History:

Gregory of Nyssa, also known as Gregory Nyssen (Greek: Γρηγόριος Νύσσης; c. 335 – c. 395), was bishop of Nyssa from 372 to 376 and from 378 until his death. He is venerated as a saint in Roman Catholicism, Eastern Orthodoxy, Oriental Orthodoxy, Lutheranism, and Anglicanism. Gregory, his elder brother Basil of Caesarea, and their friend Gregory of Nazianzus are collectively known as the Cappadocian Fathers.

Epecstasy means to go out of oneself endlessly into Love, for there is no end to the journey into Love without measure

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gregory_of_Nyssa

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Reality:

It was late.
Trump was alone in the Oval office behind the Resolute desk. A gift from Queen Victoria to the nation. Where Harry Truman's buck stopped.
He’d often wondered what it would fetch on ebay.

He looked down at a single typed page. An CIA analyst's report of which he had by now reluctantly seen a few. And something beneath that more foreign to him. An Amazon Kindle ebook reader.
Who had time to read?
He couldn't even remember when he last read a book. Of any sort.
In Rupert Murdoch's day anything over a page wasn't worth saying. Now media traction was 280 characters

The analyst's name: Yasmin Attar immediately made him queasy. Everything to do with the Middle East was like stepping out of a hot tub into a steaming pile of dog shit.
Suddenly he found himself focussed on the hell-hole of Aden, Yemen and some long lost scrolls by a guy who died in Nyssa, Turkey in 395CE.
What else could go wrong?
When he turned on the Kindle reader it didn't take him long to find out.

He lost track of time as he navigated his way through the e-reader to the pages indicated in Attar's report. Fact and fiction blurred seamlessly, suspending disbelief as history and the surreal unfolded. The unknown author, Holden Braithwaite warned hapless readers of the "deeply subversive, perverse undercurrent".
He was right.
Trump was just beginning to feel he would've been very comfortable wheeling and dealing in the bustling ethnic polyglot trading port of Aden was 1500 years ago when there was a loud knock on the door. And General John Kelly, his Chief of Staff strode purposefully in.
It was 3AM.
He did not look a happy camper.
"Mr. President," Kelly said. "There were concerns for your safety."
"I was reading a book," Trump replied.
Kelly failed to conceal the shock.
"I gave orders to be called if you were ever in here alone for more than two hours," he replied.
"They worked."
Trump pushed the précis across the desk towards him.
"Thank you for personally coming in, John," Trump said. "Take a look at this."
Kelly did. His body language changing instantly from tense to wary. "Yasmin Attar. Never heard of her. But she has the highest clearance. I need to check her out."
Trump waved to the monitor on desk against the wall. "Do it."
Kelly went over, sat down and logged in.
"Been with the agency eight years. Very highly regarded for her insight into obscure intelligence," he said. "We need to see her ASAP."
"Like now."
"I'll send the Secret Service. She doesn't live far away."
Trump raised his hand.
"Hold it. If she’s right on this, I have an idea.”
Instantly Kelly regretted not having his habitual shot of Pepto-Bismol before leaving home.
“Assume they know what we know, “ Trump said. “Maybe even more given their network on the ground over there. I'm going to throw a rock into the minefield and see where it lands."
Trump hit the top speed dial button.

The call was answered in ten seconds. The digital transmission encrypted.
“Vladimir,” Trump said. “What do you know about the Epectasy of St. Gregory of Nyssa?”
There was a moment’s silence on the other end.
"Gregory was a very lucky guy not to be burned alive by the ruler of Cappadocia in Turkey in 370CE. What do you know about Holden Braithwaite and "My Year With The Gods"?”
It was Trump's turn to pause.
“Nothing.”
“Neither do we.”
“How’s that possible?”
“You tell me,” Putin said. "Somewhere along the line he fell through the cracks."
"Not surprising. Any freak can publish crap on Amazon every day of the week. We need to compare notes. Nobody ever heard of this religious mumbo-jumbo, or Holden Braithwaite until suddenly alarm bells are ringing off the wall in both our offices. Simultaneously. What’s going on?”
“I have an idea. And you’re not going to like it.”
“If this shitstorm goes up like I think it will, even the fan will be blown away.”
“The walls have ears.”
“I can't meet up. Even for golf. At least not now.”
“Yes. . .” There was another pause. “ Listen. I’m sending someone over. After you talk to him, you’ll know what I know. And time will become meaningless.”
“He’ll still need to move heaven and earth.”
There was a laugh on the end of the line.
“In fifteen seconds go see what’s on your front lawn. I’m waiting for your call. . . Oh! And when you find this Holden Braithwaite. Tell him we will not be offering him Russian citizenship if he needs to come in from the cold.”
He hung up.
Unpleasantly sobered Trump got up.
Kelly joined him at one of the armored windows that looked out onto the lawn. It was then Trump realized Vladimir was not joking.
There was a 17-hands high Arabian warhorse in the moonlight on the front lawn. But no alarms sounded.
Kelly looked at Trump.
"We're going into immediate lockdown in the presidential bunker, sir. Please step away from the window and follow me."

