Pushing on through. When the craft demands presence and patience

Im not an imaginist whose craft demands that they are working everyday, and sometimes night. I have a full time job that has nothing to do with the creative universe of Oho Ake Books. When the inspiration comes to me, I am drawn to my keyboards, books, and use the internet to flesh out what it is that wants to be expressed through me. Often, that will take place when I least expect it, and the power and the urge to create I just can’t ignore. So I willingly sit and a transformative experience happens to me. I’m enlivened, the words flow, the language crosses the page and I’m spellbound by what comes next.

The worldwide situation we find ourselves in currently (a global lockdown due to a plandemic) has given me the opportunity to allow a voice to move through me and write a book unlike any that I have written before. This character Dick Swabb (great name) has a satirical bent to his writing style, the narrative is elucidating, the information he’s writing about (Rudolf Steiner’s warning about the arrival of Ahriman, the occult knowledge and inner workings of the CERN institution and how they are tied to Nazi International) is turning over many stones that illuminate some horrific potential consequences for the planet and the consciousness of its occupants.

This is not an easy book to write, it goes deeper and darker than any of the works of Harmon Sueno, it fleshes out one of the characters from a Lord Buford Somerset short story from a yet to be published collection of short stories, The Tears of the Tormented and dispels a mythos in the process about the central being in a worldwide religion. The information I’m drawing from, most of it historically true, paints a grim picture. One that most humans have no idea about. With false narratives and social engineering happening on a global scale, this narrative that Dick Swabb is illuminating may well be the antidote to seeing our planet succumbing to the most diabolical enterprise enacted by an evil that defies belief.

There are times when I feel like I’m moving through treacle when I’m writing this book, but its perhaps the most necessary book I’ll ever write. So, I’ll keep at it, push on through, be patient and do the work. Swabb has a great way of making light, hilarious dialogue and narrative in the midst of some very very dark truths. I’m grateful for that. No doubt.

I’ll get there in the end. This is without a doubt the hardest book I’ve written


I only have one true literary inspiration. That is Clive Barker. I hungrily devoured his imaginative fiction with a ravenous appetite, and my understanding of how prose and poetry could be amalgamated began to take shape. I was stunned at his use of language, often writing down words that I had never seen written, nor heard spoken in my head as I read. Discovering their meaning, then looking back at where they were in the narrative of the story, I was in awe at how they transported me deeper into the realms of his imagination. A gift.

I yearned to be able to dance in the descriptive verse that lifted off the pages of his work, often closing the book after reading a passage that unravelled in my imagination in tapestry of colours and images, unfurling in its vibrancy as I was transported into its ghastly beauty. When I read The Books of Blood I was moved to remember the mad scribblings after my possession in Dunedin. The voice of that young man was tainted by a visceral need to find catharsis after his experience, and the remnants of his temporary occupants loathing. After dusting off the textbooks and reading the stories I realised that they were written in a language that only adepts like Mr Barker could understand. I needed to translate them into a language that many more could fathom. My work had begun in earnest.

Sacrament, Imajica, Weaveworld, The Great and Secret Show, Everville each of these novels were revelations for me. I ventured into the realms where my lost childhood dreams and nightmares congealed into a myriad of characters, narratives and most importantly for me, I lived these tales as I read them. Infused with such wonders and horrors I dared believe I could too be an imaginist and follow in his pen strokes.

Nine books later (and a tenth being written) I forge on. Whenever I begin to feel the magnetic draw of the macabre I hear Lord Buford Somerset dictate in his burdened baritone, whenever my heart lights up in wonder Pablo Wairua sings with every literary beat, and when both the wonder and the horror come together in a frolicking swirl, Harmon Sueno is composing. If not for Clive Barker their voices would not be heard.

Clive Barker.

Imagination as my sanctuary

I resorted to imagination during my childhood as a means to find joy in the chaos of my family life and the molestation I experienced. I was a fanatical reader as a child, from Dickens to Bronte, Verne to Edgar Rice Burroughs I sought refuge in the fantastical, the supernatural and science fiction. When I discovered comics the degree of my flourishing imaginary life was played out visually, and Marvel superheroes, The Hulk, Spiderman and The X-Men all pulled me into their universe in order to leave mine behind.

