Post 12

Moses at Mt. Sinai by Jacques de Letin

Moses at Mt. Sinai by Jacques de Letin

Clambers on the Mountaintop

As I taped the first poem to the large boulder near the highest point of Mount Sinai, the bell up top rang like it wasn’t a call to church or temple, but rather the instrumental voice of whom or what the bell tolls for saying, “Yeah, post your poems. The moment calls for it, don’t you hear?”

A bell toll is a sound that summons, jars you out of whatever’s in front of you, at least at its very onset, and from a distance that jar is pleasant but  up close it’s not. I was very close, but the clanging noise to my ears was the mountain speaking, and you figure if a mountain and the moment really do call for something, it’d be loud.

Getting up there was quite a walk, a long and winding wide trail that leads slowly up to the top, and on every boulder was written John Cletus, India in graffiti sprawl. Years later I recalled that walk upon reading the sci-fi novel So Long, And Thanks For All the Fish, where it’s major characters walk up some similar path to read God’s final message to his creation, which is, “We apologise for the inconvenience.” Not having read that novel, the walk didn’t take on a comical aspect, and neither was there anything that stood out about it except for the rash hand of John Cletus insecure in the face of history and wanting his name memorialized, until it could be scrubbed off, but it put some glow on the walk for me because I was heading to India right after posting the poems in my last destination, which were the three pyramids in Cairo. This just served to confirm India, was for me a sign of some sort. I had only a one-way ticket to India and little cash, just enough to get to the place I wanted to go, Pondicherry and Auroville, and after that was the unknown. Going broke into the unknown you need more than just a feeling to go on so to not be totally scared.

Church of the Holy Trinity

Church of the Holy Trinity

I’d been up there for three days and nights and hadn’t heard that bell ring once, and it was odd to hear it now because it wasn’t a Sunday or anything. The bell was in a small Christian chapel at the summit of the mountain, and a little boy was ringing it for fun, what he continued to do the few minutes it took me to post, not aware of my doings. That spot is where it’s believed Moses saw the backside of God and received the 10 Commandments, but there’s a large flat grassy area just a few minutes’ walk down from the summit, Elijah’s Basin, where it’s more probable he spent his time than on those raggedy naked slopes strewn with boulders and (now) human feces of the pilgrims and visitors, as there were no functioning facilities or shelters, or that’s how it was when I was there in the fall of 1995, the shitter unusable. I was posting the poem in the little clear area I’d been sleeping in, as far from any shit as I could get, on the way to the chapel up near the summit on a large boulder that had a flat wall-like surface, the chapel higher and out of sight.

That the bell tolled as I began to post my poems, what I’d come up there to do, what I’d done some months before in the old city of Jerusalem, what I’d do the next week inside and around the Great Pyramid in Cairo, gave the dream I’d just awoken from, in my mind and pounding heart, a significance that showed contact with God. If you ask which or whose God then you’re missing the point and haven’t done the math right. No matter what name or form you come up with God will always be a larger sum, but to look at him even askew, about all that we can do, you need some form for him to fill. We’re not big enough to see God.

I was lucid dreaming and had come to the entrance of a classroom, and I was on the staircase leading down into the classroom itself which was like some ancient secret chamber I couldn’t see much of. Meeting me there was a lovely young woman, the teacher. She told me I was welcome, but I told her I was only on the mountain to post my poems. “We love poetry,” she replied and invited me to read my poems. Then I could tell she had another question for me but was embarrassed to ask it, as if it would be rude to do so. Somehow I knew she wanted to ask my faith, and I also knew that she was Jewish. I’m not so I merely said, “Transformation,” and she smiled brightly, agreeing, and her smile got brighter and brighter until it turned into the rising sun, and I opened my eyes and was looking directly at the sun rising over the mountain and knew that I had permission to post the poems, what I’d been waiting up there those three days to get. I posted the first one to the large boulder I’d slept by, continuing posting everywhere that seemed to call me to do so, or every big flat vertical surface really.

That classroom, in my mind, was a representation of the spiritual teaching the mountain had to give, and despite the circus of people up there, some mad as a hatter claiming to be a prophet or some such. The spiritual teaching wasn’t out in the open air, wasn’t even in a book, but in the inner depths of the mountain, not some physical place in a hollow earth but in your inner life while you’re up there. There spiritual lessons could be learned and soul-force gathered, whether Moses was actually on that particular mountain or not; so many people had come up there with spiritual aspiration over the centuries it had been impregnated with the bright thought of God. For some maybe it was too bright.

I believe Moses had been  there, because the teacher was much more than just the mountain’s spirit, called generally a nature spirit, the representation in some form of the spirit of a powerful place. Often the spirit of a place is represented by a beautiful young woman, something I had yet to learn because I’d only just begun my vagabond journeys and wasn’t yet aware that if your inner consciousness is open and you sleep and dream in a powerful place, you’ll often meet the place’s spirit, and 9 times out of 10 it will be a sweet young lady.

She was also much more than a beautiful woman. The wisdom and light radiating from her, the mirth and love in those eyes, the sweetness; she was, the Shekhinah, the divine presence of Jewish tradition, who dwells in places where the people feel most deeply their connection to God. Her hesitancy in asking my faith, which stemmed from her sweetness and sincerity, showed me it’s actually rude to ask someone what their religion is, a lesson that mountain taught me, and since then I’ve tried to refrain from such a question and instead let it answer itself as I get to know a person, and I usually don’t have to wait long since most everybody, even atheists (especially these days) are quite vocal about their faith or lack thereof.

I didn’t really understand at the time that she was inviting me to stay up there longer, join the centuries old classroom disguised as a rugged old mountaintop, and be taught more and deeper things. Stupid me, I was on a mission to post my poems and couldn’t see the forest for the trees, in a hurry as usual. I didn’t realize I was where I was trying to go, someplace that had some of that god coin, or where there is a strong sense of divine presence if the inner waters do flow out into the daylights of your mind.

You’d have to understand I’m not talking about just a feeling of that, but where you’re likely to have at least some symbolic face to face communication with such presence, like I did in that lucid dream, though it could be a formless contact, which, though formless, comes to you more real than form, or, really, all the forms around you glow with something much greater: the divine presence.

That was not the first presence I met once I got on top, but still it’s not every day you meet someone who thinks they’re one of the two most important people in the last days world in relation to that presence, at least according to Christianity. The first person I met was a man in his late 30s maybe, normally dressed, to be on a desert mountaintop that is, who knew himself as one of the two prophets that would come in the last days of earth and defeat the Antichrist, according to the Book of Revelations.

He was up on Mt. Sinai waiting on his buddy, the other prophet, whom he hadn’t met (or even knew who he was), but God had told him to come and wait, and the man would come, and they could fulfill their destiny. This was just something he knew, like he knew everything that would happen to end the world. When I asked him for details, other than mumble generalities about the contemporary geopolitical situation, of 1995, he couldn’t give any, just that he “knew everything,” and as he said that he stood up and waved his arms in as if to encompass the earth.

Now this prophet guy, he was serious, completely convinced. I don’t remember his name, as the only noteworthy thing about him was his belief about himself, his demeanor not matching it. From the looks of his clothes I’d say he’d been up there a week or so, and he told me as much, but it wasn’t the first time he’d come, and it wouldn’t be his last I gathered. When I left three days later he wasn’t there, and of course he’d called it quits and walked down, but I didn’t see him in the crowd when I got down, which in those days was small enough to see everyone around unless they were in the john or somewhere like that. For all I know he could’ve jumped off the precipice he was waiting on, having been betrayed by God, but I’d imagine I’d of heard about that somehow. That would be big news for a place with hardly ever any news at all.

I did try and ‘talk him down’, but there I was on my mission with my poems, and the irony did sting. I looked the quintessential hippie, long untrimmed beard, hair down past the shoulders, but in ponytail then, and I got told all the time I looked like the historical Jesus, like a lot of young men do when they grow their hair and beard, especially white men, which should tell you that maybe he didn’t look like white history shows him. I was not a Christian, or anything in particular, though I had been raised one, then on my own personal hodgepodge path, and being a Jesus look alike didn’t go to my head, but I did learn, especially in Italy hitch-hiking, that there were many survival advantages to being one without even doing or saying anything to show the resemblance. Here in Egypt though it wasn’t anything special. Hitching on the Dead Sea to Mount Siani was nothing but hot.

For a moment I mentally squirmed as I looked on the man because of the irony, but it would be many years before I got a handle on what that wiggle was. You see sometimes I do I think I’m somebody special (equally sometimes the opposite), and I think we all do, not to the degree this man did, but special in the sense of something as stupid as it is smart: we’re important enough to tell our story and have it heard. With 7 billion of us, whose stories should we listen to? With basically all of us competing to tell our stories in one form or another, I felt I had to take mine to a high place in humanity. There was no net really back then, and so there I was on Mt. Moses with my poems, but here I am on the net with you, telling my story on a mountaintop so to speak. Is it just pretentious of me or do I really have something to say?

The only point I could try and make with him was the point I always tried to make with such people: asking them in the language of their religion if they were ‘there’, had achieved something like the nature of a Buddha or Christ. “Do you have the mind of Christ yet?” I asked him, what I ask Christians, since many if not most don’t believe in a transformation of the being where you’re in the kind of consciousness people like the aforementioned people were most probably in, other than the believed total change that happens upon conversion, which mostly has to do with issues of morality, being forgiven, cleansed and so forth and not a change of consciousness.Calling it the mind of Christ I was  putting it the way he understood. Do you?

I’m talking about enlightenment or whatever it is that we can become other than what we are now, what I wasn’t (not now either) but was on the path to become. He said no, but he wasn’t worried about himself; he cared about the masses and bringing them to Jesus and saving the world. There was really nothing else I could say, stinging with my own supposed specialness, and so I moved on.

The mountain path dropped down some, and I walked through a small host of people, some dressed in white robes and so forth, but in my hippie get up I probably didn’t look too out of place. I kept on going, did a recon of the area and settled down on the spot I’ve somewhat described above. In my area there weren’t any prophet people, just the more tourist type tourist, as it was near the main trail that leads to the chapel.

I had enough water, pita bread, and cheese, the kind in little tinfoil packages, to last about 3 days, if I didn’t walk around and expend a lot of energy. With nothing else to do until nightfall, I settled  down to writing in my journal, what was to be a book about the poem postings, writing in it at each place I posted at and places along the way. It was to be something like Nikos Kazantzakis’ Report to Greco, in spirit though not in style. His book had had a profound influence on me as a writer, one reason I’d come to the mountain, to follow partly in his steps and report. Since he would stay at Saint Catherine’s Monastery there, I told the monks what I was doing and asked if I could write there for awhile, and they were gracious enough to give me a room to write in for a couple of hours before I hiked up the mountain.

The Orthodox Monastery of St Catherine

The Orthodox Monastery of St Catherine

My book was never finished, like all the books I’ve started. (Maybe I’m not a book. Here I’m more a story.) It’s title is The Overthrow of I Am, about overthrowing the ego, not God, but the gist is there too of overthrowing the idea of God I’d been raised with, that big ego in the sky. I later added, at the Equality of Soul to the title when I discovered the Mother and Sri Aurobindo’s Integral Yoga.

The gist of Kazantzakis’ report hit in the quick of the relationship between the spirit and the flesh, as much of his stuff does, like his book made into a film, The Last Temptation of Christ, but this was nonfiction, real life stories, and it just hit me so much harder than his fiction. I could be mistaken on the location, since he went to Mt Athos too, but he came to that monastery at the foot of Mt. Sinai to talk to a monk that had sworn to silence and had not spoken to anyone for years, a famous old monk known for wisdom. He wanted to ask what the relationship between spirit and flesh was to be, the one that God approved of as much as you, and he’d talked to other famous monks, many mad, who were undergoing extreme austerities to mortify the flesh, subdue it, deny it. Starting at 4 when he fainted upon seeing the breasts of a neighbor woman, so overcome he was with not exactly desire, but the toddler feelings of that impulse, there began a war inside him between God and what looked like not to be God, the flesh. Here with this silent monk he hoped rested the answer to the seeming paradox. It was in the early 1930s, and it was his last pilgrimage to Orthodox monasteries to find that answer I do believe. Of all his many talents, inner exploration wasn’t one of them, but his outer search was fruitful nonetheless, and he could tell the story.

That monk reluctantly agreed to see him, and he told him that, after all his years mortifying the flesh, he’d come to the conclusion that you had to  include the flesh in the equation of the spirit, that the more you fought it the stronger it got, and this just turned Kazantakis’ head around. That’s not what he expected to hear.

You see I had the same problem, only worse, and I was actually there for the same reason more or less, trying to answer that sticky question. I wasn’t just up there to post poems. I wanted to write it out, but I was much more specific than he. With me it was the genitals I wanted to know how to handle, because I couldn’t handle mine, handled other people’s too much. The poem posting was about redemption, what I capture in a previous story, the one that introduces this one, called “Behind the Mask Jerusalem, the Journey of the Thousand Tongues.” But the journal is about, among larger things, that proper relationship, and it’s just grist to the mill, gives no lasting answers, but like his, in spirit not in quality, it is a report to my people, which in this day and age of an arising world culture is everybody on earth.

The Overthrow of I Am
The Equality of Soul

Dudaim Cave, En Gedi, Israel

I am beginning the report of this narrative from Dudaim Cave, where it is said that young David, the future king of Israel, came and hid from the present king and who sought his life. In the course of the search for David the king and his party three thousand men strong came here to En Gedi. Saul came into this cave to take a nap, as David and a few followers hid in its recesses. While the king slept David crept and cut off a piece of Saul’s garment then ran outside himself. Such an act saved his life as well as got his point across, though it could have just as easily got him killed. The point is he took a risk and exposed more than just his life; he uncovered what he was about. He wasn’t there to kill the king, only clarify his royal ways. I don’t know how much my mission here mirrors David’s. I only know that in En Gedi I begin this exposition of personal and divine exposure.

At the Monastery of St. Catherine, Egypt

So I’m not here to stand upon the mountain and shake my fist at God and demand the fulfillment of my desires, but I am here to stand on top of the mountain and open my heart to its indwelling divinity so that I may no more seek to feed my desires and eat upon the hearts of others. It is my I am that I overthrow, and the conflict has reached the point and pitch that I find myself in these elevated circumstances participating in a process that seems symbolic for all of humanity.

On the mountaintop

I’m on the top of the mountain writing from the spot that I slept, away from the buildings and people on a small ledge facing west. Last night, lying here under the bottomless sky looking up at an infinity of stars so crowded together they were humming, I felt I was fixing to fall, not down the mountain, but up out into space. The feeling was so intense I had to grab hold of the rocks around me to keep me on the ground. I finally put the covers over my head and went to sleep, but I had a dream about gravity letting go of me and woke up feeling my body pulled towards the stars. I got up straight away and went and touched a building and stood near other people long enough to feel grounded again. It’s not that I don’t want to fly. I just don’t want to fall.


I don’t want to belittle sexual orgasm. As a spiritual experience it has great value, but it is on the way to more fuller and complete spiritual experience, and it seems to be very easy to stay focused on the genitals and ignore the urgings of the energy to rise to the open heart and head.

This brings me to a point I think I’d rather avoid, but I know I must carry on. I am here on Mt. Moses for this very thing. Two questions I’d like to attempt to answer, one I’ve asked earlier, and the other one I’ve hinted at in these pages. Why are we so attached to the genitals, and how do we acquire the I organization of identity?


Now I must depart from the usual metaphorical and fuzzy explanations of the development of ego given to this point and locate this center around which the I is formed concretely upon the body. The child’s private sense of personhood develops hand in hand with the privatization of its genitals. As its genitals become more private so too does the child become a more private self-conscious person. The genitals are the one place on its body that it must hide and keep private, the one place that can only be touched in cleaning or going to the bathroom. The more rigid the enforcement of the genital taboos the more rigid the structure of the I.


Humanity moved completely into the waking world and began to deny and reject anything non-material or non-intellectual. This can only be a temporary situation because the invisible world aims to become visible regardless of human denial. It is the nature of the evolution of consciousness to become more aware not less so. This I has been only a temporary stopping point and safe haven to prepare us for our next step in the evolution of our identity.

[Thursday August 17, 1995] The time has come for me to post the poems on this mountain. It is late morning and no one is about. I’ve covered much ground here, and though I’ve oversimplified and understated the process I’ve written about, the core is here. I leave it to someone else, perhaps my future self, to expound upon these ideas and present them in a more orthodox and acceptable manner.


I wrote the account over 20 years ago, and I’ve only included a small part of it, but the central ideas are there, albeit unresolved. It would be years before they would be. I actually had the answers all along, and it’s in the above journal too in kernel form, but I didn’t see it back then. Since early childhood every few years I’ve had inner experiences deeper and other than dream, ones that showed me more profound and sustaining pleasure can be felt by us in the body and out of it than that given by sexual orgasm.

We’re capable in fact of another  kind of orgasm, a higher kind that involves the entire body, where instead of the ecstatic flowing sensation coming from the genitals, you, your whole seat of consciousness, flows up out of the top of your head some distance, an orgasmic fountain up, and you see and hear from up there, which is not outside of you but inside, an inner upper, or overhead experience it’s called in the integral yoga of Sri Aurobindo.

There are even other stations of consciousness up there, not just “a blank port in the unseen,” a metaphor Sri Aurobindo uses in the epic poem Savitri to describe just going up and not ‘anywhere’, not to  the higher and more all-encompassing identities. Reaching even the first, Supermind, however, which is in its unmanifested state a little more than rooftop level over the head, in my experience at any rate, is the rarest experience in the consciousness of humanity and most hidden in terms of our direction of travel as a race. The blank overhead experience not reaching any of those heights is more common, though it’s not yet on the net that I’ve seen, but the word blank here means not arriving anywhere and not a blank experience by any means; it’s among the richest of our species. You go up a couple of meters, your sense of seeing and hearing too, stay there in that immensity a short time, and come back down into your normal seat of consciousness. And those capacities for pleasure and bliss are just the tip of the iceberg, but they are among the most important because they take us where we’re going, to higher stations of consciousness capable of seeing more than one perspective at a time, more than a single pole of experience.

