Beltany Tops is one of the largest Stone Circles in Ireland and in all the British Isles. It's isolated too. It's in the north country near the border with only a small village or two within miles of the site. It was mid-May when Skippy and Pooler and the fleshy Savitri Devi did their picnic within the circle. Like most Heritage Sites in Ireland, Beltany Tops is loosely fenced, more to keep the sheep out then people. There had been a crowd at Beltany Tops on May Day. These days there always was. Neo-pagans and old Hippies. A few Anarchists looking for fights. Latter Day Druids top heavy with titles and self-created awards. Lil' fat women who are a constant when it comes to anything Wicca. Marijuana and Hash waft over the pastures. There is wine and guitars and the wine will never be very good and the guitars are never tuned. Lots of natural cotton. And cops and since this is near the border and there is a crowd there will always be RUC spies and IRA spies, both Provisionals and Traditionals. But mostly the crowd is just harmless and deluded. Skippy always travels to the Tops off season or past peak, and mid-May is no exception. So the three of them had the site to themselves. It's high ground, but not the highest, like many Stone Circles, Beltany had been placed on a convenient plateau just below the crest of a hill. As if the site were on the Lap of something. Protected, nourished, nodding in and out of consciousness. But for a 3/4 round the Circle commanded a view of gentle hills and small enclaves of dwellings in a sea of green grass and fields. Here a copse, there a copse, but no real forest in view. We did lunch and drank white wine within the circle of 64 standing stones. There was a sudden but small rain and we made no effort to pick up our things and run for cover. You have to walk a quarter mile thru an ancient tree-lined way which by mid-May had already leaved out and formed a dark tunnel thru the fields to get to the Circle. So we were alone, on the near-top of an ancient hill and you could hear wind and sheep and now and again a small truck in the distance. Savitri was blond against all that bright green. She brought some Hash from Dublin. It was about 3 in the afternoon and it was warm and everything smelled like blooming and bursting and bhel. Savitri told Pooler he owed her something so I went for a circumambulation at a decent distance from the circle and while Pooler paid his Duty and his Debt I walked withershins around the circle 3 times. Little John and Maid Mary were finished before I closed the second loop. They started again before I'd closed the 3rd. It was a beautiful day and I was walkin' slow.

Achilles Rizzoli has been compared with Blake and Escher and Grandma Moses. When you talk about Art Brut or Outsider Art or Savage Art then A. G. Rizzoli becomes eponymous. He was born in 1896 to immigrant parents in San Francisco, California. He was a recluse who lived with his mother for most of his life until she died in 1937 - at her funeral he tried to open up her eyes. After that he placed a small cot at the foot of his mother's empty bed where he would sleep for the rest of his life. He died in 1981 at the age of 85. He was a life-long Virgin. He was short, delicate, almost elfin. He spoke only when spoken to and since he had no friends or acquaintances he remained nearly silent for most of his 85 years. He was trained in mechanical drawing and architectural rendering and worked for 40 years in a windowless office for $1.50 an hour for the Architectural firm of Otto. Deichmann. His coworker's liked him but avoided him because he was so Ganz Andere. When Skippy and Slag discovered the work of Rizzoli they each - simultaneously - had the same realization: A. G. Rizzoli was more than likely a High-Functioning Autistic. He had all the earmarks: solitary, no social skills or graces, an inability to form strong social bonds outside of himself, obsessive . . . he was textbook. And he also evidenced the other face of Autism which usually only shows up in the higher-functioning: he had Artistic skills. Or Artistic skills of a sort. There are many document cases of Autistics with incredible skills - children who hear a symphony once and then sit down at a piano and duplicate the symphony exactly. Last night, on the Discovery Channel, was the case of the English Autistic who does numbers - like the Rainman. They filmed him at Oxford doing a 5 hour rant on some number - a Prime or maybe it was Pi - which he correctly unwound to 10,000 places. All of this while just staring inward at some sort of Mirror in his mind which gave the answer without any cognitive functioning. No calculating whatsoever. Like the Rainman summing up the box of toothpicks which had just scattered its contents on the floor. 512, goddamn it. No counting required.

Rizzoli believed that his artistic renderings captured the spiritual storehouse of a person. They were not symbols of a person but rather they were meant to be a glimpse into what the Spirits of these people would look like in the Heavenly Jerusalem. Rizzoli was baptized at 55 years old but he was a life-long religious mystic. He did 5 Birthday tribute Kathredals to his mother. One critic wrote: "perhaps what Rizzoli is saying is that he has established a new artistic language for translating the Secular into the Sacred."

On his own life Rizzoli wrote that he lived "in an unbelievably hermetically sealed spherical inalienable maze of light and sound seeing imagery expand in every direction."

The last stage of Installation was the setting of the bottom row of mirrors and then their calibration to the Cardinals and the Decans. In the Talmud Yahweh says: "Let them make Me a Sanctuary that I may dwell among them." And so the Miskan was created to house or to "tent" the Spirit of god. Rizzoli felt the same way about his creations: they were Tents wherein he could put "personalities" and deal with them in a way which he could not in "real life." Autistics have to create a Mirror World where they can deal with the "Others" in a safe and manageable way. Rizz could not handle people until he "Rendered" them into things which he could manipulate according to His wishes. By Solstice, Kenny had long since "encorporated" Achilles Rizzoli into the Speculum Veeaye. It was from Rizz that Skippy & Slag discovered the "Veeaye." And they felt this instant identification with him the moment they saw his Kathredal Project and realized it was very much a mirror-image of their own Cathedral Project. Gaudi, Rizzoli and Kenny La Roche should have sucked Guinness together and talked "pussy".

