Brian George is an artist and writer born in 1954. He grew up in Worcester, surrounded by crumbling smokestacks, factories and freight yards. Clouds drifted through the future ruins of an empire.

One morning when Brian was four he was sitting on his back porch, imagining himself to be hovering above the Amazon. While making snakes, canoes and villagers out of clay he became frustrated. It occurred to him that he had succumbed to a creative block. How small he was! How contracted his intelligence! He remembered creating real snakes and villagers.

At the age of eight he gave up the idea of becoming a Catholic priest. It would take him another 20 years to invent his own equivalent to the priesthood. The project continues.

One night in 1973 he was awakened by an enormously loud ringing and droning sound, a bit like Tibetan chanting, a sound he would later come to recognize as the music of the spheres. He ran from window to window looking for its source. Filaments burst from milkweed pods, straining upward towards the moon. In the morning, when he found that no one else had heard it, he was shocked.

In 1986 he was carried out of the solar system in a tornado, for energetic realignment and instruction by a race of acupuncture manikins. He was shown the wheels that contain all of history. From a swirling crowd ran his future wife Deni as a young Chinese girl, shouting Husband! As a hawk god he stared at his aging reflection in the mirror, his hair turning white. Looking from a height on a vast field of battle he relived his death as a spearman in ninth century Mongolia. The death was full of laughter and ecstasy.

On returning to the Earth every object in his room seemed radioactive and too hot to touch. The building smelled of ozone for days. Current fears and preoccupations became less important.

In August 1989 he had a conscious dream of looking through years of his own artwork in a bombed out building. Although he had been involved with writing rather than art for the previous ten years, the style of the work was fully formed. (The style of a number of these pieces prefigured by a year the more complex of the crop circles, which would start to appear the following August.) The dream followed him around for weeks. He felt that the future was reaching back to the present to give him an ultimatum.

In 1990 he underwent an initiation in kundalini yoga, receiving shaktipat from Asha (later called Anandi) Ma. He brought her a dozen roses. She ripped their heads off to contemptuously throw them on a big heap in the corner. She mashed a rose on his head. Her hand stretched down through the soft spot on the skull- through the horseshoe of the hippocampus, through the X at the bottom of the brain stem and through the spinal column down- to provoke a near heart attack.

Shortly afterwards he realized that space does not exist. He experienced creation as a single but discontinuous body- conscious and transparent from one end to the other.

The Akashic Library opened. Joy spread its atomic petals. A series of explosions renovated his energetic anatomy. A snake ate the power plants of an outmoded civilization. He shook hands with his doppelganger. Waves of a nonexistent ocean roared, crashing on his head.

The ego looked outwards from the Earth to the stars, as a different part of the self looked back from the circumference of space. Both would henceforth collaborate on the building of a boat.

Brian currently lives in the Fort Hill area of Roxbury with his wife Deni Ozan-George and their 10-year old daughter Elizabeth. Greek and Renaissance revival architecture makes Fort Hill a museum with no fixed entrance. Neighbors are friendly, as much so as in the vanished South Worcester of his childhood. Birds and animals play games among the branches of the primeval urban forest.

Brian's true home is the crossroads where dimensions intersect, where the future can create the past, and where a ceremonial exchange of gifts weaves one extended family from the worlds.