Mystics the world over have reported experiencing physical ecstasy, yogis samadhi, and there are as many degrees and kinds of it as there are stars I’d imagine, all the way to being completely free of your body while you’re still in it, something Vipassana meditation results in this if taken to its climax, though they’ll say you’re being lead to enlightenment. When that happens you experience a ‘puff’ on the inside, like it’s happening to you, all of you in there, and there’s no body sensation and no feeling of being in the world at all, though you can still manipulate the body, and the pleasure in this, like that I’m describing above, makes sexual orgasm pale in comparison, and you get the impression that the latter is merely gross physical pleasure that any animal can feel at the drop of a hat (at least alone), and though you may still be stuck in it, you want that other more total and sustaining kind if you’ve had a taste of it, but, if it doesn’t happen spontaneously, the effort put forth to experience it is beyond the capacity of most, and there is very little open knowledge of how to do it or do it again if it just happened without any effort on your part. All this and I haven’t even mentioned shutting the thinking mind and feeling heart off and sitting in the silence, the emptiness of enlightenment.

Yet these things are almost unheard of in humanity, the fame of enlightenment notwithstanding. Do you know about them? Instead sex gets the attention because it’s the closest thing to ecstasy we know, especially when combined with romantic love, some ray however sticky of divine love, which is love in itself. Religion, especially the monotheistic ones, remember these things dimly, and though fringe members may experience them, they too are somewhat taboo because generally speaking the big religions shun physical pleasure and, ironically, hearing and seeing what they worship or aspire to, delaying it usually for an afterlife in a heaven. Religious efforts to experience the higher pleasure or love God alone often involve denying the flesh and sometimes mortifying it, but it many if not most instances I’ve seen the ones doing the austerities only have a vague idea if any of the transcendent pleasure possible, and what’s important isn’t that but the austerities in themselves, done as a sort of punishment to appease God for being dirty because they are in the flesh, to gain his acceptance, like the mad monks who Kazantzakis spoke to who lived alone in caves on the back cliffs of Mt. Athos, denying themselves even basic necessities. Every once in awhile one would think he could fly and jump to his death upon the ocean rocks far below. You’ve  got to imagine, though, God being such a paradox to our reason, there would be real instances of human flight scattered about in human history achieved by ascetics, Milarepa’s probably the most well known.

The ecstatic experiences I’m talking about are often confused with the ability to perform miracles such as fly or levitate, heal the sick and so forth (not to say things like that are impossible) confused also with a great joyful uplift of emotion or sudden feeling of expansion. The ecstasy transcends our limits of sensation and feeling and in rare instances, transcends our identity. It’s the only thing that can replace sex because sex is an animal form of it, and as animals we’re largely ignorant of what is higher in us than animal, not on the food chain, but in terms of development of consciousness and self-awareness, but as that other that we are other than animal, something we haven’t yet defined, what even skeptics scratch their heads over, we are not ignorant of it and even unbeknownst to ourselves seek both it and its source, which is God, though in such experiences God can be hidden or the heart of it, and so you may think he’s not there, but it’s not a matter of thought but of seeing what we can see of him in the one pole of experience consciousness. Experience multiple poles of experience at the same time, and you’re seeing more as God, who sees it all, all at once and can sort it all out. You’ve got to figure he’s infinitely bigger and smarter than you, and so you wouldn’t be able to see God with your reason or the senses as a being standing in front of you however big you want to imagine him.

God’s the filler of the void, any void, but mainly he’s what’s filling nothingness, the janitor of the One my muse calls him. We each are one big hungry void trying constantly to be filled with something we like. Sit a moment in the quiet of your surroundings and unhook your attention from all contact, though not closing your eyes, turning off all media especially, doing nothing at all, especially not smoking, eating or drinking anything. Feel it?

God is all well and good, but you might be wondering if I think I really almost flew that first night on the mountaintop, and here’s the heart of the problem of accounts of such things that supersede nature be they true or false: exaggeration and misunderstanding what was experienced. The feeling of falling was a change of perception that came about as the result of waking from a dream where I was falling into the sky and had come off the ground. Once fully awake I still had both the sensation of falling and the perception of it until I bolted to a building, but before that my body did not move from where I awoke. In my report I make it sound like it did, or at least leave levitation or weightlessness as an open possibility.

Here on the mountain I wasn’t high on smoke as I’d been in Dahab (a Sinai resort on the Red Sea famous then for smoke, or bananas it was called) a few days before. Other than that code word it was openly smoked and sold all over the resort, which was gated in by police, and in most restaurants and hostels a nicely dressed polite Bedouin would come and give you a sample. With my traveling companions and I it was an able looking old man that came to our hostel to see us. It was night, and we sat on the shore of the sea as we smoked. I did a meditation, since I hadn’t smoked in awhile and knew I’d have a good sitting. I didn’t expect weird. The relaxed environment and ancient setting upon that sea, along with the potent pot, triggered a strange experience.

After a bit of breathing exercises and concentration I found myself seeing the world from upside down, as if I were upside down, not completely but almost, and I was in the meditative posture in the upright position, naturally, and I knew it only as a change of perception and sensation. So I must’ve been open to repeating of something weird like that with the senses here on the mountain, hence the dream and falling feeling. On this poetic adventure, strange things were happening with me a lot, especially between me and my immediate surroundings, like it was a heightened time, something on a higher slope of life, for a few meters anyway, not having flown notwithstanding.

Bringing the story back down to earth and uncovering once again what taboo makes us cover, let’s pull the world’s pants down again and show the genitals. What all the fuss is about with the genitals is we get some sensation of the subtle body through manipulating them. The subtle body is like a body beneath the body, whose centers are along the spine but not in the physical body, the genitals being one of those 7 centers. Along with the sensation there’s some activation of that chakra to a limited extent, and no other chakra can be activated so so naturally by physical means, since someone with the knowledge in their hands can activate other centers. Activating any chakra, however slightly, has a big impact upon your life. Maybe that easy access has something to do with why the genitals are called the communication chakra in the Indian subtle body system. I’ve found that and more; it’s the place on the body to turn up or down the volume of a person basically, turn up desire, turn up the volume in the conflict between right and wrong, turn up the inner consciousness, turn up creativity, turn up things both bad and good.

When you add to that they’re the seat of the ego on the body (in terms of your body consciousness not your mind or heart), and they serve other functions, the lower orgasm not among the least, you have a very sensitive area on the body that needs special handling. How other people look and touch ours during the first years of life when the ego is transcribed is a bit like putting in a computer program. So how we relate to them is of great importance, hence the many taboos surrounding them. My article “Make Peace With the World”, and the long poem “The Pupil and  His Divine, a Harmony in Five Measures,” both on my personal blog, Collaboration With the Unknown, might interest you to see what that future self is writing on these matters.

Here I have to go on high again, but not out of the body. The most optimum places on the body to turn up or down that volume knob the genitals represent are the heart and top of the head, opening there as opposed to opening down there, or if you have, using the opening from within or above to get you right again because what you’re opening to with the heart is the soul, its good government and with the top of the head the light from above, the divine ray, and as it goes down it readies all the centers (chakras) for the readied opening down there that gives you the life-force to have the type of experiences I’m describing. If you open it directly by focusing on the life-force valve just below the genitals, the perineum, the bottom charka and seat of what’s called in Indian yoga, the kundalini, that valve, then you’re in trouble, believe me. It can increase your sexual impulses manifold, increase anger and all the other passionate emotions too. You will find you have less self-control over these things if your focus is there for the higher bliss and overhead experience, or even for enlightenment, so much less control you won’t get much of those refined things.

But that process for the soul to take our government and the light to get down there takes years, as much of a constant spiritual practice as you can do, and I’m only sometimes  able to do it all the time, that is, maintaining a sadhana concentration every waking moment, which gets you waking up in dream so much you’re concentrating on being as awake as you can in each moment, or concentrating on what’s larger than the moment I might put it, putting spirit into the equation, what we often neglect to do so concerned we are with the flesh.

Though there are rewards doing it the slow way such as occasional ecstasies, increased awareness, enhanced creativity, more ability to lucid dream, and so forth, you have to be patient if you’re trying to solve the riddle of the spirit and the flesh and you see you do have to include the flesh in the equation too. I have learned from my teachers I’ve mentioned and the yoga I’m doing, that including it doesn’t mean you have to have sex, that you simply must or a real need is there, at least in the mature adult, but the trick is, what it all hinges on, you’re not abstaining from sex out of a sense of morality, of not offending God either, but because you know if you want the larger orgasm, the ecstasy, you have to give up the smaller one. Here you’re not denying your sexual impulses but sublimating them to where they go as we grow into larger people. And that makes all the difference; makes it humanly possible.

I don’t think even that old silent monk who told Kazantzakis you have to include the flesh was able to see that including the flesh in the spirit means a different type of sexual feeling and impulse than the animal form of it we know now, but more importantly, it means a whole new body and earth, ones more flexible in the winds of infinity. That’s the meaning of transformation.

If that’s all there is to us, being an animal, then, in addition to having to forever endure death, disease and destruction, we are compelled by nature to indulge our desires and can only curb them with self-rule and law, which usually means clubbing them, a fundamental fight between good and evil that tears some of us apart and doesn’t leave a one of us unscathed. If you’re over 14 chances are you’re dealing with sexual desire daily, in your dreams, in your waking life, and you have to do something with it even if that’s denying it totally, what society wants you to do, what you’ve been taught you should do until you’re married. It’s probably right here that society breaks down the most because we don’t have complete mastery over our sexual impulses when we’re young, especially a young teen, mastery in the sense that you have complete control over your sexual impulses, fantasies, and conduct whether you indulge those things or not, mastery even in dream. Not even many older adults have that. Do you?

It creates a situation similar to what I encountered in Special Forces school where the rules were such that you had to figure out  how to break them or you probably wouldn’t pass, which was captured by the unofficial motto of our Q course, “If you ain’t cheatin’ you ain’t tryin’, and if you get caught you ain’t SF.” While that’s fine for unconventional warfare, it’s not for everyday society. Not being able by nature to fulfill our society’s most basic conventions leads to so much strife and confusion in individual lives and in society itself. You can say it leads to war.

But we are more than animal in our nature and can put sex in a higher coin, one more satisfying and real, as I’ve explained, and if it were part of becoming a full-fledged adult to achieve this greater sexual currency, then naturally our youth will want it too and wouldn’t spend too long in the animal form of it. That would be considered immature, though young adults would have enough children between themselves to keep humanity going. You can see where I’m going, but I’m going farther, or more integrally, than just having better or higher sexual feelings and sensations. I’m going to a new body and a new earth like I said. The yoga I do in the form of a sadhana, aims not only to transform the individual but the world too, does not deny sex and orgasmic feeling (ecstasy) but gives you the means to gain mastery over those things and sublimate them to where they need to go in a being transforming mind, life, and body into what’s other and more aware than the animal, into our inborn hidden divinity.

I was nowhere near that mastery mountaintop in terms of a permanent dwelling place while on that outer mountain posting those poems that, at the time I wrote them, I thought were directly inspired and were the epitome of poetry. That they were remotely inspired I might grant them, such was the rush of feeling I felt as I wrote them, almost effortlessly it seemed such a strong flow there was, but it was a formless flow, and it was my mind and not my inspiration that put the words to that flow, and so you’re not hearing the voices of the unseen. It would be hard to say if they’re even poetry in the sense of the word, since the poetic form and content, the simple rhymes and the march of ideas, don’t match, but it’s easier to say it’s not good poetry because it isn’t, but it is catchy.

To me they were great poems that one day would be read. I think, if we write a lot of poetry over the course of our lives, we all think that sometimes, but we’re not all great poets. If our greatness lies in our abilities and talents then we are not great, or only have an animal greatness, temporarily known for some trick we can do. You’ve got to figure no one’s name is immortal given that unbeginningless and endless time outdo any form, even reason and rhyme. Our greatness rests in our soul, which isn’t in time, which means we are all somebody special like we sometimes think we are. We just have to put it in the right place, one of the hardest places we can put effort, and so most of us don’t really bother.

The sense that I had some good poems to post in high places, though due more to the exuberance and pride of a young man than the muse of poetry, gave me the confidence to do something at once both silly and striking, depending on how you look at it: taping my poems to  the most sacred places I knew about and could get to from Jerusalem to Cairo, why I was here on Mt. Sinai posting my poems. The mountain was there. The presence of God too.

This photo of Mount Sinai is courtesy of TripAdvisor

The Overthrow of I Am

I am that I am
on the throne
of the organizational center
of the experience of identity,
and I am a jealous God.

I am who I am
behind a veil.
That most open part of me
I won’t even let you see.
Lest you touch upon my surrender.

I am which I am,
which is he not she,
which is the very reason
I am an I and not a we.

I am how I am,
So don’t expect me
to let my children go.
Lest they cast an eye upon my throne,
and I find I am overthrown.

I am thinking I am
the only one
that there can be.
You’re only supposed
to think about me.

I am feeling I am
getting mad.
How else do you think
I don’t feel sad?

I am wanting I am,
and I want you
to give me everything
that you don’t want to,
so you won’t want anything from me.

I am why I am
because I am afraid
pleasure will wash
my I am away.
so I punish you.

I am where I am
not really that smart.
I am the I am
scared of the dark.

I am saying I am,
but it’s not really true.
Here is your worst fear:
That I am you.

As the bell tolled I posted the poems on every large flat horizontal surface around there that people were likely to see, on the chapel too of course, except the very last poem, which was hidden and probably stayed up a while as a result. The others it appears got torn off almost immediately by a man up there questioning me about exactly where I’d put the poems, and like a silly young fool I told him, not noticing until later his tone and manner. The bell had stopped, and we were standing at the bulletin board just down from the chapel, and I’d just posted a poem. He was a bit offended by especially one of the poems, “The Reincarnation of Adolf Hitler” (included in the Jerusalem story), or maybe only by the title. He’d been going behind me and reading what I was putting up, but I hadn’t noticed him until then, nor noticed, like I said, he was ripping off the poems, though I didn’t see him actually doing that.

He was of European origin from his look and speech, but he might’ve been Israeli. I thought he was interested in what I was doing and so was asking questions about it. I was also a little taken by the fact that, according to him, there was 500 Spaniards coming up there that very day. A crowd would see my poems, and I marveled at the occurrence, but I didn’t know that a censor was there in the guise of an interested person who was taking it upon himself to make sure the mountain was politically correct. We think it’s mostly the government doing the censoring. It’s just as much us.

Thinking I was done, I left him to go down but found a great place to put a poem not far from where I met Mr. Prophet days before, and so I put the last poem, “The Reincarnation of Adolf Hitler”, on a small rock wall on a slanted overhang, a little box-like hidden place on the very edge just below the top. It was probably the only poem anybody saw except Mr. Censor , though it wasn’t easily seen. If you were too afraid of heights you wouldn’t see it, since it’s slanted towards a fall.

Right after I tapped it I looked down and there was a big splif only slightly smoked and weathered. I hadn’t smoked since I’d done so with a British couple outside the hostel the night before I went up, not taking any because I was doing a purification of sorts abstaining from basic pleasures. Purification is a necessary part of the path, but it’s for advancement not moral reasons. Our succession as a race comes from pure lives (my muse). You just don’t go overboard, or over the cliff, with it.

The most difficult part of the equation is you can’t make a rule to say when it’s okay to break the rules. We’re animals evolving into humans, what we haven’t yet fully become, and so you just have to learn to fly by the seat of your soul not your pants, pants here to represent all impure actions. Your soul knows the answer to the equation, which is an individual answer unique to each situation, and it understands indulgence and your need not to deny it but harmonize it and only throw out  what can’t be. To me that joint lying there was a gift from the mountain that told me my work was done, and I could get high. I snatched that refer up and smoked it.

The view was dizzying, but I was so high I knew I could fly, not then though (not now either). It’s hard to say suspension in gravity’s even possible, but I know it is from early childhood, as one of my first remembered experiences of the fuller ecstasy was bouncing weightless with what seemed to me as a small child to be bubbles of pleasure bubbling all through me. You can’t picture this. It’s a transcendent pleasure, pure ecstasy. The last time lasted less than a minute, and I remembered it had happened a couple of times before, brief as well, and I was so surprised to have forgotten it, but I saw we could be weightless, and so have others. I have the certainty we can do much more.

The last encounter I had while up there, a wonderful one, was with a young woman, a painter. She wasn’t at the top painting, but down in Elijah’s Basin, right at the entrance to it where the trail comes down from the summit, a wide one at that point, a little road really. It was only on the other side of the valley that it gets steep and narrow, the way I went down the mountain, but over the course of 30 years a monk at the monastery carved out steps all the way to the top, an austerity he did for God, a sacrifice. Did it make him fly or fall?

Elijah's Basin

Elijah’s Basin

Sitting at an easel right at that spot, and being as bright and pretty as she was, she graced the scene. So I looked at her more deeply as I got closer, but in a platonic way. I guess that made my eyes look more intense to her because as she saw them she dropped her paintbrush. She probably hadn’t seen me walk up, but her surprise had more to do with how I looked than my walking up on her. With that long hair and beard, and the colorful clothes, especially the wide beaded headband sparkling in the morning sun, and having been on a rugged mountaintop for three days focused on divine contact, in my writing hand and inner looking, well, a little of the image of Moses might’ve shown, a bright trick of the morning light. She picked up her brush and asked, half seriously, “Did you see God?”