What magnetised me, and captured my attention was the visual depth and immersive narratives formulated in this form of story telling. It was a feast for eyes and mind alike. Whereas books offered me a subjective experience, my mind conjuring images from what I had known in the little life I had lived, comics granted me access to a multiverse where other imaginsts resided.

In the book, The Eyes of Love See All, I wrote a short story about a dream I had when I woke up in an parallel universe where I met myself living on the shore of Lake Tekapo, MacKenzie Basin, South Island, New Zealand … completely bananas… but AMAZING.

Their collective renditions ignited my ability to reach across the chaotic offerings of my own reality, and step across into worlds abound where I was always welcome, and often, never wished to leave. The effortlessness of this procedure, crossing between worlds would aid me later as I honed my own writing processes.

I step into the worlds of my characters, and from there i dictate what it is I am seeing, each voice that moves through me, Harmon Sueno, Lord Buford Somerset, Pablo Wairua (or the new novelist Dick Swabb or poet Iho Grace) takes me into a dream within a dream. It would be foolish of me to not recognise that this entire experience grew from a seed planted by reading comics as a child.

Over the years my process has deepened as my conscious awakening continues, allowing me to participate further than simply witnessing. Now I feel as much as I see.  Emotions, thoughts, language all formulate inside of me making the interactivity between characters and I absolute. Having to ground myself back into the reality from which I came from can be for example,  elating (if I’m going to some dark places) or tragic (if a character I’m writing about is having a revelatory experience or accomplishing great feats of courage).

For me, what once could be considered pure escapism due to the world I occupied, is now become a destination in order to appreciate the vastness of the multiverse that exists in our imaginations.

When Stars Collide

A deeper understanding of my energetic origins has come through the value of human connection. In this embodiment, we call a human life, consciousness uses the lens of the human body to perceive this dense frequency band, interpreting and decoding information. Through our senses we begin can experience much, but through our subtler bodies attached to the human electromagnetic cape, we have far reaching impacts with one another, especially when those reverberations carry on from interactions across the fluid dynamic of creation.

The feeling of knowing someone you just met, or feeling completely comfortable in the midst of a complete stranger isn’t an isolated experience felt by the likes of me and me alone. Being in the presence of a someone that triggers feelings, memories, episodes that are dream-like in their nature have all encompassed inspiration for the topics, narratives and characters embodied in my books. Elements of a wondrous dance of lives lived in mythical landscapes, dimensions beyond our own and bodies that resemble human form only in appearance have all been relived by me after someone has come into my life and shared their energetic imprint with mine.

Worlds within worlds

Its been one of the most remarkable and revelatory occurrences of this lifetime to have received so many of these events. They have been formative in my conscious awakening. Acknowledging their gifts has come with age. At first I perceived them from an egotistical perspective, gaining a sense of esteem from the value of the interactions. Taking a broader view now, I know that energetic confluences like these are meant to complete a cycle, free a restrained and outdated behaviour in one of us or both, and often recognise one another once again in an intimate dance of union and acceleration. We are one consciousness observing itself subjectively. Feeling that oneness for me is a portal to some of the best work I have done, and I feel enlivened when the poetic verse that I begin with in most of my short stories, and the chapters in my novels emotes the bewilderment I feel.

There is no feeling like being in the vortex of connection, feeling, sensing, seeing the dots create a picture an and then translating this into verse. For me, its my hearts true joy.

Lifting my head above the parapet

When I began writing in 2008, the message was clear; let the information, the stories, the characters be the public faces of Oho Ake Books, you (that’s me) stay behind the curtain and dish up the material, spin the narrative and just enjoy the unfolding wonder. Yeah, that worked well…

In the years preceding the advent of me creating the team around me that became integral to the publishing company, I adhered to that philosophy. I was anonymous, in more ways than being just the guy behind the curtain. When I told people of the premise behind the publishing company they thought that it was original, interesting and occasionally it was labelled genius. I must be ahead of my time by a thousand years then, because the concept has not caught on, I generated no traction, sold no books and no one knew that I : a) owned a publishing company b) had a team of up to five people working for me at one time c) wrote novels, short stories and poetry and as a consequence the hungry chasm that devours my money in vivacious determination continued to do so while moths flew out of my wallet whenever I opened it.

