NOVELS BY GLYN F RIDGLEY @ Amazon and bookstores worldwide

Two buddies on a road trip through Arizona get to grips with the Key of Love


A Mushy Brain

There is a funny kind of leakage when you’re a writer…I mean of the genuine kind as opposed to the manufactured beauty queens of the media industry. Nearly all the time you are poised to commit pen to paper – typeface to computer screen – in a trembling and tremulous desire to issue forth a pointed little piece of prose that will somehow encapsulate what is happening within and around you at that particular moment of articulation.

What you also learn is that you are in possession of a mind-linkage and rhythmic style which enables you to put together a pattern of language that may or may not be wholly concise.

I would say, most of what you find at the opening of modern day bookshops consisting of literary creations is almost anything but – or, in fact, exactly that, as you wish. Whether or not your brain turns to mush is pretty much based on your own selective process at the point of entry. You could maybe just ignore that which is laid before you. I don’t know.

What does happen high up in the mountains is that you discover a high-altitude discernment of staggering proportions.

“Sunlight on a rockface reveals distinction.” – Heidegger

I am inclined to add that this saying pertains all the more on a privileged morning when one is drinking coffee in a high street book store.




When you finish

There is a distinct loneliness that comes from finishing a particular kind of work – like a novel – that cannot be easily shared. It’s just there. No one can know it. You had it before you began, which is why you began, and then it comes back revisited about a million times on conclusion.

Very heavy.

Very heavy, indeed.

It’s what you take on.




Feb 16

You start with innocent faith, and end with full-on knowledge – how does that happen?

You are your own alembic. By looking inside the vessel, by testing its contents, mixing new components, adding pressure and heat, cooling down, inspecting the outcome, eventually you will distil whatever is left and that is it – the pure gold of knowing.

There is only one wisdom.

Francis Bacon (1561-1626) first came up with the idea of empirical method, whereby you test by experiments the truth of your understanding. This leads to a particular type of knowledge, one that is quite objective and able to be analysed by others. Tests may be repeated and results compared. Truth ought to be the outcome. Certainly that is the desire. (David Hume, of course, proved that nothing could be known with certainty – not even that the sun will rise tomorrow [and, well, it doesn’t actually ‘rise’ anyway, but no matter] – and more recently dear old Karl Popper refined the scientific method by saying that all meaningful propositions must be refutable; but leaving all that aside… What empiricism did do was lead to modern science and the laws of Boyle and Kelvin and Newton and Einstein et al, to engineering and modern manufacturing procedures: the modern world, in other words.

No only this. Bacon’s method is possibly best applied to the individual and their own testing out of their own knowledge. Empiricism then becomes the best method of becoming quite certain of one’s own understanding of one’s own self.

This may seem to be an odd form of esoteric investigation and yet it invariably leads to correct results.

This is essentially a description of ‘mysticism’. I am surprised that no one else has pointed this out before. Bacon, of course, was an Imperator of the Rosicrucians.

So, this is what mysticism is about: testing one’s knowledge until faith is cast aside and certainty in the results is discovered.

There is one more very important aspect concerning mysticism, and this will be dealt with in tomorrow’s Diary posting.

Today has started out gloomy but that won’t deter me from going for a walk through the woods and getting as much fresh air and exercise as possible. Day by day, I am feeling stronger, my appetite has returned, and I can only hope that these are sure signs of recovery from a period of extended illness.


Feb 15

It may take years of pondering before one takes the plunge and actually engages in an active manner with esoteric thought. There appears to be a certain fear factor involved. With conventional thought structures there is pretty much no pussy-footing about wrong and right. People tend to simply go along with the dominant social structures. Esoteric thought requires something quite different from the individual.

In particular, in esoteric thought, the individual draws from a wholly different information stream in order to understand the universe for themselves. The esotericist does not simply defer to whatever the current trend is towards certain subjects. Right and wrong become an internalised assessment based on a great amount of cogitation and relying on a whole set of integrated factors. The esotericist acquires a particular set of skills which allow them to make their own judgements concerning values in the world.

Generally speaking, the world does not like esotericists and should you find yourself attempting to discover more about the universe through the power of internal knowledge do not be surprised if even those who claim to love you make attempts at distracting you from the path.

rosicrucian copyI’ll be honest, as I was being drawn along the mystic way there were times I thought I might be going crazy because most, if not all, common or garden references were denied me. In my own case, I utilised teachings which had been made available through the ages, going right back to the Vedas and I Ching, through Taoism, Buddhism and Pre-Socratic musing, and up through the neo-Platonists to the Sufi and Christian mystics of the past five hundred years.

Soren Kierkegaard 1813-55

Kirkegaard – the Danish existentialist philosopher – was great for trying to get a handle on the meaning of faith, and especially his concept concerning the ‘leap of faith’. Because, when you start out, if you have no real grounding in esoteric thought and mystical reasoning, most of your actions are based simply on inner certainty and also outward faith in your ability to puzzle things out. Neither of which are easily explained to the outside world, so that you may quite quickly become an object of ridicule; no easy thing for a neophyte, or anyone else, to bear.

In the next post I’ll try to get across how faith in yourself (and definitely not on externalities) produces inner strength and enables the individual to grow stronger and develop certainties in their own conception of the world.

Right now, it’s tipping with rain – and I’m still hoping to complete the Duolingo Russian course before flying out next week and in preparation for an extended trip being planned for next year.

In fact, the word sobiratsya and its various shades of meaning concerning ‘intentions and planning’ is the focus of my immediate studying.

Do svidania!


NB this post is dedicated to my beautiful wife – and to my departed sister, who was an epileptic, the patron saint of epileptics and epilepsy being St Valentine, whose name day was celebrated by millions yesterday.