I asked to see her painting, a politeness you give a painter painting. She was painting the valley, but I don’t remember much about it so engrossed I was in the mountain morning high except that it was quite nice to look at, which I did while answering her question with an initial yes I had seen him, though not in the way she meant. I told her about the poem posting up top and the sense of God’s presence up there too. I also told her I was quite high on grass I’d found posting the last poem, and I so I wanted to go into the valley before the light left, and so I took her leave and soon came upon an ancient Cyprus tree, said to be over 500 years old, and I tapped “The Overthrow of I Am” on it. Then I meditated for an hour or so the inner state coming on so strongly, that feeling of being pulled inside, for me it’s usually the head, parts of it vibrating, especially the forehead, another higher point of concentration helpful to focus on. If you move your body or shift your awareness to the outside, poof you’re out of it or coming quickly up out of it. Even if you don’t do regular meditation, that pull to go inside happens to many people late in the morning as they’re going about their day. Maybe even you. Ever notice how things  in what we call normal life just aren’t set up to go with our inner rhythms?

As stupid as it may sound these 20 years later. after all the people that have done that. have tried to change the world so expressively on the net, and those that did it before on whatever medium, I aimed to change society with poetry I felt was inspired. I thought I was giving it a boost by putting them in powerful places sacred to many people.

If I hadn’t written the story they’re be no boost, or only in the sense that, as my teacher says, one person’s achievement alone in a cave enriches the whole of humanity, even though mine wasn’t an achievement but a yet failed redemption. In my mind at the time those poems were idea bombs I was putting in place, as I express in the Jerusalem story, and I’d been on a Special Forces nuclear weapons team and put a tactical nuke in a place (though it wasn’t set to go off), and so the analogy didn’t come from my imagination. The poems are still set to go off even though they were stripped off shortly after being tapped up. These stories about posting them are the trigger.

It’s no longer the world or society I’m trying to change but you and I, or the world has become so personal discovering the invisible I see the world now more in terms of you and I. The ideas exploding are upon a page in your mind, if they detonate. In many minds that read these stories they won’t. If it gets you to see the unseen even a little, and helps me to see it more, our inner and other that we’ve ignored, or tried to, our underlying unity in the bad as well as the good in us, the inner states, the higher grounds of identity and consciousness, the near constant inner communication between not only all people but all things, the soul, the divine host, the powers hostile to that host, our secret divinity, and more, always more, then the ideas have exploded in humanity. In a matter of time you’re hear it.

But this is a slow explosion, one of many, from many of us and more to come, to blow up the screen that blinds us to the unseen, not too fast, so we don’t explode ourselves, figuratively speaking. The real and coming revolution, as I see it, is the rediscovery of humanity, recovering that which we’ve lost, the hidden links, concentrating on the links to light, links to love, links to evolution, or else we’ll be back where we were when, however it happened, we retreated into an almost exclusive focus on matter and the outer world to keep us safe from the invisible because it almost destroyed us. That’ll be the same reason we let it back in, safely: the ego identity transcribed from that focus on matter is destroying us now that we are reaching critical mass in terms of the number of us and the impact we have upon the environment, the planet.

The guests of unseen Egypt. That’s a line from my muse this morning, the poetic inner voice, a daily contact I have with the unseen. The next story goes deeper down into the land of Egypt, where was to be the next poem posting, but it’s not a story from the mountaintop, and the presences in the story are all too human, and so my muse this morning as I sit and write this isn’t about it. It’s about what we’ve forgotten, what we will be so surprised to remember and even more surprised that we could have ever forgotten: the invisible.

When we look on ancient sites and civilizations we see old crumbling monuments and such that we think were built by intelligent but superstitious and ignorant people. A lot of the monuments, however, are to the unseen, and the walls of their rooms are filled with its frescos, and so the official look, what’s in the textbooks and universities of humanity’s history, sees it all as their imagination, the god reflex, magic to make the crops grow, the insecurity of self-awareness, or whatever. In the not too distant future that almost exclusive outer look will change, and the inner will have its needed place – inevitably. It’s more from the inside you see the unseen, even when it’s on the outside. Our whole world hinges on doing it differently than we’ve ever done it before, inviting back into our awareness the invisible and unseen.

The end of this story begins the next one — back to the report, the overthrow, top and bottom.

Bottommost chamber of the Great Pyramid (a week later)

After [the posting on the tree and meditation], I went down and got my things in the hostel next to the monastery and began to walk to the village. As soon as I got out of the gate and entered the road, I met an Israeli teenager who was very much a part of the peace fast in Jerusalem. He is very involved in photography and took many pictures of Lars and I and our camp. Needless to say he was very surprised to see me again. It was a good thing. I needed a chronicler. He was a connecting link to the two phases of this poetic odyssey.


You are the story this world links to.
Think about it,
Helpful details about other people’s lives.
“We just good to know.”

Too much evidence.
That’s wild,
something as visible as the unseen.
I’ve covered you in that.

“What the past?”
The past is mostly empty,
what the past just has to be.
Let’s take enlightenment.
some of those things alive.

Watch abysses –
or Edgar Allen Poe.
“Fight us Law?”
A good agreement,
find a good agreement
and flower simple springtime.

A writer blows up
a tactical nuke,
which stops at worms, wormholes,
and there’s stupid tourist woman.

I took her to the movies,
And she took your mountain to my knees –
“They’re animals.”
What good lady?
I stood up.

Must’ve been in an ideal form too form
if you ask me.
Stand whalin’ you keep
runs on this place:
the unbound.

And I’m continuing to fashion the heart
and put it in its desired place:
soul bound.
From here on out team effort,
“From here?”
That’s what’s pushy about me to you.

(my muse yesterday and today)


Post 11

(This story has been marginalized to my blog, after being rejected by literary magazines, in the U.S. and in Israel, and by Paul it seems, the character in the story who loses the original story mailed to my community during the events narrated. While it’s not stream of consciousness narration, if you’re afraid of Virginia Woolf , you might find this difficult to understand. Let me begin at the most intense moment of the story, for me anyway, and then work back and forward from there. You follow?)

I moved in front of Lars and made myself the target of the man holding the knife, not out of any sense of protecting Lars but because I wanted to be the one recognized as the ‘head’ of the hunger strike, not Lars, sure somehow the men had not come to kill us but only to make us leave, but it was still a gamble. I realized that as I stood a few inches away from the man looking him in the eye wishing it was still Lars in that position of leadership; the man was dead serious.

“Don’t look me in the eyes.  You’re nothing but a dog.  Look down dog.” This was said with such contempt I complied, and as I did I saw the knife, which he was shielding with his jacket so it couldn’t be seen from a distance.  When the men had come into the park they stood in a group in front of us, a couple holding one arm behind their backs like they had some weapon, the group jacking to spring.  I had made myself the sole object of their bad attention through force of ego, like I said, though originally they had come and confronted us as a group, demanding to know which one of us was Lars.

There were four or five men in total, one left as a lookout near the park entrance closest to us, making sure we could see his walkie-talkie. I could see they were nervous. They were also all young, in their early to mid twenties.  We were told later by Israeli friends that they were part of the Palestinian mafia of the old city, not from the PLO, Hamas, or anything like that, but we never actually found out what group they were from.  All we knew about them was that they were friends of Mohammad, a manager of a hostel in the old city that catered to Western tourists.  He himself was nowhere to be seen, though he’d been there in the afternoon with his friends, the same ones there now (new ones added), to tell us he wanted to play soccer there and needed the whole park to do so, and so we had to leave.  We had refused, and he said he’d be back.  Now, in the night, it wasn’t him back but his friends, who, we’d later learn, he’d lied to about the nature of his relationship with Patricia to get them to do what he asked, lying about us too.

“We’re coming back at 1 a.m., and if you’re still here we’re going to kill you, all of you, and you,” he said putting his face close to mine, “you, we’re gonna fuck you first before we kill you.   You hear that?  We’re gonna drag you in these bushes after we kill everybody else and fuck you.  You know what that means?”  He said it like he was letting something secret revel a moment in the moonlight, what little of it there was, and I nodded yes, abhorring the understanding I had.  With my long flowing hair and flowery hippie clothes I probably looked more feminine than masculine, but this wasn’t really about sexual attraction even though some element of that was present.  This was about male domination, wanting submission, control, what the whole thing was about actually.  Mohammad was mad at us because the night before a friend of ours, Patricia, had come to us badly beaten by him and wanting our help, and we gave it.  He had beaten her up because he tried to take her off alone from the group they were partying together with, and she resisted, and he punched her face and body until she got away.

She had come to us immediately after, and the next morning he came to the park to talk to her, us trying to keep that from happening because she said she accepted his apologies but did not want to talk to him then or at any other time.  He pushed past us and went to talk to her anyway and told her that if she wouldn’t give him another chance she had to leave Jerusalem because he wouldn’t be able to control himself, and she told him that all she wanted was him to leave her alone, and that she wouldn’t press charges or do anything to him, just please leave her alone.  That made him mad and he shouted at her and left the park.  So for attempting to protect Patricia from him he had sent his gang to make us leave the park in which we had been conducting a hunger strike in for the past 7 or 8 days, and this literally rained on our parade.

It was Jerusalem 1995, a tinderbox where the least little thing ‘not on its side of the line’ could instigate a small riot or a scurried scuffle.  We had not appreciated that fact in our youthful plans to do a hunger strike for peace there in a little park outside of Jaffa Gate.  It was Lars’ idea, and by the time I came on the scene he was doing a ‘last supper’ with his small group of friends and supporters, mostly young women, two of whom were his sisters.  During the dinner I pulled him aside, and we went outside, and I asked if he really planned to strike until death.  He assured me he most certainly did, though his mother had just paid a surprise visit from Demark to insure her 22 year old son wasn’t going to kill himself, and he’d assured her he wasn’t going to, or something to that effect.  She had left him with his sisters to keep an eye on him, and so it’s not probable he’d have starved himself to death.  But when he’d told me he was going to do so he had a certain look in his eyes that was such an exaggerated mixture of sadness and pride – ‘woe is me I’m great enough to lay down my life for others’ – I believed him.

It was a little restaurant just outside the old city, Israeli I think, but it could’ve been Palestinian (your mind over time can merge the most surprising things).  We were on the steps in front of the place, and it was late afternoon or early evening.  I had only arrived in the city a couple of days or so before, direct from Houston on KLM, via a fortifying three day stopover in Amsterdam because I couldn’t board the flight to Israel without purchasing a return ticket.  Like every other obstacle in the whole thing, it wasn’t really an obstacle but a great help in disguise.  My step-brother had a flat there and gave me the royal treatment to help prepare me for my poetry posting.

Lars and I had been having conversations since we’d met in the hostel we both stayed at, where Mohammad was the manager by the way, intense conversations, the kind you have when your world’s at stake.  I’d told him my story, how I was becoming prominent in a small town feeding and sheltering the homeless and organizing a community dream library with the help of the local public radio station and fell from grace and had to leave town in the dead of night, and how I returned to my hometown of Houston and did some ardent soul-searching and wrote a cycle of poems, and now I was going to post them on holy sites in the old city, poems like “The Last Man on Earth”, about human unity, “The Overthrow of I Am”, about dethroning the human ego, and “The Reincarnation of Adolf Hitler”, about him in hell realizing his pain is the pain he gave and redeeming himself.

“You’ll get yourself killed!,” he’d told me in an earlier conversation, and now on those steps he was telling me I was the one doing something stupid, not him by killing himself in a hunger strike for peace between the Israelis and the Palestinians, “if it came to that.”  It was then I saw the something else, a little glimpse of something in me that I was getting acquainted with but wasn’t proud of, something in all of us: the chosen one.  It was there on his face: he will be the one that brings peace to the Middle East.  It had not taken over, was still just some glimmer of hope not fanned into a fire, and so he was a passionate young man exuberating confidence and not some nut proclaiming himself somebody.  It is the hardest thing to reconcile: being at the center of your senses sensing the world but not being the center of the world, being a nobody constantly confronted with all the somebodies that made history, and Lars was not going to give up without a fight.  Do any of us?

He’d conceived of the hunger strike in Jerusalem on a train from Delhi to (then) Bombay, or the other way around, and soon after he’d made his way here to carry it out.  Before India he’d traveled through Iraq and Iran, converting to Islam, which had awoken in him a sense that he had something to do, a mission, and being treated so special by all the people who hosted him, which probably had more to do with him being the only Western convert among them than his specialness, that sense had grown so strong here he was in Jerusalem on his mission.

I sat there a moment and fantasized about how I thought he fantasized events would unfold: people saddened, ultimately torn apart, by this young man’s sacrifice, his deteriorating health reported daily by the world press, more and more people holding rallies to save his life all over the world, the leaders of the two peoples coming together to outline peace to prevent such a brave man’s death, and I could do that with some accuracy because it wasn’t too unlike the world splash I made in my fantasies posting the poems, in my own fight with being nobody, though in my case it wasn’t being a nobody I fought against as much as it was being an unredeemable bad man.  It would come to Lars and I on a hunger strike and waiting for people to come join us.

The Last Man on Earth

Your face is not your face.
Your hands are not your hands.
Your genitals are not your genitals.
Your thoughts are not your thoughts.

They belong to us.

How you look we look.
What you do we do.
What you hide we hide.
What you think we think.

We are you.

That isn’t you in the mirror,
Nor you being raped,
Nor you dying,
Nor you killing.

It is us.

Who you are we are.
When you’re hurt we’re hurt.
When you die we die.
When you kill we kill.
We are human beings,

Every last one of us.

I called him on his ‘I’m this specialness’, and he smiled sheepishly like he’d been caught in the cookie jar, but he still wasn’t deterred, and so I accepted his invitation to join him if he’d help me post the poems afterwards, which would mean we wouldn’t strike unto death, and he reluctantly agreed.  On my insistence, we decided to call it a hunger strike for inner and outer peace, since I told him I needed to change myself before I could change the world, my recent fall so fresh in my mind and heart, and so I would be fasting for inner peace, and he would fast for outer.  It was a couple of weeks before Easter and Passover, which would occur at the same time this year, and so we set the end date for around then, Lars not agreeing on a concrete end date having to do with I knew not wanting to dispel completely the siren whiff of martyrdom.  I was 33 and eleven years his senior, and it’s just human nature to make more sense at that age, though from most anybody’s perspective we both were being the biggest fools.

flyer we passed out, made by a Palestinian man I think

flyer we passed out


















We started our strike that night in a little park below Jaffa Gate and next to Yemen Moshe, the neighborhood with the windmill on the side of a hill.  He had found the park and liked it because it was frequented by both Israelis and Palestinians (Arabs Israelis call them), but sitting there alone in the dark we wondered if it was too out of the way for us.  Before too long, a couple of hours or so, a young South Korean man came riding up on his bicycle, odd because this was night and not day and grass not asphalt, but he said he’d seen us sitting there.  He said his name was Johnny, and he’d just cycled around the world for peace.  We had no doubt this was a meaningful coincidence.  It became for us a downright synchronicity when, in the course of our conversation, he turned around and lifted up his shirt.  On his back was ‘world peace’ tattooed from shoulder to shoulder.  Yes, we saw, the park was the right place.  Johnny, though, we weren’t to see again until we ran into him as we posted poems Easter morning in the Church of the Holy Sepulcher.

In the morning Katrina and his other sister, came to sit with us, who’s name escapes me, since she left soon after strike began, and I didn’t get to know her. Patricia came too, including a young and colorful ‘alternative’ Palestinian man, who brought his drum and who would paint our hunger strike sign and sleep with us the first couple of nights.  Since we had sleeping bags and other camping gear, and we were playing music and singing, sometime in the early afternoon the tourist police showed up, but they were quite friendly and sat down with us, one, Amir, even taking a guitar of ours and playing and singing a rock song.  It was obvious he really liked Patricia, the Helen of Troy of our story, launching all these ships in it.  She was from Scotland and a friend of Katrina and worked as a waitress in the old city.  I don’t know exactly what it was about her, but she had what men liked, gave off some kind of mystery it seemed a lot of men wanted to solve, had to solve.  He was focused on her the whole time, and when he left he told us we could camp there until some fundraising event scheduled there in a couple of weeks, and we knew it was because of Patricia.  We were to learn later from locals we were the first group that had been allowed to camp there, and others had tried.

At the urging of his sisters we agreed to drink banana milk or some fortified puree every other day or so, and so it wasn’t a real fast, though we did agree to stay away from all substances like grass, tobacco, and alcohol, stimulants like coffee and tea, and to abstain from sex.  I was quite nervous about fasting and kept talking about that banana milk, and it became a joke among us those first couple of days, Don and his banana milk.  I was also quite jealous of Lars being the center of attention, as though it were only him on the hunger strike, and all the silly admiration that involved, and I did and said things you do and say so to make it known you are also importantly involved.  Soon more people joined our little camp, and the change in demographics tipped the scales of power in favor of a duo doing it, and with Lars’s shaved head and roundish features, though he wasn’t fat, that reminded you of Buddha, and my long hair, beard, and skinny frame that made me look a lot like the historical Jesus, and with us laying all over one another all the time, having let our ego boundaries down like new-found lovers, we were a dynamic duo, which, after a test, would bring a small musical crowd to that park to play and sing in a spirit of a united joy, a little echo from, in my ears, the kingdom of the music within. Unfortunately that’s something you can only hear about if you weren’t there, and whether you believe it or not, you might wonder at the life-deciding test we had to past for something like that to occur, a love in, a gathering, in the sense of those things.

Our test was no small one, getting back to where I was facing a man with a knife in the dark in the park that begins the story. It meant a personal encounter with death, and it didn’t matter if the threat was real or not; standing there in the darkness in Jerusalem having just been told by Palestinians they were going to come and kill us if we didn’t leave, it had the six o’clock news all over it.  To top it off, it suddenly started to rain, for the first time since we’d set up camp there, and standing there in the pouring rain holding our lives in our hands it was all a bit much, and our only thought was how quickly we could get out of there.