About two years ago someone close to me asked me if I was ready to walk away from it all. At the drop of a hat. ‘You’ve given it a good shot. Hasn’t worked out. Time to move on. No?’ It took me all of about two blinks of my eyelids to say, ”NOT DONE YET!’ This friend then proceeded to explain to me that being ‘anonymous’ wasn’t helping. He made an hilarious joke about one of the authors, Pablo Wairua after reading All Roads Lead to Parihaka. ‘Whose Pablo Wairua? Oh some guy created him. Who? Don‘t know…he’s ANONYMOUS.’ Take a bow.

So I decided to part the curtain and present myself to the world in late 2019. Here I am throwing myself in realms once beyond my comfort zone, using social media for the business, facebook, instagram (I feel like a millennial, but with poor fashion sense) youtube and the website. Blogging, baring my experiences, my life, my soul for all to read, (a youtube channel coming for all to watch and listen to me wax lyrical about me being me). It’s a scary process for me to put myself out there in the world like this, but you know what? The more I do it, the less menacing for me it becomes. I write what I love to read, and I love what I’ve written. All of it. I’m unashamedly beaming with delight at the quality of the work I’ve done. This is what makes my heart sing and I’m belting out Ode to Joy whenever I sit at my terminal and tune into the authors that write through me.

I was born to do this. Nothing makes me happier than being in the flow of creativity. Head above the parapet, ‘Hi. Yeah, it’s me, I did all this… I’m the creative force behind Oho Ake Books and I’m no longer hiding in the shadows.’ Bout time right Tabaash?

Yep. That’s me…

Awakening to truth through imagination

In my childhood I had many experiences that could be perceived as supernatural or paranormal. What was defined as ‘real’ was a matter of conjecture, and for me the last word on what was simply an active imagination or a aspect of heightened sensory awareness came from the mouths of my caregivers. I grew up with visitations from parasitic shadow beings and sometimes the loving joyful presence of a being that had my best interests at heart. Depending on the frequency I was emitting, the magnetic draw would result in contact. For me, there is no experience that solidifies sheer terror for a child like waking to find a shadow being standing at the base of you bed, waiting for the initial surge of fear, adrenaline to course through your biology and then out into your etheric where it can reap its meal. 

One such event happened at a cousins house in Green Bay, Auckland, on a night where my father’s family gathered to gamble, drink and eventually pass out in hazy drunkenness. I used to sleep in my cousins single bed, my head at the foot of the bed next to his feet, my feet next to my cousins head. I woke that night paralysed where I lay, a two dimensional shadow being standing over me, the spotlight from the garage pouring into the kitchen where my uncle’s lay upon the table asleep, other family members sprawled around the floor (my fathers large Chinese/Samoan family would all sleep at someone’s house after a night of heavy drinking). All I could move was my eyes. 

Eventually I managed to pull the blankets over my head, then strike my older cousin awake and tell him that someone was in the house. The ruckus that happened next got me into trouble with my father, and his family members and the words that would stifle my ability to see these creatures would be uttered by my angry father as the house was searched at great haste. ‘There are no such things as ghosts!’ 

This was one of the most terrifying experiences of my life. To know now that this being was FEEDING off my fear only makes that experience more enlightening.

It would take years of breaking down the barriers those words created for me that night before I began to expand my awareness again into frequency bands beyond five sense reality. The incremental process has allowed me to assimilate in ways that as a child I never had the chance to. Information presented to me via the gift of imagination has allowed me to forge towards greater understanding of what infinite possibilities exist beyond our feeble five senses. 

The journey of discovery through imagination has been a revelatory one for me. My books are a reference to infinite possibility manifest through the written word, casting literary spells that entertain, inform, enlighten and always resonate when the reader is ready to awaken to truth through imagination. 

Lifting the Veil

There was never any question about what I was going to write about. It was just a question about how the information presented in my books would illuminate the reader into deeper understanding of all possibility. The feeling that I was in the world, but didn’t belong to it, was an invitation to experience the bewildering, the unfathomable, and the beautiful. I walked a fine line between my human nature and my spiritual essence for most of my young adult life, drawn into connections with others oscillating in the vibration of openness to awe.