Skippy loves the way the mirrors get lost in this picture. Once the mirrors were fastened to the Sphere the Miskan was finished and as the last act all we had to do was attach the Seedstone and then just walk away. Kenny gets misty when you make him talk about Seedstones. They are the Punto Fijo, the fixed point, the unwavering mean. When you forgive a Rock of its Weight and Redeem a Shard for the Mystery it places a burden on the rest of the Universe which now must adjust itself to the changed circumstance of the vanished weight. If the bidnez of Alchemy is to find and redeem the pieces and the contents of the Broken Vessels, then you will expect that such actions have consequences on things like Karma and other burdens. Slowly god Remembers itself and as it does the Universe shifts to mark the memory in an engram struck into the mind of Universal Gravity. Humans suckle off the teats of this Morphogenic Field where every ripple in the pond informs every part of the pond without effort or moving. Like the Rainman counting coup. Bam! It's just there, and here, and everywhere.

To the left, Kenny turns the On Switch to On by calibrating the AOA on the South-East facing Mirror of the Miskan. Remember that the Sheila-na-gig at Kilnaboy, as well as others, are also calibrated so that the Yoni faces the rising sun on their Parallels at certain moments [topos] in their years. We calibrated the spike for Summer Solstice and naturally, since the piece is stationary and still it cannot follow the yearly decay of the Sun's apparent orbit as it moves thru the seasons. Kenny will return, seasonally, to recalibrate so that the spike remains effective in reflecting the right Shekhinas to the right locations. A Shekhina is a piece of sun, but like the sun is everywhere. Thus the mystery of god the Hologram who, like the faces on the Hindu Diamond, is everywhere and just there all at once. Whose every piece can recapitulate the whole. "If the sun," said Rabbi Gamaliel, "which is only one of a thousand myriad servants of God, shines all over the world, how much more so the Shekina of God!"

After, Savitri was driving Skippy crazy because she smelled like sex and they were not his juices. She had that afterglow after-sex look too - flushed, skin all dewy, slow and languid eyes. Her blonde hair was matted from where she had been laid on the ground. We didn't have a blanket, nor would Pooler have used one anyway. For the full Neolithic Effect she had to be skin to skin with the earth with nothing mediating. She said that in Denmark they did this kind of thing all the time and Pooler reassured her that he knew that perfectly well while Skippy just swallowed hard at the world some people lived in. Then Pooler signaled to Skippy that he was ready and Skippy got the British Army Entrenching Tool out of his pack and unfolded it for use. Savitri kept her cool during all of this to follow the sex in the circle but you could see her eyes narrowing and the wonder just under her lids. Pooler took a long measure of thick string out of his pack which had already been cut to the length he needed. Then Skippy took one end of the string and held it flush on the ground at the base of the single Menhir which stood outside the circle on the South-East Axis. Pooler Jones took the other end and walked directly south-east from the menhir so that the path he was forming with the string to the menhir lined up straight with the virtual path between the menhir and the closest stone in the circle. He tightened the string and then stood on the end. There was, Pooler believed a zone of possibility no larger than a square yard, so Skippy started to dig right in the center of that square, right where the tip of the string stopped, which was about 90 to 100 feet beyond the Menhir. Pooler had paced it off in 33 steps of about 30" a pace when he had buried the box and then he had cut a piece of yarn to stand as his "clue" from the burial spot back to the base of the Menhir. Over the years he had transferred the length from that original yard to a succession of strings which would have to survive until he returned to dig the box up. Savitri said little; Pooler had warned her that we were on a Mission up at Beltany Tops and that screwing her was pleasant but besides the point. But Skippy could see the kinds of questions which were forming behind her smoky aftersex eyes. It took no more than 10 minutes for Skippy to feel the small shovel blade hit something metallic. Pooler took over and gently scraped the rest of the topsoil away - the box was laying about 18 inches under grade. When he lifted it out you could see that it was covered first with a succession of pieces of leather, most of which had rotted away over the top of the box where the rain would pool longest. Unwrapped the box was about a foot wide and 2 feet long. It appeared about a foot and a half deep. It was a bronze coffre - a metal box - with no apparent color or decoration, though stained as it was it was hard to tell. It had no lock but it was strapped shut by 2 thick belts which went around it and joined in heavy buckles. Here too the belts themselves looked fragile and rotted. The box had obviously been in the earth for a long time. Pooler knocked the better part of the dirt off the coffre and then put it in a black plastic garbage bag. The two of them filled the hole back in and then replaced the sod which they had been careful to cut out neatly so that it could be returned to the earth and after a few rains and some new roots there would be no evidence at all that anything had been dug up or disturbed. To take the place of the coffres's bulk they had placed the empty wine bottles and the water bottles and all the detritus of the picnic and the cleanup after sex in another black plastic garbage bag and buried it in the coffre's space.

His prose is surreal. Borderline Schizophrenic. It is turgid and always on the edge of meaning something but never quite breaking thru to any clarity at all. The book's hero is "Vincent Reamer" who is "afraid of Maids but unafraid of Colonnades." 3,000 copies were printed and he left them wrapped and in their boxes stored at home. He never sold a single copy. His fiction career came to 280 rejection slips, all of which he organized and kept. The single word which describes his writing is "unattached." It shows no emotion and no real connections between characters and their situations. It's better than 1000 monkeys typing but not much.