After a short pow wow we decided to ask the help of the Israeli man that had befriended us, a robust older man named Josef that came to the park daily to do Ti Chi and walk his dogs, bringing a pot of tea each evening his wife made for us.  He’d introduced us to his long haired son, Milo, my age, who in the coming months, in my vagabonding around Israel after the strike, I’d come to other times in need of aid and support.  I ran up into Yemen Moshe to their townhouse, a steep hike, while Lars organized the gathering together of everybody and our things.  I spoke to Josef several minutes, and then returned to the camp.  Within 10 minutes Milo came driving down in a van and told us he had arranged for us all to spend the night in the empty apartment of a friend.  He told us his father had called the police and was told there was nothing they could do unless we filed a complaint, and he asked if we wanted to, and we said no, and he said he figured as much.

There were 5 of us by that time (Katrina and Patricia more outside support): Ramon, a sensitive and gentle spiritually-minded young man in his early 20’s from Amsterdam, Saskia, also from Amsterdam in her early 20’s, strong, matriarchal, but not concerned with group politics, with a headful of dreads bicycling Israel, Zeke, a funny little man, a Russian immigrant in his mid 50’s, a Torah scholar, dabbler in Kabala, vagabond, Lars and I.  Neither Saskia nor Zeke had been there when we were threatened, but she had returned to camp immediately after, and he came walking up as we were throwing things into the van.  He stared at us in disbelief and then asserted himself, and though the interchange was longer and bit more complicated than I record it here, it boiled down to:

“Are you crazy?” Zeke asked.

“They’re nuts.  Come on let’s go,” Milo said motioning us into the van.

“Look what you’re doing man, just walking away from everything.  One little thing and you run, you run!”

“But Zeke,” I told him, “they said they were going to come and kill us, and they’re going to fuck me first, then kill me!”

He made some body movement that ended in a stance that said he’d come to a decision.  Going off a ways from the van he said loudly, “Who’ll stay here?  I’ll stay here if just one other person joins me.”

“I don’t believe it.”  Milo was shaking his head.

I think it was Lars who went over and stood beside him first, but I’m not sure.  It might’ve been me, but, at any rate, in a matter of a couple of thoughtful minutes all of us did.  Milo started ranting, “You come to my country and do all this crazy shit.  Why don’t you do it in your own country?”  He continued complaining as he got into the van and drove away.  I felt like I was watching life and hope leave the area.  For some minutes we 5 stood there in silence in the dripping rain, and then I got animated and mentioned again, for the umpteenth time, how experienced I was in extreme situations, ex-Green Beret, dream traveler, homeless person, a failed candidate to become a community prophet, though I never listed that one, (soon I’d have to add ‘Jerusalem peace activist’), and I had a plan.

It wasn’t until I was going up into the first hostel in the old city I’d decided to go to, the Tobasco, where Katrina and Patricia stayed (though on this night they were in Israeli Jerusalem), that I realized how insane it would sound asking backpackers to come and do an all night vigil with us.  My plan was simple; go to as many backpacker hostels as I could and get as many people to come stand with us as possible, and seeing all the people with us, they surely wouldn’t kill us.  Lars was credulous, but I’d grabbed Ramon anyway, and we’d hustled up out of the park and into the old city

“In your head, in your head, zombie, zombie, zombie ei, ei,” was echoing through the backpacker cafes and the streets they were on, the hot song playing on the hostel radios, is in my mind the taste of my encounter with the ancient city when I look back on it, not playing though when I went in, but it did capture my moment. I went up the steps and inside to the desk and panted out my story to Jay, who worked the desk at night and let us take free showers there, a young American man from Denver, who was to play an increasingly intimate role with Patricia’s ships in the story.  He was in Jerusalem tied up with either pursing spiritual enlightenment or joining the U.S. Army and being a badass – the cowboy hat always on his head a symbol the army had the upper hand –, between peace and war, which seemed to be the flavor of the old city, but true to its big moon overhead, it turned out he was tied more there for love.

Jay surprised me by saying he couldn’t use his position to do that, but said he could go tell a few people he knew in the hostel and ask them to come to the front room.  I figured I’d walk up, and he’d sound the alarm, but in anything that asks for more people there’s always the gatekeeper.  Within a couple of minutes several people were there, on the sofa, the chairs, or standing, all expectant of something but I could see were disappointed with what they got as they looked on Ramon and I.  Dripping wet, out of breath, coming in from the night, I looked at them looking at us as I told my strange tale, and I couldn’t put anything appealing into it until a couple of boys around 18 or so began asking specific questions about not only why the strike but what religion we belonged to, and then I perked up and gave it more appeal, at least to one of the boys, Alison from Canada who was there to find out about God.  The other, from South Africa, was interested because of the situation itself, and would, on the way to the park, tell us about how used to such situations he was being from South Africa.  We only managed to get those two to come with us, and then only for a couple of hours they’d agreed, but two or three others, including Jay, had said they’d come sometime later after he got off work, but they never came.  With the interview ordeal we had to go through to get those two, and the realization of how absurd it sounded asking people to do what we were asking them to do, we decided not to go to other hostels.

I would imagine Alison still tells the story of being a boy in Jerusalem on the search for God and being lead at night through the old city, out Jaffa Gate, and down into a little park to a mad encounter with some unorganized misguided peace group.  The rain had stopped and left the air washed clean with a slight chill on it.  The splashing echoes of our feet as we made our way made for a much better sound than my voice spitting out in-between breaths my thoughts to this kid on God, but the closeness of the presence of ancient times, coming to a crescendo as you approach and go out the great gates with the spotlights hitting the giant stone walls, like brooding lights in darkness illuminating some stray expansive mystery of the existence of God, made for such talk.  It was just my words did not match the concreteness of the sight.

The conversation with Alison took place while I was having one also with the South African boy as we all ran down to the park, and, when we arrived, during an argument I had with Lars, which made it, on my end, a conversation attempting the impossible by talking about spirit and matter at the same time and they both are the dominant link. So, not being all that good at conversation gymnastics (I’m a writer not a speaker), it boiled down to turning from the other boy and giving Alison my Dr. Seuss tripped out cosmological interpretation of spiritual experiences I’d had, which, if I’d have simply described in the first place, would have perhaps given him an eye on God fit for such a setting, but as it was he only got the silly interpretation. These are not my exact words, but it’s the gist of the ‘elucidation’:

“The world is on the Who-cycle you see, humans are Who-I, driving I-cycles, and animals Who-me, riding me-cycles, plants Who-be sitting on be-cycles, and inanimate objects, Who-no, on no-cycles, denying they’re on a cycle, but they are.  Everything makes up the single existence of the Itself, and there are innumerable other cycles all the way to the Itself, but the next cycle on our scale is Who-we, flying the we-cycle, aware of themselves as expressions of the Itself and of their unity with the whole Who-cycle, who we are secretly becoming and who also the personal Gods are,” aware that last part wasn’t the exact man to God relation, but I figured I’d have time to sort out the difference.  That last part was always the problem, giving a Godhood to man, when I gave this spiel to anyone, the spiel I gave to people that asked me what my religion or spirituality was.  I asked him if he understood, and he flatly said no.

When we arrived at the park, which momentarily interrupted the flow of the conversation with Alison, and after a moment permanently ended the one with the other boy, the others in our group, Saskia and Zeke were there at our spot talking to Lars, We were camped in an area of the park not illuminated by the park’s lights, and it occurred to me as I saw them we would be much better off staying under one of the lights, but before I could say what was on my mind Lars came walking up towards us saying, “Two people, that’s all you could get?”  I made haste to introduce both boys as I began to defend myself, but then he attacked my plan, saying he knew people wouldn’t be crazy enough to come here at night in the rain under a death threat and stand with us.  It must’ve been at that point the South African boy realized the situation was nothing like the conflicts he was used to in South Africa, and he slipped off, but I honestly don’t remember because the argument Lars and I was having, which quickly centered on the best place to be killed, in the darkness or in the light, once I made my suggestion we move, was the worst one we’d had so far.

Lars won, and we would not be moved.  He’d suddenly become a pillar of faith.  For my part it was high time for some alone time, but I was suddenly hit with a barrage of questions from Alison about God, which I honestly tried to answer, not yet down to earth or mature enough just to tell him what I’d experienced about God and the soul, not what I believed about them, of the opinion, as most are, that expounding on such big subjects I had to give a whole worldview.  God, however, was not on my mind, my mortality was, and so I quickly tied up the talk and excused myself and went to a little gardened area nearby and sat down on a park bench.  I had suddenly become scared to death, as the implications of the fact that my life was truly in danger had finally hit me.

The fear was infinitely compounded by the fact that the situation was just too close to the scenario of a lucid dream some years before where I got stabbed in the heart by an angry man with brown skin standing with three others at night in a park, and instead of waking up in my bed like I was trying to, I died and actually went to the doorway of the other side, or had what’s called a near death experience.  I’d wondered at the time, because of the strength of the dream, whether or not it was showing me how I would die, and sitting there at night in a park having been threatened with a knife by very angry men with brown skin it seemed the dream was in fact precognitive, and I had that fight you have with yourself when you have the power to save your life but don’t want to take the escape because of some ideal you believe in.

You just feel so damn stupid, or at least I did.  I wasn’t really on a hunger strike for inner peace as much I was on a personal journey of redemption but couldn’t say that outright.  I can’t really say if redemption is worth dying for, even from this distance of 20 years, however much it’s worth its weight in gold in everyday life, but it’s not an ideal bigger than yourself, and maybe it’s best to only give your life to what is larger, if you can see past ego disguises and see that what you think you do for God or humanity, 9 times out of ten, is really something more to make yourself bigger even if that’s because you’re declared so unfairly small.  I didn’t see any of that being so young, but it all bore on the moment regardless, and it all made me feel so stupid and equally so afraid.

Sitting there I could see pulsating down the length of my body and onto the ground wide yellow horizontal irregular lines, one every half second or so, and concentrating on them, which is like looking at otherworldly lights coloring oddly a scene, auric lights they’re called, the whole area I was looking at turned into a an exceedingly beautiful violet checkerboard etched deep with the lines of the unknown, the place seen as pure energy, what it was it seemed the place rested upon, or was truly built of, something starkly sacred, and there is just something about beauty that helps chase away fear, especially spiritual beauty, and then I was alright, not immediately but after some minutes, the sudden shift to seeing energy as opposed to a world of forms coming at first as such a shock it was scary, that otherworldly fear taking some time to leave because it mixed so well with the fear of the coming of death.  I wasn’t ready for whatever danger the night might bring, either rape or death, but I was there.

I returned to the others and wasn’t surprised to find Alison had left too.  No one was talking, just each into our own thoughts standing there in the returning rain, that dark pounding chill.  When we started talking it was about the others who’d said they’d come, how they probably wouldn’t, and how it was best that those who wanted to stay in a hostel that night to do so, because it might rain all night long and only maybe three could fit in the one man tent, and Saskia and Ramon opted for the hostel and left the park.  I don’t know how long it was after their departure, but Zeke suggested we all just go into the little tent erected because of the rain and “go to sleep; if we’re still alive in the morning then we’ll know things are better.”  That’s just what we did.  In the morning things were better; neither rape nor death had come, nor any danger, only our unremembered dreams.

Normally we made some attempt to remember dreams so to discuss them after morning yoga exercises and meditation in our long walks together down deeper into the valley of Hinnon, or Gehenna (hell), the valley the little park opened down into.  Though over the years I can’t remember if it was before the amphitheater directly below the park or after, presently you come to little shallow caves along the opposite ridge where, records have it, ascetics lived when the land was under tribute to Egypt, and each one was castrated one day on the misread orders from Egypt that said to gather taxes from them too.  They thought it read to castrate them. On further you come to a place where, I learned from Lars, there was a temple to Baal where children were sacrificed, fathers putting their toddler sons into the arms of his image and it being set on fire, the screams of the child drowned out by the sudden eruption for that purpose of the devotees in mad deafening frenzy.  Lars said he thought a lot about the father of such a child, how it must’ve gotten to him at some point no matter how he tried to ignore it, talking about the family too and their suppressed guilt, and I picked up the image, the mute feelings, the terrible pain, and gave it a feel.  Yes, I figured, at some point they felt it.  We all do.

On one such morning a couple of days before the coming of Mohammad’s men he told me of a dream he’d had in the night where he and I were walking through an ancient forest of tall dark trees that many tourists walked through but were careful not to encounter the dark of the forest.  They left and the forest got increasingly darker, the branches of the trees turning into racks of antlers hanging down, at which point we noticed young bulls in the distance watching us about to charge, and so we climbed a tree, both very afraid.

He said after relating the dream that showed him he still had some fear, though he also admitted he was reluctant to tell me the dream because it would prove I was right.  We’d been having a debate about his declaration that he wasn’t afraid of anything, and I’d told him that he was in denial, and that everyone was afraid of something.  I recommended he pay attention to his dreams, and he’d find out he still had fear, which he’d done and found.  But it not only showed he was still afraid of things, it showed us, if we could but see it, the coming of Mohammad’s men and the threat they would present, as it would be as if we had been chased up a tree, figuratively, and by young bulls, what animal it can be said those men acted like.  Precognitive dreams are like that, rarely if ever an exact telling of coming events as I’d feared that lucid death dream was.  Rather, they are cloaked in the symbol of dream and rely on the skill or even luck of the dreamer to interpret them before the events foretold have happened.  Most of the time you see they are precognitive only in retrospect, but if you’re a person that has them often or seldom, or close to someone that does, that in itself is such a sight to see.

It was actually a lucid dream that lead me to decide to come to Jerusalem, which at the time was the farthest place from my mind to go and post my poems, the ones that’d come out of that soul-searching at home in Houston after my public fall.  I’d begun posting poems on bulletin boards and the like in the small town I was locally famous in for such things as that.  I had first picked the streets of Amsterdam to post my poems on because it was a city known for being open to art and for being open-minded, and of course because my step-brother Steve lived there and would help in any way he could.  It happened as I planned my trip that I had a lucid dream where a man dressed in a suit and tie, looking like he’d just walked into the dream from somewhere else, came and said, “Go to Jerusalem.  I’ll pay your way to Jerusalem.”  Then I went with him and we boarded a glass submarine and left for the ancient city.  In the morning I got a phone call telling me I had a job and even a ride to and from work, which was odd because I’d been looking for work for weeks but couldn’t find any because I didn’t have transportation and didn’t want to cut my hair or shave my beard, and I looked all hippied out, and this was Houston, Texas.  The job was helping re-organize a carpet warehouse that had been damaged in a recent flood, and so in three or four months I had the money for the trip.

Morning daylight of the soul, that’s what that morning felt like waking up and still being alive, after our test, not having had our sleep interrupted by the young horses’ whipping nightmare.  The rain continued, but that didn’t take the joy out of the morning.  Still rather early, Milo came driving up and actually drove the van into the high part of the park and left it there for us to sleep in until the rain stopped.  He acted like he didn’t want to do it, going on about how long it would take to get the lingering smell of hippie out of his family van, but both he and his father, his mother too I would learn months later when she’d doctor the festering wounds I’d gotten living as a hapless pilgrim without a shekel to my name, had open hearts and couldn’t hide them, try as they might to sound Israeli and tough as nails.  The other member of the family, a daughter, was an officer in the army.  Boy was she a little put out to come home on furlough and find her family had adopted an American hippie, and he wasn’t even Jewish.

It rained for two days, and we stayed mostly in the van, and no one bothered us, not even the tourist police.  If you notice the way things go down in this world, serious things, there’s often a lull after the big events, and if you’re one to ascribe meaning to things, it’s like everybody’s given a chance to think things over.  We learned from Jay that Mohammad had done some of that wrong kind of thinking.  He had come to give us news of Patricia (we’d be surprised to learn after everything was over he was her secret lover) and tell us of any danger we might be in.  Mohammad had blocked the entrances to Patricia’s hostel with two men, a hostel in the Islamic quarter near Lion’s Gate, one she’d changed to so to get out of his sight, unaware that wouldn’t help, and she wouldn’t be able to leave the hostel and would in effect being held hostage.  He’d told her if she’d have sex with him he’d leave us alone, and she’d agreed to do so, according to Jay.  It was my understanding that hadn’t happened yet.

To prevent that from happening I left the park with Jay and went to Patricia’s hostel.  The two goons at the door didn’t prevent our entrance.  Patricia was staying in a room by herself, on the bottom bunk, and I sat on a chair near her and heard what had happened during that thoughtful lull: her lying in that bunk for that past two days scared out of her wits, Mohammad paying brief visits to manipulate her into having sex with him.  (In making Mohammad sound so terrible, which isn’t hard because his actions speak for themselves, I have to point out that he didn’t rape her, and that shows some humanity however small).  I asked her if she wanted me to call Amir the policeman, and she told me in a very weak little girl’s voice yes.  Then she started hyper-ventilating, and I didn’t have a small bag or anything, but I managed to get her to breathe normally by holding her chest tightly and firmly telling her to slow her breathing down, counting her breaths.

There’s a police station inside the old city near Jaffa Gate, and a payphone nearby, and having his number, which I got from Patricia (why she hadn’t called herself I don’t know), I called Amir.  He told me to wait there, and he’d be there in 15 or 20 minutes.  I asked him to come alone and he agreed, but it wasn’t very long before the gates to the station opened, and a squad of Israeli infantry came running out, with Amir and other policemen leading.  I was asked to lead them to the hostel.