Dunedin, The Tasman Region of the South Island of New Zealand, The West Coast of the South Island, Auckland, all in the early/mid 1990’s each resonated in their own ways. The spirits that gathered in those locations gave much to me, inviting me into their worlds and teaching me about the expansive nature of the multiverse. They’re collective frequencies drew me towards them, and the synchronicities rose up to meet me as I walked along this road of discovery. Those who encapsulated the balance of human nature and spirit guided me towards empirical understanding that humour unlocked the heart to be able to soak up the energetic confluences that each geographical energetic centre presented. The ripples emanating from the guffaws that erupted from me magnetised the greatest truths, and still do. Voltaire was correct, ‘God is a Comedian playing to an audience to afraid to laugh’. Undoubtedly in my experience.

There was no one book, researcher, author, speaker or teacher that enlivened me. There has been a plethora of them, each a dot connecting a larger picture together, one that continues to grow as I discover more, learn more, ask more questions, and get more answers. Some books and the experiences of how they came into my life are truly cosmic and funny (naturally), and the information in those books has been essential to the books I have written. Barbara Marciniak’s channelled books were a veritable download for me, Entwined and United owe much to the research of David Icke, Virginia Essene and Sheldon Nidle and Marciniak’s Pleiadians.

Boy oh Boy…. the story of how this book came into my life is hilarious. Barbara Marciniak. Channel Extraordinaire.

The information presented in the short stories, from both authors/characters is a multi-dimensional tapestry that coaxes, entices and beckons the reader to delve into dreams made real. The myriad of influences in these six books each rose in me like bubbles of inspired learning. Often i would find an idea formulating in my head, to which I would research, and the story would begin to manifest before me. As fantastical as the tales are, each offers a glimpse into infinite possibility along the avenues of creation. Could the stories all be accounts of events that happened in multiple universes? Certainly.

Voices in my Head : Part three Pablo Wairua

For such a young man Pablo Wairua’s voice carried much gravitas. Wizened beyond his years, the way he spoke had purpose, strength and poise. I would come to know that he understood the nature of the creation, from thought to word and then manifestation, so used language carefully, intentionally and courageously. Born to Tuhoe (Aotearoa/New Zealand Maori Iwi/tribe) and a Quechua mother, he straddled two worlds and unified traditions and cultures from his birth parents, but his soul was Pleiadian. That became clear to me as I felt his connection to source power.

Harmon Sueno had given me a glimpse into his life purpose, he being a student of an ancient mystery school tradition from the continent of Lemuria. At the end of Entwined I had witnessed his magical prowess decimate a black magic ritual at Tiwanaku, Bolivia, sending all participants back to loving source energy. The gift of gifts for those who have an absence of light and love in their existence. What mystery school had taught him? Where were they? These questions were answered as Harmon showed me where such a menace to the powers that would hide themselves. In an inter-dimensional pocket in the Te Urewera National Park in the depths of the forest of the North Island, Te Ika a Maui, Aotearoa/New Zealand.

Pablo Wairua is a Tohunga. He is learned in many arts, skills, calling in abilities that allowed him to protect the planetary consciousness from the ruling cabal who desires to crush it and terra form the planet for their masters. Stepped in all the traditions of Maori Tohunga, with deeper initiations from the Lemurian mystery school, he is an Indigenous Superhero, the greatest of his lineage, from ancient to present.

After the incident at Tiwanaku, he began to see into the lives of beings across the multiverse, witnessing their grandest adventures, where the most beautiful dreams came into existence. His clairvoyance was accompanied with a clairsentience that allowed him to feel the most pervasive joys, rapture and ecstasies of those whose lives he began to scribe down onto paper. The short stories he dictated to me made me often cry as I wrote them, so tender, so touching, so authentic was his telling. That coupled with his gentle, heartfelt demeanour render me into a silent prayer of gratitude for this beautiful soul and his tales and his work as a Tohunga protecting the planetary consciousness from harm.