It was way too late for that. As they turned around a man walked out of the presidential washroom.
Still the alarms were silent
But Trump was not afraid. He put a hand on Kelly's arm as he moved forward to engage the perceived threat.
"It's all right, John," Trump said. "We don't need to shoot the messenger." He’d read the book and now expected anything. Even if it was not of this earth.
Trump smiled.
The visitor was tall and muscular. 6'8" and 300lbs. His face suntanned. His hair, golden curls, tumbled down over broad suntanned bare shoulders. His eyes inescapable cyan blue.
He was dressed in heavy faded black leather and was like no one they had ever seen before, or even imagined. He was from age long gone. Few heroic Roman charioteers from Circus Maximus cruised Pennsylvania Avenue. Although there were surely many wannabes in the hardcore gay bar around the corner downtown.
Yet it was as if Trump already knew him intimately. And where he was from.
“Hermes,” he said, snapping his fingers as he walked back behind the Resolute desk. “What kept you?”
The messenger of the gods smiled. “Mr. President, the horse which speaks Greek and flies is fast. But not that fast.” His voice quiet, reassuring. His accent Ivy League.
“He won’t make a mess on the lawn, will he? I have kids mowing it for work experience. And I don't want any of them getting horse shit on their Nikes and their parents sue us for lack of duty of care,” Trump said.
Kelly stared in disbelief.
When it was all over, if he was still alive and compos mentis he would resign and open a lakeside stand in upstate Vermont making crêpes Suzette for the summer tourist trade.
Hermes, messenger of the gods and god of commerce laughed. “Don’t worry. If he forgets where he is, it’s totally organic and instantly recycled. Besides this is the sort of meeting you like. It doesn’t exist.”
Trump laughed. “You’re my kinda guy. Tell me everything I don’t want to know in ten minutes. What’s the idiot gypsy boy done now?”
“He left his diary behind.”

A small voice came from a side door to the Oval Office.
"Daddy. I had a dream a giant man on a flying horse landed on our front lawn."
General Kelly looked around in horror at the president's 11-year old son, Barron, standing there sleepy-eyed in long pyjamas.
Barron pointed, delighted.
"That's him. Are you with WWE SmackDown?" he cried.
Hermes laughed and shook his head.
"No, kid. They're way too serious for me."
Even if General Kelly and his father didn't understand what was going on, Barron Trump did.
“Wow!” he said. “Chelsea will never believe this.”
The president coughed. “Ah! Son, I think we better leave your friend Chelsea in the dark on this one. She’s got enough problems of her own.”

Stay tuned as the journey 2018 continues . . .

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Ancient scrolls had been discovered where an unthinkable social revolution started fifteen hundred years before, in the godforsaken hellhole presently known as Aden.
Scrolls which referred to those by St. Gregory of Nyssa. The complete and unabridged work.

Scrolls which revealed the true epectasy which were so explosive and potentially disruptive to normal functioning of society when they were written that were kept secret lest the author be burned alive for sedition. And a heavily edited version released which is still studied and revered by theologians today.

In the tons of looted priceless historic artefacts from Middle East conflicts, discovery of the diary scrolls from 534CE of an 11-year old idiot gypsy boy who remembered everything except his own name rekindled the quest to find the original scrolls of St. Gregory, which by bizarre fate had been entrusted to his care all those years before. A time when Aden had truly been turned on its head.

Such was the perceived power over society of the key to the eternal cerebral orgasm, of the soul moving into the oneness of God and the emancipation of women, that a new generation of very sick, dangerous, dirty old men were prepared to go to any length to find and destroy the scrolls mentioned in the diary, and anything and anyone that stood in their way.
It would be their last mistake. As they didn’t understand who they were really dealing with.

The journey starts in 534CE with “My Year With The Gods”

Free on Amazon Kindle Jan 19-23 https://goo.gl/TQMhBW

image - Wikipedia