This story’s maintained by irony of the image: a special forces soldier 11 years before, now here I was several days on a hunger strike for peace (it not being a real fast or for the highest ideal notwithstanding) leading a squad of soldiers armed to the teeth, myself all decked out in colorful hippie clothes, on my head a wide Native American headband with the kind of beads that glitter in the light, with a wolf on the forehead.  In any other circumstances I myself might’ve been arrested on the grounds I was too much of an irony for the scene, and I had succumbed to the Jerusalem syndrome, a city-specific temporary mental illness whereby someone walks around Jerusalem dressed in robes and giving their blessings to everyone thinking they are a Christ or something.

We left on the run, Amir and I at the head, he explaining as we ran that there’d been several complaints by tourist women about Mohammad, but so far they hadn’t been able to nail him, and now they finally had a chance.  I remember looking at the places we passed as we argued over the ineffective and revenge-oriented formula crime and punishment, as I saw it at least, and right when I was making my point we were going past the Church of the Redeemer, but Amir has a point too: men like Mohammad were not going to stop assaulting women until you make them stop, but I forget how well or ill he dressed that idea.  As for me, it was all hitting a little too close to home, more of that irony of image, because what I sought redemption for was, allegedly, not too terribly unlike what Mohammad had done, mine wearing though a non-violent skin.

The Reincarnation of Adolf Hitler

The look of cruelty moves
from off my face
as Hitler repeats itself.
Born again of the Human Race
of which I was before,
I show you now my secret self,
the one you know as Thor.

I am quite really a made-up man,
with a hammer, and a hatchet,
and the whole damn clan,
or was, was I, way back when?
Here it is I reveal
the secret which
will make me real.

I suffer.

The pain I feel I confess
is the same within your breast.
Now sitting in the dead center
of the very cyclone
of pain itself,
I’m not mad anymore,
at anyone,
not even me.

The quiet lightening looks of blame
move from off my face
as darkness redeems itself
and lights up the whole damn sky.

I don’t know if force is always necessary to get someone to stop forcing themselves on others.  It was needed here, since Mohammad had been assaulting women with impunity and now was holding Patricia against her will, and only the authorities could rescue her.  Even I could see that.  But you have to wonder how many crossroads he and his community had come to together before things had reached this pitch, moments where they both could’ve taken a better road in relation to one another if those moments would’ve been seen and seized.  You could tell he didn’t like this about himself, wanted to be seen as an educated and sophisticated young man, not as an animal, but his marked bitterness towards the world spoiled everything.  Lars attributed that bitterness to the occupation, but I saw more at work than just the oppression of his people.

It wasn’t really Mohammad I was concerned with, though, wasn’t who I was arguing for.  I had come to Jerusalem to undergo another way to right wrong other than the state punishing you on behalf of the wronged, a way of repentance and redemption, a way of the soul, a way you surrender to unconditionally, but I still didn’t know what someone you wrong needs from you – I just vaguely understood that it wasn’t being punished in their name.  (I now know they need you to recognize and feel what you did to them to the healing depth of soul, a depth recognizable in dreams you have about each other and a depth recognizable in the depth of world that comes out of the story of your repentance.)  I also didn’t realize that I couldn’t bring my community with me to the crossroads I was at in Jerusalem, and without your community redemption isn’t possible, and without it I did not take the right road upon leaving the city.

When we got to the hostel the goons took one look at us and split, and Patricia and Jay came running out – how they knew we were coming I don’t know –, and we were off, he on one side of her and I on the other.  We were disrupting pilgrims on the Via Dolorosa, some turning their cameras from the pain and trials of Christ onto us, and I wanted all the glory and to be the only one helping her and couldn’t understand why Jay felt himself so important to the situation to be at her side too, not yet aware of their secret love, but she almost began to hyper-ventilate, and so I put one hand on her back and one on her chest as I’d done before and began saying, in a loud commanding voice, “Breathe! Breathe!” at the proper intervals, and so I was satisfied I would get a lot of the attention.  It wasn’t that I didn’t feel her plight. I did.  It was that I felt myself and my position more, but such ego positioning I wasn’t aware of and didn’t become aware of until years later.  When you do see it though, you wonder at our boundless capacity for self-deception, and you wonder if you’ve ever been sincere.

Lars was waiting standing outside the station, and the procession stopped near the gate, the infantry going on in and the policemen questioning Lars and I about the incident in the park with Mohammad’s men.  I was asked if the man had a knife, and I lied and said no because if I’d seen the knife that would be grounds to have them arrested.  Amir looked at me with contempt.  Then he and his partner took Patricia and Jay into the station (it finally beginning to dawn on me Jay was more than her friend), Lars and I staying where we were, not wanted in and not wanting to go in, Lars yelling at Patricia not to press charges and Amir looking back at us like he wanted to nail us more than Mohammad.

She didn’t press charges, but she did leave the city, though not immediately, in another week or so, because she didn’t want him to win she told me, but she was no longer the confident carefree young women I’d met just 8 or 9 days before.  In a couple of days Mohammad and a friend, the one with the knife, came and actually apologized and asked if there was anything we needed, and we told them some stuff we needed, but it never came of course.  It had happened that Palestinian elders wanted to know why the Israeli army had invaded their quarter, and they were told of Mohammad’s behavior, and so they read him the riot act, though it did not appear a genuine crossroads he and his community were standing on.  In our next camp on the Mount of Olives we’d hear another girl tell us Mohammad had slapped her around trying to force his way on her, and so all we’d done was give him more leave to harm women, but we knew the way you know a dog is about to bite you that giving him to Amir wasn’t the right answer either, though it would stop him temporarily and give him a taste of his own medicine, since with a young Palestinian man in the hands of the Israeli police there will be blood.

When it came time to do my thing, post the poems, we did it after the fast on three consecutive nights, or rather each time around three in the morning, coming down from our camp on the Mount of Olives and entering the old city through Lion’s Gate.  On Easter morning we posted them (using clear Scotch tape so as not to damage anything) on the 14 stations of the cross, doing it in a little procession that consisted of Lars and I, Patricia, not the one that figures in this story, one from America, a dedicated Palestinian rights activist, Rye, a painter from an art school in Paris, originally from New Zealand, and a dog named Jin, whose home we had invaded when we moved into a little area below the Palestinian village at the top of the mountain, who each night came farther with us on the posting, the whipping dog of the village and in need of redemption as much as I (she would be taken by Ramon to live in Lifta, an abandoned Arab village occupied by hippies that loved dogs). On Passover we posted them on the doorposts of Israelis in the Jewish Quarter, when it was only Lars, I, and the dog.  We didn’t have any special night to post them in the Islamic Quarter, but Lars and I posted them in various places the night after Passover, the most significant of which was on the outside of the Golden Gate, a closed gate that Islamic legend has it, Lars had mentioned several times, the Mahdi, the Islamic messiah, would enter Jerusalem, and it would open when he touched it.  Standing there on our tippy toes on tombstones, since an Islamic graveyard is there, I saw Lars was hesitant to post the poem.  “Lars,” I said, “Are you afraid to tape the poem because you’re afraid when you touch the wall the gate will open?”  As we both smiled that sheepish smile you smile when you get caught with your hand the cookie jar, me though stealing giant ego fritters not Muslim messiah mouthfuls, he taped the poem to the gate.

Neither one of us had attracted the attention we thought we’d get, though we did meet a lot of new friends (some not so friendly).  Both the hunger strike and the poem posting went virtually unnoticed by everyone.  My step-brother Steve had told me that once the wire services picked up what I was doing, it would be all over the news, but that never happened.  Every day during the strike I wrote in a letter journal to my community about the events as they occurred, why I was there, and how sorry I was over all that had happened.  I mailed it right before we posted the poems, to my close friend Paul who owned a bookstore, asking him to read it on the radio.  He’d tell me some months later that he did get the letter, and it made him cry, but he didn’t read it to anyone right away, had saved it for the right moment.  Before that moment came he lost it, being a little bit like an absent minded professor, so no one besides him in that small town I so loved knew what lengths I went to try and make up for what it was I was accused of doing.

I reasoned at the time, told Lars and would tell all I told the story to in the years after, that it didn’t matter if anyone read the poems because those were tactical ideas I’d posted in a religious hub of humanity fit to be a ground zero for such ideas, and one day inevitably they’d explode, using that analogy because in special forces I’d parachuted with my team and a tactical (hand-placed) nuke into a country to put on a target (a practice mission), what I felt I’d done with those poems.  That my community did not learn of my repentance did matter, almost defeated me upon returning to it and discovering it hadn’t, and it didn’t even want to hear about it – the loss of faith in my humanity and theirs took many years to recover.  Now in the autumn of my life, with my faith restored, I don’t know if that act of posting those ideas in that place will produce some sort of magic that will one day become meaningful to the world at large, but I do know that stories such as this one and many others will climb our thought’s skies, and faced with such human stories we’ll turn and face our humanity and in so doing embrace the higher ideals that make us different from mere beasts.  When we do that it’s inevitable we’ll not punish wrong but heal it.  The question then would be who do you redeem and who would need more convincing.  I’ve shown you two wrongdoers.  Mohammad needed the intervention of force represented by Amir and his men because it was painfully obvious he would not cooperate with his society otherwise, but did I, one willing to cooperate?  If the answer to such a question hinges on anything other than healing and redemption, for all parties, the wrongdoer as well as the wronged, we’ll continue to come up with the wrong answer and the compounding of wrong upon wrong.  And who knows, if we changed the fixed formula of crime and punishment to a more situation specific wrongdoing and healing, maybe even the Mohammad’s of the world would come in from the cold.

Look at me will you?  Honest to God stories redeem us.

Post 10, March 15, 2015


Island Lake in Ice Lake Basin, San Juan Mountains

An Order of Chakra Shakes

(Narrative Nonfiction, a true story)
By Donny Duke

Before Randy could stop me, I grabbed the one quart canteen three fourths full of Jack Daniels and guzzled it, and I didn’t even drink.  He did though, was celebrating our arrival on the continental divide, here at about 11,000 ft.  It’d taken two days to backpack up to it, and sitting around the campfire now on our third night he’d pulled out his canteen and had started drinking, after two days of sobriety.  We’d been best friends and hiking partners since high school, and now pushing 30 we knew each other a little too well.  He was usually a jolly drunk, but every now and then he got mean, not physically, because Randy was what you call a conscientious man; he got mean with his knowledge of me, knew where my buttons were, and he’d started pushing them. What made it so bad was he wasn’t dumb, was about as smart as they come and was using that intell on me to cut me to pieces.  Being the pretentious piece of work that I was that was as easy as cutting butter. The sneer on his face glowed in the firelight when I looked his way, and a sneer and fire just makes you think of demons, and I sure didn’t want to go through hell every time in the next two weeks he decided to pull out that canteen and drink.  It was one of those decisions you make that instantaneously turns into action, and he wasn’t prepared for my assault on his canteen, and it took him too long to react, tired and high and tight as he was.  My rational was simple: deprive him of whiskey by drinking it myself.  There weren’t liquor stores in the Weminuche Wilderness Area to my knowledge.

When he’d realized what I’d done that sneer turned into a face full of fear, and his voice held that shrill high note voices get when the person using them is in a panic.  He’d gotten to me and grabbed the canteen too late, and it’s to his credit there wasn’t a shred of anger in him over what I’d just done to his liquor supply.

“Goddamn you’ll die! You’ll die! Oh shit! Oh shit!” Or he was saying something to that effect.  Honestly I don’t remember because the most peculiar sensation was coming over me, slowly, like the way the Blob eats people on the big screen, they just watching themselves be absorbed into its jelly with too much time on their hands until they’re all gone.  It’s not a lame analogy because I wasn’t absorbing the alcohol; it was absorbing me.

Then its full effect hit, and I lost my body.  Oh I was still in it, but I couldn’t move it, and it felt like it was some stranger out there along with the rest of the world.  This was an inner thing. Without motor skills I slumped over, and Randy caught me and held me while I puked, which it seemed someone else was doing although I was there.  Then he half carried half drug me to the tent and laid me in it, all the while cussing like you do when you’re not mad but scared.  Laying there I heard him going around the tent in circles a bit out of his head talking to himself about trying to get me down the mountain to the road, a two day journey.  He was reasoning with himself about his responsibility in my coming death.  He was also crying.

For my part I lay there and surrendered to death, knowing I was inebriated and had unwittingly ingested a fatal dose of alcohol.  I had lost all control over my body and even all body sensation, except unfortunately for an excruciating pounding in my solar plexus. My breathing had almost stopped so slow it was, and I was sinking inside further, towards death I assumed.  “So here I’m to meet my fate, in a tent on the mountaintops, not the worst place to meet it.”  That was the only thought on dying I had.  Oddly there was no fear or a panic to say goodbye to everyone I loved, like my grandfather experienced as he died of a heart attack, what I witnessed inside of him as he died in something rather unknown I call inner body time travel.  It was even unlike the time I was killed in a lucid dream and tried to wake up but couldn’t and died and went to the doorway of ‘the other side’, or had what’s called a near death experience.  There I was just shocked anyone could kill me because I’d had been, up to that point, invincible in my lucid dream adventures, but I had really thrown my weight around, and something there is that steps in in dreams and puts limits on things.

I was also quite familiar with cataleptic trance, or sleep paralysis as it’s called these days, because I’d had out of body experiences since childhood, and that’s the state from which it’s the easiest to induce one.  This state, however, was different as similar as it was.  One big difference was I couldn’t move my body if I tried, and in sleep paralysis you can, with a sudden jerk.  There was also, as I surrendered to death, a depth to the trance I’d not experienced before, and when reaching it on my surrender, which took only a second, I saw bold in my visual field a bright white mandala of a star pattern, but I can’t remember how many points the star had.  It acted like some gateway, and then I was absolutely free of my body.

I doubt you can appreciate what I mean, though maybe people in a coma might be able to relate to it, or I would hope that’s what they experience.  You feel that peace that passes understanding because I sure couldn’t understand it so peaceful it was, like taking a timeout from the world and all its pressure.  It was tinged with a bliss that, in that peace, made for a most contented and comfortable state which floated along but did not exactly cross that line that gave you a feeling of being more in spirit than in matter; it wasn’t the seat of the soul.

The pain in my solar plexus had become an intense vibration, and I remembered suddenly about chakras, what I’d heretofore thought was just another one of those convenient ways to explain things like I felt reincarnation was, until I was to remember other lives, but that’s another story.  I should explain that this wasn’t a spiritual experience, in my definition of one at least, because I was still in ego consciousness, had not risen to a higher or more integral identity, or even to an emptiness, still thought a mile a minute myself the center of my thoughts.  It no doubt came partly as an aftershock of a spiritual experience I’d had several months earlier, or that past experience had made me susceptible to this present metaphysical one.  In that spiritual experience not only my breathing and heartbeat stopped but also my thought process and any sense of self, but there I was driving a truck down the highway and had full control over my body as though everything were normal as impossible as that sounds, a story told elsewhere.

Really tripping out on the vibration in my solar plexus it occurred to me to next focus on my heart because I’d read there was a chakra there too, and as I did it began to vibrate, and there was more to the vibrations than that, something like a hum, and other strangenesses I can’t remember.  The heart was different than the vibration at the solar plexus.  This was a spreading vibration.  Then I continued up to the throat, the forehead, the top of the head, and back down, going to the genital area and the perineum, feeling the vibration of each one.  I laid there for hours playing them like notes on a flute because I wanted to remember as much as I could about them, where they were, what they felt like, the sound that came with them, and other things too subtle to recall afterwards.  Even still, when I came out of it I couldn’t describe each exactly as I’d felt it, like the top of the head: was it only on the top or also a little above?  It’s the damndest thing experience: you just can’t recall anything exactly like it happened.  I did, however, now know the chakras were actually real.  I also know now where I was, in the body below the body, what’s commonly called the subtle body.

I could see and hear the outside world, just couldn’t access it in any way, and whether my eyes were open or closed your guess is as good as mine, but anyone that’s been in trance a lot can tell you that you can see the place you’re at even when your eyes are closed.  Randy came in every few minutes to check on me, but as time wore on he came less and less.  Drowning in your own vomit is the biggest cause of death in alcohol poisoning I’ve read, but he probably didn’t know that at the time and was just making sure I was still alive.  He told me later I hardly had any vitals and that for a couple of hours he circled the tent debating with himself over what he should do and sure I was going to die, like I’d heard him doing.

Thirty-six hours I lay in that tent, 24 in the depths of that trance, or in the subtle body if you can stomach that possibility, and 12 hours slowly coming up out of it, back into my physical body and the outer world.  I think it was mid morning I awoke, as in the night I’d fallen asleep, the last stage to returning to my body again.  The tent was a little in shadow, and so I didn’t notice anything unusual about myself except that I felt very cleaned out, purged, not groggy or overly stiff as you’d expect.  The peace was still my major emotion, though not near as incomprehensibly deep as when in trance, and accompanying it was a splash of that joy I’d felt, a very settled joy that gave a perfect accent to the peace.  I was of course hungry and thirsty, but those needs were oddly at a distance, not the insistent beggars they’d normally be after not being fulfilled for two days, though I do seem to remember chugging heartily on the canteen Randy had left near me in the tent before I came outside, maybe even hitting on it in the night once I got my motor skills back.

But I hadn’t seen anything yet.  Crawling out of the tent I got quite a shock.  Every single thing I looked at had a violet glow around it!  Instead of reveling in the marvel, I got scared I’d messed up my vision for life, had one of those panics like when I learned demons were actually real because I was eye to eye with one I’d conjured in a glass crystal, that then preceded to wreck a bit of havoc in my life until I…but that’s another story for another time.  What I’m trying to say is I suddenly had knowledge I didn’t want and didn’t know how to get rid of or who to go to for help with, and crouched there outside the tent on all fours looking at a small sparse forest of conifers that populated the long  high pass between peaks we were in on the backbone of the Colorado Rockies, I had that same dread I’d done did it again, and I just wanted normality as strange as that may sound seeing the world bathed in such a beautiful violet glow.