Pablo Wairua. Dreamweaver and Tohunga

Voices in my head : Part Two Harmon Sueno

I had not read any Gabriel Garcia Marquez before I heard Harmon Sueno whispering to me, asking me to dictate his visions, clear and true. I had never heard of Magical Realism, however, I was to discover that Harmon Sueno was cut from the same cloth as the Latin American writers whose surrealism extends beyond scientific materialism into realms where infinite possibility grants the magical in every moment.

Sueno spoke and I began to see him appear before me. Each word materialising in a jigsaw of a figure in my minds eye till eventually he was sitting before me, steadfastly watching me type his renditions of the lives of Lord Buford Somerset and Pablo Wairua and their journey’s to self empowerment, self discovery, tragedy and triumph. In all my years of reading, I had not discovered a writer who breaths into my heart and accesses my soul’s imaginative truth like Sueno does.

The embodiment of the multi-dimensional human incarnate, Harmon Sueno is able to call in selves from other levels of existence and so witness their perceptions of worlds invisible to the human senses of those trapped in the density of the third dimension. Each of these existences, these realities merged and glued to one another by a yoke created by a force Sueno describes in all his novels as a clear and present danger to all of creation in this part of the Solar System and beyond.

As Harmon finished dictating Entwined to me, drawing the book to a close, his last character began to overlay over Sueno’s words, this voice was that of a young man, no more than twenty-five, yet the power and grace in his tone reflected that of a spirit incarnate of such immense determination that he would be unshakable in his focus. The slow dictation and pronunciation of his English was drawn from learning Spanish as a second language, his first being the Quechua language, Runasimi, English his third. In his voice I could hear the rumblings of an Indigenous iconoclast, a young man stepped in teachings ancient, influential and commanding against the rising tide of scientific materialism and its overt proponents. This was Pablo Wairua.

Harmon Sueno. Dreamweaver

Voices in my head : Part One Lord Buford Somerset

When I first started to express my creativity via the written word I could hear the words rise in my head. Initially, the voices were those of the characters I was writing about. The young Inuit girl that followed the bird out into the arctic wilderness, and then perished, my friends when I wrote the beginnings of a novel about my High School friends and I getting stuck in a cave after an earthquake sealed us all in after a rockfall , ala Buck Rogers. No, you’re not seeing things, I never mentioned anything about, A Stitch in Time, because I just remembered it now!

The voices of the protagonists slipped away after my possession in Dunedin, and were replaced by Buford Somerset at first, then eventually the other remarkable characters who inhabit the universe of Oho Ake Books. When I took up the mantle of author/creative/imaginist in 2008, Buford was the first to make himself known. I read the short stories I wrote in the mid 1990’s and reimagined them, crafted them into a somewhat intelligible level of prose that a reader could decipher and decode. A persistent shadow cast over me in those days of writing, Buford’s voice felt burdened, heavy and crippling. I knew the origins of his arrival into my sphere of influence, but what was his history? Where had he come from? What had ailed him so horribly that his voice sounded warped, trapped beneath a oppressive force that dominated him as he feebly attempted to win back control over his body.

The details of the macabre tales he would elucidate to me were as poetic as they were ghastly. There was such beauty in the horrors he bestowed upon me. How could the two exist together I wondered? I wrote like a man possessed (once again) each word felt like a cathartic release from the images being constructed in my imagination till the story concluded and I had witnessed what I had written wholly and completely. Thankfully not to be haunted by the experience.

As I was writing these anecdotes, Buford’s own story was overlaid into my mind by another voice, this one a husky, latino voice, that of a man in his later years. His use of language as intrepid as Buford’s if not more. Two stories played out in my mind, one Buford was telling, and the other relaying Buford’s history. How he became the author he was. It was plucked straight from the years of conscious spiritual awakening that had taken place in my own life. The information about how he had become Lord Buford Somerset showed me how his life had been a ruse, and the final act of this trickery had made him who he was. It was no wonder he needed an outlet for the insane terrors that filled his being, that cathartic listener being me, his vessel.

The husky latino voice aided me in the process of documenting Lord Buford Somerset’s history, and by doing so, I was imbued with his this old man’s own history as though each spoken word coloured the palette of his form and place in his own universe. It was a case of Russian dolls, and this character would name himself Harmon Sueno.

Lord Buford Somerset flanked by Enki and Morvarid