I say violet, but it was something more otherworldly that violet helps to describe but doesn’t exactly define, and the glow was more like a radiation than a mere glow, or rather, some things glowed and some radiated, and I not only saw the glow around each and every thing that had a separateness from other things, even leaves and blades of grass, but there was this unfathomable depth to the world I’d not ever seen before, something the word silence can help to picture.  The word sacred would be going a little too far with the description because it’d make you think of religious icons and imagery, and this was naked of anything like that, but holy it was in a very mute and basic sense.  When I got home I got a book on Tibetan Buddhism, and I saw those paintings that have tongues of fire around everything, and I knew that’s what I’d seen, that that was what the artist was trying to capture, but the actual sight surpasses any attempt to capture or describe it because it’s something as subtle and sublime as it is concrete, but whatever it is it’s quite real, and in our art and with our words those seeming opposites swim away from one another.  We either render metaphysical things too concrete, like in Bartolome Esteban Murillo’s painting of Jacob’s Dream, or too sublime, like José de Ribera’s interpretation in painting of that same dream.

Presently Randy came waltzing back, having left camp on a short romp, eager to get back on the trail and tired of waiting for my recovery.  He didn’t seem surprised to see me out and about, acted a bit too nonchalant, like his panic at my near death embarrassed him, and so he had to show how composed he really is despite that momentary lapse, though all this was done on his part on a level he wouldn’t have been able to clearly see or admit to, it being one of those thousand and one things about human behavior, the way we all act, that’s below our own radar but beeping on everyone else’s.  The violet radiation around him was intense, not just around him but on him glowing in various places.  I don’t think I blurted out I was seeing violet light around everything because the peace I was feeling was so satisfying I didn’t really want to talk, and that was very unusual for me, especially around him, my best friend, sounding board, one of very few people I could let my hair down with and be stupid, silly, even bad me.

Telling him of my experiences, someone without any interest in the spiritual path other than hearing me talk about it, was a bad habit of mine that’d gotten him into trouble with that aforementioned demon, and I still hadn’t learned you keep your spiritual and metaphysical experiences to yourself until they’ve been properly assimilated, which takes 6 months or more with the big ones, least you ‘spill it’ or unintentionally harm someone by giving them knowledge they are in no way prepared for.  It’s also a big stumbling block you give people who want such experiences but haven’t had them.  When you’re bragging envy is the response, a poison to the people who feel it but so human a response.  The only person who needs to hear your experiences as they happen is your teacher, but it would still be years until I had one.  I wasn’t exactly a loner flying by the seat of my pants though, despite the number of times I did; I was trying to fly by the seat of my soul, which means, when you can do that, your very essence takes you where you need to go, shows you what you need to see.  That is just so unorthodox.

I do remember beginning to tell him about my experience during trance, but he cut me short and told me he wanted to get going, and I had that stupid smug feeling you get when you think you have something valuable but someone else shrugs it off, and it’s not that you don’t have something valuable – maybe you do, maybe you don’t –, but by showing it at a time and place neither the time nor the place to do so, and showing a person that’s not in a mood to appreciate it, and some people never are, you just make it so cheap.

Hunger here came and tapped me on the shoulder, and so I suggested we eat breakfast before we headed on out, and this may not be the actual order of events, and it might be that we lingered there the rest of the day and that night too so I could get my strength back, and hunger came calling in the afternoon or evening, but it’s not crucial to the story one way or another.  Randy I’m sure would give a different order and tell also a different story.  That’s the nature of collective experience: you’re not going to come out with the same story when different people who were there tell their story of that story.  When we understand this history becomes so subjective.

Simple Foods for the Pack was the book I used to plan my meals for the trip, pre-packaging them according to the book’s instructions so all I had to do was put the ingredients in boiling water.  If I’d used the recipes with dairy products they might’ve been tasty meals, but I was on a puritan kick in preparation for that trip, and vegan I had to be because I had to ‘go all the way’, though I wasn’t a vegan and didn’t understand suddenly becoming one on a backpacking trip wasn’t the best place to go vegan.  It would’ve been a good idea to cook one of the meals at home first to see what it tasted like, and I do think the book itself recommended that, but I had all confidence in myself, as many times as I’d learned I didn’t have grounds to be so sure of myself, and of course I could ‘take it’.

For the three months preceding the trip I’d put myself through a rigorous exercise program similar to what I did routinely when I was in the army special forces, a run one day of some miles and a ‘ruck’ the next from three to five miles with a 30 lb. pack.  I wasn’t so strict with diet, but I stayed mostly vegetarian, and I kept grass smoking to a minimum.  I didn’t drink, and so that only left sex to abstain from if you consider the main vices, and I seem to remember for those three months I didn’t let the rooster chase Charlie, never even grabbed the chicken by the neck, and you’ll just have to interpret what I mean.  I also did a daily meditation practice combined with pranayama, breathing exercises.  In short I was more or less quite pure, which, when combined with ingesting so much alcohol, did some alchemy that resulted not in death but in something quite extraordinary actually, what wouldn’t have happed if I hadn’t been relatively pure beforehand, and that’s the paradox of purity and of this story.

I cooked one of the vegan meals, having eaten all my pogey bait (snack foods) because I hadn’t brought much, wanting to be hardcore, which in this case was a bit like self-flagellation. Though I was in such a deep state, seeing the world in tongues of fire, feeling a peace that made me want to keep my mouth shut, as unusual for me as spots on a zebra, that food was so bland and tasteless I had to ask Randy for some of his food.  Not on any puritan kick, or any path other than the backpacking trail we were on, he’d stocked up on pogey bait, various cheese snacks, sausages and beef jerky, and he was eating it with such relish, for my benefit no doubt.  With me sitting there looking down so forlornly at my bowl of steaming glook, we had one of those interactions that has lead down through the ages not only to murder many times but I’m sure also to war.  It’s the interaction of  ‘you got the good stuff; give it’.  At first he refused, taking the opportunity to rub my nose in my uppity attitude about the whole trip, the need for preparation, purification, and a spiritual attitude.  I’d been such a jerk about it, making myself sound so holy and him so animal, and I had to see I deserved both his refusal and being a ‘dog having his day’, err, I mean, enjoying his moment.

He finally relented and, reluctantly, gave me most of his cheese snacks, me still too holy to eat pigs and cows, but I’d had to use the ‘oh I’ve been injured and need the good stuff’ reason he should share his food with me.  The underground of interactions, they just kill you.

The violet glow around everything was strongest the first 24 hours, and then it began to slowly recede like a waning moon.  It took three days for it to recede, and as it left, it left behind a rainbow of colors not of this world but of the capacity of imagination to combine colors, here imagination come real to sight.  It was more like a patchwork of shapes, didn’t fill the sight of the world, since it was only an odd shape here and there, not radiating from everything but from certain things and not others, like from a person, other animal, ‘significant’ tree or large stone, spot even.  I can sit here and use my reason to remember, but better to sum it up by saying there were splashes of colored light everywhere, rays, beams, splatters, lines, spheres, blobs, and on and on, again to imagination’s store, coming off of various objects as I looked at the world.

I was later to learn that was the outer or ‘vital’ aura, which is quite at the moment and temporary and is a snapshot of something’s vital state, the quality of someone’s life-force at that moment.  It indicates the emotional state basically, if someone is afraid, mad, bored, balanced, excited, in love, and the list is long.  Take red for example.  It’s not always an indication of anger and can be simply passion, but to look at it a moment as anger it’s common that the brighter the red and the more chaotic the shapes the more anger there is and more dangerous it is.  When you see that red extreme splattered on a wall or on the ground in front of somebody, it’s better to get out of there because maybe someone’s going to blow.  If it’s coming from yourself, you need to calm down, take a walk, go do the dishes, anything to get out of the scene of conflict.  I don’t know if it’s the same with everyone, but over the years the ability waned, and not only became less frequent, but less seeing other’s outer aura and more seeing my own.

I saw the world splashed with those ethereal shapes and patterns for a day or so, and then it too began to wane like the violet glow, and soon I basically only saw the outer aura of things and people close to me, which is what I see today, though as I said more rarely and less universally.  A lot depends, I’ve found, on how deeply you are experiencing your moment, and the deeper you are (more inside yourself) as you experience the outer world the more you see the subtle field of auras if you have been opened to that.  With me the trigger that brought about the opening was getting drunk, inebriated, and it would bear mentioning that this is not an experiment you want to try at home folks.

The rest of the journey passed like I was walking on air.  I could hardly be in a better place to be in such a state, the San Juan Mountains of Southern Colorado summer right at the tree line.  We were hiking on the Continental Divide Trail on a two week hike, and we’d been generous with our route and gave ourselves plenty of time to meander instead of do the Olympic walk.  Even losing those days to my illness we weren’t pressed for time.  I don’t know which I like better, coming upon a little hidden lake nestled in secrecy and accenting its waters with sparklings of sunlight, flowers spotting the alpine tundra to give the scene immortal presence, or the expansive view  of feeling like an Immortal myself as I throw my gaze on far horizons standing on the heights of earth.  That walk is a pleasant blur in my memory of flowers smelt and heights seen.

On the last day on the last leg of the trail, right before we turned to hike our way down to the car parked at a trailhead, I came upon a stream whose violence of flow had made a wide trench in the ground a meter or so deep.  There was a little but vocal waterfall at that spot, and the intensity of the scene called me to do a sitting meditation, and so I went down and sat by the waterfall.  Its sound drew me into a deep trance, and with a whoosh I was inside.  The roar of the waterfall suddenly became a distant splash somewhere ‘out there’, like I was hearing it underwater.  All my senses withdrew inside, but I was able to maintain my sitting posture without effort.  I was basically asleep but sitting up and conscious.  I had the strong sensation of some epiphany, and…

“Come on! It’s time to go!”  I opened my eyes and saw Randy standing above me looking down at me and looking very angry.  It was the forceful anger in his voice that I responded to.  It hit me like a brick and knocked me right out of the trance.  I could only look up at him.  I didn’t have any idea how I could tell him this was important, at least to me.  Maybe because I was more inside I was more sincere, and I suddenly saw how mad he was at me for being so distant the whole trip, since the trance in the tent.  I hardly was speaking, wanted to sit and meditate every time we came to a nice spot, and that on top of the other annoying things about me like wanting to be the one to pick camping spots and other things I did to be the one in control, things we all do to one degree or another,  I wasn’t being a good hiking partner to say the least.  In fact, he probably put up with my quirks because he liked me talking, what I talked about, the way I joked around, and without that I was not easy to put up with, at least not to him, and it bears mentioning that at that moment I was his whole society and he mine human-wise.

He’d driven his car for this trip, and as we drove back to Houston, Texas, our home then, he was not a happy camper.  I don’t know if he did it to annoy me, since I was still more or less blissed out and not talking, but he put on the new Neil Young album he’d just bought, Ragged Glory if I’m’ not mistaken, since this was in 1990.  He popped the cassette in right as we drove away and played it continuously, over and over as one of the songs repeats.  For the next 500 miles that was the sound of our trip, and it was loud.  I remember looking out the window, wanting to put my head out of it to get away from the music, since it was so screeching in parts.  I liked Neil Young, but I didn’t like this, like he’d done some experiment with distortion, and the whole thing got distorted.  But then instead of putting my head out the window, I opened to the music, and, though it still grated on me, I could see what the artist was trying to do, and to a certain extent it worked: allow chaos into the harmony, let in ragged glory.  I’d done the same thing chugging that whiskey, let in the whirlwind, but I’d let the right one in, and so much spiritual order came out of it and still is, this story for example.

Randy finally turned the music off and confronted me about my distance, and we had an argument, though I did see his point.  I tried to explain I just didn’t feel like talking, couldn’t make myself. When I told him that, I felt quite superior, and of course that would be in my voice and wouldn’t help any.  That’s the major problem with spiritual and metaphysical experience, feeling superior to other people.  Other people just hate that.  The other problem is you think the experience enlightened you because you seem to have so much more knowledge, but despite the change it does bring, very small in actual substance, you’re still the same messed up person you were before – vying for position in the herd.  This was to be our last backpacking trip together, since I was to leave Texas not too long after that and then go abroad, and after an initial effort to keep in touch, our relationship receded like that violet glow, and we haven’t seen one another or spoken in years.  We ended up on very different paths.

The spiritual path itself goes up and down through our lives much like that mountain trail, dipping below tree line into the forest of passions and desires and rising above it into the sunlit stillness and peace.  But it can’t be pinned down to this or that system it is so unpredictably wild, though paradoxically without a system it can’t be taken in any fullness.  Most any particular spiritual system has a set of rules or guidelines, insists on purity, and provides some security for the seeker, even a solo system such as I followed at that time, but the path itself is bound by none of these things, requires us to be able to throw three sheets to the wind when the right wind comes along and let go of everything, even rules. But no rule can be made, and herein lies the difficulty, that tells us when it’s okay to break the rules just like no certain set of steps can be laid out that lead to enlightenment, or even peak experiences.  Many pundits would disagree and say you just need to apply yourself more to the steps, but how many pundits reach enlightenment or have even seen it, if the truth be told?  I guess I can sum up the story and its purity paradox by saying I didn’t go up on that mountain to get drunk but to hike the spiritual path, but I got drunk and actually in reality hiked some on up it.  It seems sometimes, and only God could know when, the Spirit hearkens more heartedly to a rebel’s yell than a monk’s chant.


Post 9


Madonna with Blessing Child by Giovanni Bellini

Make Peace With the World

     Perhaps there’s nothing that hits us in the quick of our social selves more than sex.  Sexual contact without a doubt is the most controlled contact among us.  In an effort to control even sexual desire, because it’s an irrational impulse that we know all too well can in an instant override the reason and move us as if by force to have sex, showing the sexual organs in public is not only largely prohibited by law everywhere on the globe, but also by our own acute sense that showing them is wrong, as though hiding them goes hand and hand with our self-awareness as a person such is the degree of social indoctrination in regards to the genitals we undergo from birth in order to control sexual contact.  It would not be an exaggeration to say that sexual conduct is the heart of morality, is what all other notions of right and wrong are subordinate to, morality itself the heart of social life, what we use to measure the worth of one another, and if you don’t believe me take this test: who not in your reason but in your gut offends you more, makes you want to throw up, the suicide bomber or the pedophile?  Yet in terms of harm to their victims, though there would be those who would argue given the abhorrence of the former, hands down the suicide bomber causes more.

     Many might say that the suicide bomber was brainwashed into doing the destructive deed they did, coerced by fanatical elements of their religion, and that their act came out of their devotion to God however confused that had become, and therefore if they can’t be forgiven then at least you might give them some understanding, but the pedophile, on the other hand, they are just evil people.  Some might be as kind to say mentally diseased people, that either in their genes or the chemicals in their brains something is haywire, given our preponderance for reductionist materialism even in popular culture nowadays, the attempt to reduce everything to gross material process, consciousness and all its manifestation to chemicals in the brain, speaking of contemporary technologically based societies (calling them the ‘developed’ nations isn’t a truthful description, implying as it does a developed people), what, with the aid of communication technology is giving rise to some semblance of a world culture.  There would be those few, however, that would see in the pedophile the same set up as the suicide bomber, that neither are they evil nor genetically and/or brain damaged people (generally speaking, since in some cases the latter may be the case, but in others evidence of such might have to do with the possibility a baby’s brain may be more plastic to nurture than now believed, and the former would naturally have a role if such behavior extends through generations, is a set familial trait). Pedophiles are people that have been conditioned in the most basic sense to cause harm, conditioned in infancy, when how you will behave sexually is determined, who you’ll be attracted to and how you’ll manifest that, something that after untold centuries we still largely don’t know so strong is the taboo in regards to sexual feelings and our children.

     “The hand that rocks the cradle is the hand that rules the world” is a common idiom in English, from a poem of the 19th century, but the idea can be traced as far back as Classical Greece, though neither those who use the idiom, nor the poet, who wrote his poem in praise of motherhood, nor the Greeks, who had an eye more towards the advent of political leaders, saw its deeper sociological significance in terms of what I now speak.  Beginning with Freud, the existence of sexual feelings in the parent and early child relationship, though under his ‘microscope’ those were exclusively on the part of the child, was not only admitted for perhaps the first time in polite society, but also made the foundation of his whole psychology of the human being, and for a time of the science of psychology itself, though not without many dissenters, and it bore so much influence and still does (as a basis not now corroborated but one no serious student of the science can ignore) because of the truth value of his narrow and lopsided findings, not that sexual feelings on the part of a small child for their parents are the foundation of the making of the psyche of the human being, of course not, but that such sexual feelings exist between both parties (not only on the part of the child), and they are not the basis of an individual but of a person’s sexual orientation and the manner and degree in which that is manifested.

     Before we turn our attention to the production of the hated pedophile, and in so doing look too at his cousins-in-law the now largely socially accepted and legally protected (in most contemporary technologically based societies) homosexual and lesbian, social assembly lines hidden from view and taking place in the factory of the family in our most sacred social relationship and the one in which we depend upon over all others, that between parent and child, allow me to show you a contemporary crisis in India, the gang-raping and overly-pronounced sexual harassment of women (with a view of such in all societies), in light of my bold proposition, since that cradle rocking hand is much less hidden, rocking in this sense ‘to rock the boat’, not to soothe and give comfort.  It will not prove my thesis, but it will give not only food for thought, but also, to the more sincere thinker, a line of sight to substantiate it.

     Some years back I was talking to a semi-educated middle-aged Indian man about the preponderance in India of fondling an infant and preschool boy’s penis on the part of not only adults – mothers, fathers, aunts, uncles, neighbors – but also of older children, not usually to sexual arousal, but giving it a pull, or tug, or twist, and he vehemently denied that, and I thought I might have to bear the brunt of his righteous indignation (people are funny about their country), but right across the street this grandfather, unaware of us watching, began to play with a little boy’s penis, a boy about two, and the boy kept pulling back, but the old man kept at it, and not only did this spare me the man’s ire, it also made me realize that the behavior, though quite widespread, something done in public as well as in private, was ‘below the radar’ of what they generally would talk about or admit doing, like it was a semi-conscious activity they indulged in that at the time were very aware of (I’ve had women wink at me while they did it on a number of occasions, watched teenage girls and boys laugh and pull on the penis of some beloved baby in their care), but it wasn’t something as a group they were conscious of doing, and if you asked them about it later individually, you got mostly shrugged shoulders as an answer, or some explanation like, “he’s just a small boy,” meaning he’s not yet of the age of reason and doesn’t know that thing down there is anything special.  I even had an argument with a well educated Western woman, the founder of an NGO there to help after the 2004 tsunami, who had seen the behavior herself (who I ascertained would want to throw up if confronted with a pedophile) and defended it, arguing that such on the part of in this case village mothers was within their cultural limits, wasn’t harmful, and shouldn’t be judged by Western standards.

     That a baby is crucially conscious of that thing down there and how it’s handled, in the East, the West, on the moon and Mars if we ever end up living in those places, or anywhere in the universe human beings come to live and birth children, to such an extent ‘under the radar’ feelings towards it can be experienced as touch such is the touchy-feely wide-open ocean infants swim in, and they pick up on what we are not even conscious of in ourselves as their caregivers, isn’t quite understood even in those countries it’s against the law to kiss it and toss it to and fro, behavior prohibited not out of the knowledge that contact with an infant’s genitals determines how it will manifest sex, which isn’t generally known, but that the baby will grow up and have to deal with serious issues over being sexually abused, though there’s the underlying reason that has prohibited child sexual abuse to begin with: it being seen as a major factor in the making of a criminal, though no one to my knowledge in the science of psychology has identified the social indoctrination surrounding the genitals, conscious and unconscious, reflexive and purposeful, as the basis of learning right and wrong, the heart, as I’ve proposed, of human morality.

     It’s more than that; it’s where on the body is the limit of our social self (in the Indian esoteric chakra system it’s the ‘communication’ chakra), and it’s the privatization of our private parts that organizes our physical ego, or I might say its seat on the body, the degree of how private we are taught our genitals are having a lot to do with the strength of our individuality in relation to the group, since it’s the body and not so much the mind or emotions that separate us from one another, and hence the genitals are a person’s stronghold on the body, what they keep to themselves, what they make private and give only to ‘who they should’, which is largely culturally determined deviancy notwithstanding.

     But this privatization is not black and white, and it’s not in terms of being seen but in those of being felt of with either looks or touches (but it would have to be understood at the same time that the general taboo of showing the genitals even in a non-sexual context, as well as not allowing young children the freedom of nudity, significantly contribute to the mounting sexual problems modern society faces, which underscores the paradox and enigma of sex and why we are yet unable to integrate it in society, starting with the reproductive organs themselves functioning also as our organs for the elimination of waste, making it necessary to often expose them to eliminate waste and giving a direct ever-present association of the most disgusting aspect of our body with what gives us our offspring and an almost transcendental bliss, albeit only momentary).  When looks or touches convey the feeling of sexual contact, which would be how the baby being conditioned experiences to a certain extent even care and cleaning contact, wide-open as they are and not yet able to differentiate types of contact on such a sensitive and communicative area as that, which in the context of which we are speaking would include contact considered only playful or teasing on the part of the ‘conditioning’ person, who could be anyone over the age of reason (we’ll excuse any on the part of anyone below that threshold, and we’ll tolerate that with older children to the degree we can, since sexual curiosity among children is part of their natural sexual development, the increasing prohibition against that one of the major causes of the modern proliferation of sexual deviancy).  Not all such playful contact on the part of persons above the age of reason is harmful, and here is the muddle of the matter, but that contact that has a curiosity behind it if not outright conscious or unconscious sexual desire, what no one would admit to.  Though it’s beyond the scope of this present essay, that babies are so wide-open might be why some now questionable practices were adopted, rites such as circumcision, which, along with giving a strong conditioning to the male about his genitals, would naturally tend to limit contact with the penis during cleaning.

     Getting back to India and its current crisis, over which women have been seen out in the streets in mass protest calling for the hanging of the rapists, and the major national and world news outlets in solidarity with the protests, the call for the death penalty in this case not being challenged even by those news outlets from countries opposed to it (to my knowledge), and no one with any voice that can be heard has questioned child rearing practices such as what I’ve mentioned as something that might contribute or even be the roots of such destructive and at times deadly behavior (or even the fact that in India contact between males and females is strictly controlled after puberty, at the very time such contact is called for by their nature animal yet as we are, or that boys are largely served by females and not generally required to learn to cook or wash clothes and the like, especially in more traditional families, which would tend to reduce and not enhance respect for females, and I can continue).  At any rate, you might see those women and news outlets have not yet a clue as to why such ‘monsters’ are in their midst, under the all-encompassing assumption we have absolute freewill and are separate from one another not only by our bodies but in our minds and hearts as well, what it might be said contemporary technologically based societies base society upon, that illusionary assumption: that we live in our own separate bubble of consciousness cut off in there from the rest of humanity and the universe; the only communication possible with our surroundings is via the outside.

     When it’s the mother of the boy, and she is his primary caregiver, playful contact is much more serious, has such a greater conditioning impact, his utter dependency on and love for her likened unto that the fervently religious have for their God, and it wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say that one’s mother (or primary caregiver) is God to an infant for all practical purposes.  I’ve seen mothers fondling their infant and toddler boys on buses, in temples or wherever people sit and wait, not everywhere you look but often enough to see a pattern, and sometimes I’ve seen both arousal on the part of the boys and keen interest on the part of the mothers, though more as a slight of hand, something she looked at indirectly from a sideways glance, under the radar.  What would the boys learn from that?  Being teased in such a manner, at a time when they are so very vulnerable and when they are being conditioned as to how they will manifest their sexual feelings towards woman, they would not be learning to respect woman to say the least, and to say more you could say they were learning the culture of rape.

     Let us now move to the production of the gay and lesbian before we come back to our beginning the pedophile, or end with it I should say, since it’s the general principle of the end in the beginning and vice versa that I’m more or less demonstrating, continuing to concentrate on the male because, spending a lifetime researching and doing fieldwork on such matters, unofficially and solo, though I did attend university and read a lot of the psychology on the subject, even learning Classical Greek for deeper insight (hence the counter-attention-deficit sentences and paragraphs), I wanted to get a handle on my own conditioning in regards to where and in what manner I show my penis, and hence get a handle on showing it, but it would not be too far a leap to apply the same principles to the conditioning in regards to the vagina, since, though there would be those who would argue based on the degree of conflict between the sexes, males and females are not from different planets.

     Here it would be the father or dominant male adult in the role of caregiver that would be the determining agent, males who are paradoxically generally homophobic, the unconscious attraction manifesting in the manner in which they relate to their toddler boys before they reach the age of reason, which for the most part would be more romantic than outright sexual, though the sudden squeezing or pressing of the boy’s genitals would be part of the conditioning and as well the feelings experienced during intimate carry or lap sitting, genital communication under the radar of the father but the most pleasurable part of the experience for the boy, physical pleasure, erections on the part of the boy a manifestation of that.  What happens in such relationships is the boy learns to associate romantic love with a male figure, genital contact as well, since his father is the love of his life, as opposed to his mother, not something in itself strong enough to overcome the naturally or instinctively occurring attraction for the opposite sex, but when the father responds likewise, especially when he albeit semi-consciously nurses that with genital contact however slight, that boy will have the building blocks to become a homosexual.

     I say building blocks because other factors come into play: heredity and hence predisposition for homosexuality, which may or may not be a factor; key romantic and/or sexual relationships with other boys growing up, though expressions of homosexuality among boys is a natural stage of boyhood, and even though it is a factor in the making of the adult gay sexual orientation, it must only be noted and not prohibited for the same reason children need to be able to express their sexual curiosity among themselves (for a healthy human sexuality); whether or not males dominate fantasies during masturbation in early adolescence, since that very short and difficult to identity period is, to a very small degree I have to stress, likened unto infancy such are the basic elements of identity such as sexual orientation ‘up in the air’ and consequently able to be manipulated with one’s consciousness, not too unlike the programming of a computer in theory, though here that has to be done repeatedly, and I’m sure I have not exhausted the building blocks in the making of a homosexual, but you can see the nature of the material used and build on from here.

     You might consider a moment that a society that permitted sexual contact between young adolescents of the opposite sex who had been identified by nonintrusive and non-coercive means were in process of developing a ‘different’ sexuality would be a society that had a greater sway over its sexuality (here again, though, we meet sexual paradox, which might be partially captured by saying that it’s quite difficult for our morality to ‘understand’ the vitally important role in cultural evolution – moral, aesthetic, and intellectual – of those persecuted as deviants because they were not heterosexual).  In some ancient societies that sex between early teens was allowed may have more to do with assuring heterosexual orientation than the moral ignorance it appears to us now.  It might even be that a future humanity will not equate sexual fulfillment with human fulfillment and leave to the younger generation that function, to those above the age of responsibility though yet below the age of actual adult maturity, which most over that age would agree is around 30, what could only be possible if the control of sexual contact and all the conditioning that entailed was not a blocking of our natural and instinctual sexual expression based on a reaction against sex by an ill-informed culturally determined morality, but truly the right way to do it, hence making it easier to leave behind when the time came.  Such a scenario would free an untold amount of human effort for higher pursuits.

     You would have to figure that if it’s the truth of the matter we must know about it on some level, something so basic to us as this, returning to how sexual orientation is determined, but today we would not likely be able to access that level, or wouldn’t accept the knowledge gained there, because the only level of knowledge we recognize, in this world culture arising from a basis on technology, is the one reached through the scientific method, which concerns itself with outer reality and considers contents of our inner life such as dream and inner vision, where something like this might become visible, as too subjective a field to apply that method to, its importance in psychoanalyses notwithstanding.  In any event, no scientist, the basic authority in this arising world culture, would accept the contents of a dream as proof of anything and would want to see the operation of this in outer reality, something not likely possible given the fact that one, we don’t generally remember anything before the age of reason, and two, few if any parents or caregivers would admit to such behavior such is the social stigma of sexual contact with children, and that’s assuming they were even conscious of it, and most are only half-conscious it and wouldn’t even admit it to themselves.  Neither is it something you can easily set up a long-term experiment to investigate, because of moral issues of course.

     So it’s not something we of that arising world culture are likely to believe because we don’t have the means to thoroughly investigate it other than primarily through the inner life, the very thing we of that culture about ourselves trust the least, and if you don’t agree let me ask you if you are largely conscious of that third or fourth of your day called sleep when you are fully immersed in your inner life and having the experiences called dream and the like where you can see played out as upon a symbolic stage all the basic building blocks of yourself, believe it or not.  If you had faith in your inner life you would be, and if you were largely conscious of that large portion of your daily experience, you’d see it’s not a matter of belief but a primary though atrophied way we acquire knowledge, and you’d wonder as I do: how can we be so ignorant of ourselves?

     It wasn’t in my inner life, though, that I first learned my mother had sexual contact with me as an infant and toddler, not the ‘slight of hand’ kind but full on sex, or as much a boy so young can perform with a woman, and I must leave the details to your no doubt reluctant imagination.  My psychiatrist just blurted that out, that my mom had sex with me, who I had just started to see because I was exclusively attracted to pre-pubescent boys, and I was 23 and had just discovered, despite efforts to deny it, keep it from manifesting, that I couldn’t so easily control it, though with me it manifested more in a sexual/romantic relationship with a boy than dragging one behind the bushes or somewhere and forcing sex on him.  I told my doctor that was preposterous, since my mother was a good mother, about the best mom one could have, and I didn’t have the slightest memory of anything like that, but based on her declaration and subsequent explanation, over an intensive year seeing me an hour twice a week, I came to entertain the possibility.

     Later, when I turned to an investigation of my inner life as a means perhaps of getting a handle on my sexual orientation, something natural for me because since infancy I’d remained more or less conscious of that third or fourth of my day most are unconscious of, I saw that sexual contact as the background of many of my dreams, which, the more I both learned to interpret my dreams and recognize the repeating and emerging patterns, began to show itself naked of symbol.  By that time, some 10 years after therapy, because it was painfully apparent that I would always be defeated in anything I did, and I was not an ungifted young man, my mom finally admitted the abuse, but she didn’t see it as abuse or even as being sexual, saying it was beautiful and sexual desire had nothing to do it, that I just got it all mixed up, her way of living with herself constantly reminded she’d socially crippled her only son and made it impossible for him to live a normal life.  It didn’t start with her though, and she was born to a social class and at a time when such was basically the order of the day, so she isn’t the villain of my life.  Ignorance is, yours, and though in light of infinity I know next to nothing, I do know myself and now can control myself, because knowledge and will do meet when the former informs the latter with the truth of who and what you are, which isn’t evil or diseased but something infinitely larger than the scope of this present essay, what I discovered in the exploration of the depths of myself, what I found when I went upon my heights.

     Though it’s a bit complicated to understand how my mother having sex with me would determine my sexual attraction to boys and not just greatly amplify my attraction to women, what that teasing described above does, see she crossed that indefinable line where it became actual outright trauma, what I define as that abuse done to a child below the age of reason, what we might call developmental trauma because it occurs during basic ego formation, whatever kind of abuse, that causes them to develop what I’ll call for simplicity’s sake a subconscious complex (a reaction to trauma not limited to infants and small children – a basic reaction to it for people of any age to a lesser extent) whereby they have the strong impulse as an adolescent or adult to give the same abuse to others, children or other vulnerable people, or act out some other antisocial and/or self-destructive behavior to fulfill three basic functions, and all might be in play to a certain extent, but as a general rule if it’s developmental trauma the first would be visible: as a means of unconsciously exploring the trauma from the other end, the one who did the destructive deed; dealing with the guilt of receiving it; and, especially when the acting out is self-destructive like the abuse of alcohol and drugs, to keep it unconscious or if conscious dull the feelings associated with it. I learned that if I wanted to know what my mom did to me I only needed to watch the way I manifested my attraction in its particulars.  It’s not a 2 + 2= 4 equation, and there are many variables in play, and so the age and sex of who (or what) is the object of attraction, and exclusiveness of attraction to that type person the abused child as an adult abuses would vary based on those many variables.  My story perhaps is atypical in the excessive degree of sexual contact, but being so pronounced it is easier to see how I’d develop an attraction to children because of it.

      That contact, being so overt and overwhelming, terrified me and at the same time melted me in pleasure, burned me more an apt description, and often I’d hide from my mom the contact was so scary, which was one of my first memories of the abuse, her ‘in that way’ and coming and finding me hiding under the cabinet.  Pain too was part of the program, what actually started the sexual contact, since my anus was too closed, according to our doctor, and he’d instructed my mother to insert something into it to widen it, and so during my first diaper changes I was held down and basically anally raped by my mother’s finger, as I screamed in pain, the doctor having told her it would hurt but she had to do it, and I guess maybe as a way to both make up for it and to show herself she was not mean but gentle, in the aftermath she’d rub the area, rub too my penis, which would come erect, and so in time she did it all with me, orgasm quickly entering the picture, and we don’t know the strange effects that has on an infant’s consciousness, but the next item might begin to fill in that gap of ignorance.

     If you are at all science-minded you’ll just see it as evidence of insanity in my family, but even if it is you’ll have to eventually come to realize such things might have more a reality than you’d be comfortable with giving them, since this next item has to do with spirits, demons, daemons, whatever you want to call them because it’s not a ghost.  Before I was born my mother had a phantom lover, an invisible spirit that would come into her room when my father was away and have sex with her, and during her sexual abuse of me I would see an ‘imaginary playmate’, an animated dog-dragon standing there wearing a grin from ear to ear, who would also come when I lay in bed or at play under the house or somewhere no one would see and become alarmed that I was inert and take me, before I even knew I was on the way, on inner journeys to the lower worlds, where I learned the basic skills to do inner exploration, but I’m going too far off the map of our counterintuitive world culture, though these metaphysical things in conjunction with sexual abuse are slowly creeping into the picture even there, but to my knowledge infant orgasm isn’t known or even speculated to open the inner consciousness to such a degree.  You might imagine I never did fully put my faith and trust in the outer world, a loaded statement I know.

      That it was pre-pubescent boys I was attracted to, ideally between the ages of 9 and 11, the years I spent horribly emotionally abused by a ‘wicked step-mother’ (I do understand this whole thing is a bit much to take in, but match the level of insight with the level of intensity, and that should make it easier to give me at least the benefit of the doubt), all the while pining over my mother like a young man over the loss of his love, had to do with the experience of momentarily losing my mind when I was 9 over being pulled off my mother kicking and screaming so to live with my father and his new wife, who I lived with until I was 11.  I got that mixed up too, and those two years not only became the ideal age of a boy for me but also put another nail on my coffin in terms of the social death someone such as I experiences in my social life: it gave me the tendency to become obsessed with whatever boy I happened to fall in love with, to the point of a temporary psychosis upon the loss of the boy such was the intensity of the obsession, what had landed me in that psychiatrist’s office when I was in my early twenties.

     You will not realize it unless you spend a great deal of time in quiet reflection over the things which I’ve shown you, but I’ve basically told you how the cow ate the cabbage so to speak, shown perhaps some of the most basic causes of human conflict, since so much of that has to do with unwanted or unlawful sexual contact, what today looms so large in our society, in every society on earth.  Until we address the roots of those things, which would have to be in a manner opposite from the way we deal with such behavior ignorant of those roots, in other words with compassion and understanding, we will never have either peace on earth or human unity, neither peace in a single town or city nor unity in any community, and we will be continually defeated in our efforts to pull ourselves out of the cycle of violence that threatens to destroy human civilization and much of Nature itself meeting violence with violence, hatred with hatred, as we do now, as we always have.  Though we can split hairs all day over what actually constitutes justifiable violence for self-defense, the greatest weapon against what hurts us is knowledge, the light of which turned me from one who hurts others to one who now helps to heal. I’m using the problem I’m having with society, society in animal clothing, as a hammer to beat into the heads of those who have made me an outcast, which would not be an exaggeration to say is the whole human race, that I am a valuable person to humanity and a needed voice in your community, and if you haven’t at least begun to entertain that possibility after reading this essay then, though you are valuable, as valuable as the sun and stars, maybe your voice isn’t needed here in the sense that you really and truly have nothing of value to say of me or that of which I speak, and you’d need to stand aside and let me in.

Who am I?
I am so much more than the pedophile,
but let’s start with me.
Then you’re ready for everybody,
in regards to a future of unity.
And we manage it human maturity.
It’s what we’re written for.

Post 8


Bear Witness Daddy! [‘daddy’ shouted by one of my boys]

     This is the continuation of my daily muse journal, which is also my spiritual journal, which I started with Issue 4, a journal begun in 2001, though for reasons explained in the introduction I’ve begun the postings from it starting on August 15, 2014 and will continue posting weekly roughly three days from it until it seems time to leave off for awhile. Since this is dramatic poetry, a dialogue with multiple speakers, and also a narrative of the daily events of my life as they register on the inside of me, like looking at the world from underwater, reading the introduction and beginning at Issue 4 would greatly aid in understanding the text.

Sept 2-3 2014

You’d have to live in here.
What do you think?
No. [vision of someone poking their head up out of those empty small plastic multicolored balls that fill a netted children’s play area in a pizza place or park and shaking it no]
To go down highway,
That’s a princely notion test,
That’s quite underground.
What you can do
Is obey the rafters:
Try not to fool with too many rules.
You’re guardin’ your room.
The only difference
Keep cuttin’ it out
What you’re supposed to look like.
I can’t tell you how to be nobody.
So you go on the streets.
I wouldn’t have gone
If I didn’t follow my hair.
“What a blasted notion.”
Your inability to follow your room
Made you fill it.
All those .docs
Showed you some time hair.
Original stayed notion.
“We discovered your family
In there.”
Your biggest one,
Sweetheart city,
You just had to rewrite the rules.
He was impossible to muster,
And Mugu like that.
He was just fire in your eye.
You channeled him
Plum over what the teachers,
What they did for him,
What they did for you.
I think you should carry him along
Tell he sees himself naturally.
The Mother supporting this opportunity.
Nothing gets home…
Talk to her.
“I don’t believe her either.
Out of this house.”
What would you take as a condition?
“You’re just tryin’
To get into this movie, huh?” [into Auroville’s]
No, my appointment.
Their commitment
Is not a game a reality.
Now I don’t
Fit nowhere on that money side.
Somebody broke.
Can we have some rosebushes please? [actually looking for two to plant out front, but in the plant shops there are only the miniature ones]
You would be surprised from the ashram,
Yet they came.
You got it. [went there to ask based on this suggestion, but it didn’t pan out]
To look like that,
My husband.
Usually a racial slur
It goes without saying.
They’ve seen you in your room.
A field,
A great guardian there,

Your commitment. [these lines came sitting at the Samadhi at the ashram]

He sacrifices for his friends.
Next time he comes here
He uses his will.
How split open am I? [Asiya asking, but the other meaning of me asking too]
You are a field swarm.
Is that the right bottle?
Take a metal to bring me here.
When he gets back with his friends and family,
With all due respects,
That girl just fade into oblivion. [his girlfriend, the girl next door]
Ladies are numbered.
Hear me,
The air is not away from him.
A surprise reunion,
That’s what he’s looking for.
This is surprise blood.
Where should we be taking him?
He’s not coming
Came the reply.
I wanna see the parents.

You can do that. [though the ‘my stuff’ meaning is here, this formation is primarily about Asiya, who was in Kuru with his family for the afternoon, where he went after school, and when I went to pick him up last night, because of these lines I expected him to stay, but that’s not what they meant. He told me on the way home he wanted to go there after school every day and be picked up at night so as not to be bothered by wanting to contact the girl so close she lives, next door, his bedroom window open on her rooftop where she dries clothes]

I can have it all

Now I’m dancing for my life. [sung, for the new song, from Flashdance, sung with the original singer’s voice complete with music]

“Or even hallucinate Savitri.”
We’re camping away about 500 yards.
Gets that brown paper bag off of the food.
More often it’s not dad,
Around the food.
That’s a flagpole right/rite. [this formation continues about Asiya]
You know the lion inside?
Tie that wisely like I’m enroped.
Why don’t we figure this out?
You see, I’m afraid we got that movie.
Big 5 or 10 stop it with him.
Shut up daddy. [Asiya’s voice, what he says to me a lot these days, quite meanly]
Kinda helping.
Your master doesn’t care.
He gets down the road
What would you expect from a tree?
Rest and then give you 5 minutes.
You have to live in here
At the station
Your bomb mad at me.
Honey come ‘ere,
I want you to .doc for him.
I want you to look at this.
Whadda I do?
Gets to the point later on
He wasn’t listening.
You won’t believe how taught
Getting how to deal with you.
Powered me home.
Advise him.
That’s great isn’t it?
Let’s go with the passion guys,
Dangerously. [refers to my anger at him, last night especially]
Cook I have no idea.
Come on,
You’re so dumb
You can’t…
“Daddy see
I’m not doing.”
Wait a minute,
You’re still not off medicines.
Will see
What the doctor’s going to allow.
Shut that downed window!
Little heart big time.
And I love you.
Now get off me.
Be pigs about God.
I gonna roommate with,
With the right way of life.
Can you see God in here?
“Go daddy.”
God’s the one took us by the hand.
That’s who we live with.
You’re at the most type of television.
Put two eyes fully on Me,
On you,
A smart what to do.
It get crazy after awhile,
Tryin’ to avoid the title
Put Your Eyes on God.
That’s his birthday money.
Ramiya [the girl’s name]
Is not a whisper
Of divine delight.

School has been. [art school, which he almost dropped out of account of the girl]

In my school news right now.
Asiya has said one word out loud to me,
That word to help him make the adjustment.
He only blow everything up
When I try to sleep.
Wouldn’t help.
Beating back before the row
There was something called
I’ve often sit here and wondered how in the hellare we gonna get you through school.
He’s often like a big rag.
That’s pretty orange there,
Not a solo district.
Each one of us the starving dog.
Look at the hair chests,
Asiya’s boring.
He has some days
Some doing something.
No play the computer,
No computer time.
Nice you now
You didn’t.
Don’t throw it away,
Don’t throw it away.
All this shots we’re doing.
Asiya get ready.
It takes me 10 minutes to do the bullshit
Flying in the face of all that looove.
Six feet on the outhouse.
I’ve come to save you.
Then save.
“What? What? What?”
Asiya’s first wild.
Put that Othello.
You’ve gotta be kidding me.
Look that’s behind you.
Run all the way to gun
And go look at it.
Cause you’re pretty good.
In interpretation of your material.
There’s a good computer there.
How’s he want us to go back?
Broad daylight,
You’re such a good guy.
I’ll look.
That’s insincere.
“What, think I’m being loud?”
And being purposefully charming.
That’s a good attention span.
What movie?
Grow it some.
Sit around and refuse.
He’s not gettin’ any.
That was a good smoke.
There’s your answer kiddo.
There’s your payment.
It will review
To the top of the world.
Go a hello,
Oh baby.
Have him read a little bit. [to try and have him read Othello]
You would monitor that answer.
You would have to read it with ‘im.
I’d have to read?
“Don t they do that?”
Nothing they great put away
Save some Savitri.
“That’s not the one
I’m gonna
Take a look at.
I’m growing tired of this.”
Asiya on yoga,
Asiya on uniform.
“I like big brobio and blue eyes.”
They told him to sleep.
I’m a boulevard, [pause after a, the last word: bou le varrrd]
And you don’t know what

You say you are. [these three lines sung, for the new song]

“Since we call harshest men
At the border.”
“What are you going to do here?”
I’m going to become enlightened. [end of a dream where I was in a small auditorium in Auroville, or a representation of it, since it didn’t look like Auroville, and a man sitting next to me asked me the question. There were older children present, teens or almost, and one girl surprised me with her knowledge by saying something about how she wasn’t abused and so didn’t dress outlandishly, though she said it differently, lines of muse I didn’t catch. She was speaking about a young man 18ish that had on his head this long clip that had green cleaning pads handing down from it, and other weird things about his style of dress, implying that he dressed like that because he was abused. He wasn’t embarrassed about his manner of dress, but he was angry at the way people judged him. A man behind me with a very strange English accent told me that he walked some walkway in New Hampshire, and I told him New Hampshire was just the next state, because in the dream I was very familiar with Auroville, which the dream had in New England, not India]
He doesn’t see
All the wonderful reflection. [multiple meanings, but immediately it meant not showing Asiya all this muse now]
Will stitch you permanently. [make him like Stitch in the movie with that name and meaning as well as stitch as in sew]
Figure that’s it
Guerilla man.
Eyes in the back,
The back of his head.
Rule out dangerous
With a pencil.
Because you’re the one
It’s so dangerous to be with.
“What was that?”
The danger has
We are looking
To find the answers
To all the big questions
Of what life is all about.
Every change you get. [vision of going through a box of books and pulling out one that shined out to me like the film The Missing Picture did I picked last night at the DVD shop. The book was named Paradox, and the second line is also a title of another book. There were many books, but I only caught the names of these two]
A collection
Of the hottest material.
A collection
Of some of the hottest material.
A collection
Of some hot material.
“What happened?”
I hate Jim
I thought
That was perfect.
“How did you do it,
Got any food?”
This is not easy.
They always want you on line,
And they make
Look good darlin’. [like your dreams, your muse makes you important, the central figure]
For a Galveston,
For a bridge.
I love to rub him. [vision of Asiya laying on the sofa without a shirt and I rubbing his chest and stomach, and the scar on his shoulder that he got in the accident that broke his leg, on a errand for the girl’s mother next door, was very pronounced and purple, but still only a scar. This turned out to be prevision, as this morning he was in exactly the same position on the sofa with his shirt off as in the vision, but instead of rubbing his chest and stomach I had his head in my lap tossing his hair, telling him we were going to read Othello, and I didn’t remember the muse about showing him affection until later, recording it to the computer]
Be nice,
We got to get going.
First I’m unbelievable,
A history lesson.
“You’re right next to me
Comedian graphic.
That is new.
Good luck in it.”
Say we have luck.
That’s a beautiful change.

Sept 3-4

In 8th grade:
“Hey I can get a room
And a roof over my head.”
We’d be in the weeds.
Your television set would get muddled.
Don’t listen to Strangers.
Funny, I talk to them.
In Your lap –
They had me like I had Asiya this morning.
Just understand the patience.
Move to the 3rd floor.
“There’s no plan for you, huh?”
I give infinity vision.
Now we’re out of high school.
“You’re some kind of nut driving a taxi down there.”
You just jump out of vision,
All of our analogies.
What are you talking about spider web?
Something infinity calls sing.
Did this happen to fish?
It’s an equality bracket.
Okay spiritual vision hold down the fort.
It’s time to see if the world needs me.
Okay spiritual vision jump ship.
The world is not available on request.
“Then who’s the cigar?”
Let’s say infinity needs me,
What the world in that equation?
“You mean they don’t like you?”
Nothin’ new,
First one decided,
Knowing bishop at the moment,
Long mitred hand.
It is just not infinity.
“How do we get away from this soliloquy?”
It’s not infinity they serve.
“Wreck it Ralph.”
I hate when vision shows me a door that leads to pain.
I am just so frail diamond.
How do you warn people about sleep?
They say it took so long,
And I’m in my room again.
You just take this vision and say,
“Infinity notebook,
Can we call you the monster?
Go! Get out of here!”
You don’t know
What paper play.
Move your hand
Only after opening notebook,
Only after seeing vision true.
Five chapters
I’m tellin’ yah.
It’s the whole vision
You got in your mind to ask.
You want to see who I am,
Questions answered.
Just a minute.
That’s a diabolical plan.
How many miles per hour?
Sack a home,
Disperse a family.
I wouldn’t smoke cigarettes.
You think I’ve got weapons of mass destruction?
I’ve shown you power,
Its unjust beginnings,
Its rude origins,
Power you yourself would call corrupt.
Now The Pupil and His Divine
Can infinity
A headset an hour’s net.
Have you ever been flabbergasted?
Do You Like the Boy?
Do You Bet? [title I selected]
There is your father. [confirming the above poem, the three following lines and the beginning of the next formation not part of poem]
See was normal.
Thank you room,
It’s got all our questions on it.
Meat packaging plant,
It’s a red hot menu.
Let’s see the other end.
Diamond rose,
Something great on the table.
Would you add an expression? [add to the poem?]
Bottom [from here to the psychic being line lines to add]
Has room for yah.
“Are you serious?
Put me down.”
I mean by the heart.
Your witness
The psychic being see my face. [last line of the poem]
I just added a heater,
Music room.
Looks like you missed
Their thoughts:
They’re determined
I don’t be in pictures.
Go over with you
They played with it.
“Well Noah,
I’m gonna kick his ass.”
The next sequence of events
Will tell you if they heard you or not.
If God bring politics to the earth.
Here there came a man attempting to find out who
The beneficiary is.
Asiya wrong in bed.
That is my specialty.
Layla’s together excuses
(Lyla). [this word whispered, his old girlfriend, closer to his age and not such an obsession]
“Wait daddy,
This is like a new movie.
Half of the movie
I show you at.
The ground
Is Lyla.”
Well what do you laugh him?
Stranger fall asleep.
Put Lucy – [our dog, who sleeps each boy, the love puppy of the house, a needed object of affection in any household with kids I’d argue, a dog or a cat]
He looks so obligated.
I don’t know these people.
Look is his mail easier to reach. [his own muse, if he’ll listen]
You can lose ‘er right now.
You can’t lose it that’s fine.
I guess my kid a romance cinema’s.
To the women at the bar
He lived like this:
Your commitment.
House you want:
Finger lickin’ good.
“You’re lyin’/lion.
You’re sexual
Several hum
Boston cherry loud.”
“Look at him.
I don’t get it:
We want him to do that.
An airplane
Bomb him.”
“Who does he think he is?”
It would be
Nature’s plan [this and above line sung, for the new song]
“Let’s get this guy.”
If you’re hungry,
I don’t need the help.
So the soliloquy.
It doesn’t rob vision. [the new poem]
This is good stars.
Give this to them please.

Right at dawn. [send it to who in Auroville and the ashram I’ve been sending poems and letters to, which I did after putting into short verses]

If it’s a problem you buy it.
They are told no problem.
“What does it mean?”
They were witness.
Very collage,
Melted butter.
“Has there been any banana?”
It is ending.
I learned how.
“Okay honey,
Dangerous chair?
I’m just askin’.”
I’m not
In a dangerous chair.
Took a long time
Sitting there.
Over a million dollars
The milk you’re getting.
Well this
Was a walk of that look
Doing me down to a science. [vision I’m looking out the kitchen window of a typical suburban American home watching a lion walking in through the front door, another big cat suggested behind it]
“You got a camera?”
Your detail
Nobody lost.

Go bother your sister. [send the email I sent with the poem also to her, and I did to my step-brother too, neither of whom will speak to me]

I give it to you,
Means to be organic,
Good crafted,
Your choice.
I’m not a Ranger see?
New to vision
I’m something beyond termination.
I have a message:
It’s not the rules that we adhere to,
And people change.
See God
For that kind of stuff.
We talked about it before:
“Now is your vision turmeric?”
Donny Duke see.
“I have a question:
Now where will this put them?” [the email and poem meant also]
12 o’clock rose.
Don’t delete what’s going on.
You must see my mistake.
And spill water on the floor
Not 10 days back.
Please excuse us nowadays.
I had to get up starting.
“What daddy?” [Mugu’s voice]
There’s something besides do’s and don’ts
Infinity big.
Rise by the rules,
It’s not screwed you today.
You’re hit when you don’t believe it,
And it’s fall overboard.
That’s infinity’s vision.
That side
The lever.
I’m gonna push this thing all the way downtown.
I just let ‘im go
Cook some up.
I’m very hungry.
You have that in martial arts too:
Even the best have to change after a season.
Take Jackie Chan.
Take all my children from me if they whistle.
This guy whistle.
And we’re walkin’ on chains.
You just back up the house.
How can I explain to you infinity’s rules?
It wouldn’t be a rulebook.
There’s a lot to be said for single minds.
Okay the accent’s on rule.
You just jump in lively shorts.
Take a vision whole:
I’m dirty too.
We got out of that mess.
It’s the soliloquy.
Now pardon your room.
Don’t breed tyranny.
Closer to the truth.
It’s not my toilet seat you understand.
Donny that’s good line.
I’m scouting for tomorrow.
This is not acceptable today.
A robotic arm,
That’s such a field for us.
Nature made us no.
The mongoose says:
I’d bite on the program.
You want a natural arm movement.
Coached, schooled, cajewled
To end foolishness.
Inner change,
That’s what whistles the program.
Don’t do it no more
Didn’t work.
What so naturally arose
Had me stop.

Sept 4-5


[vision of a steep bare grassy hill, mountain-like so steep it was, surrounded by other such hills, and on it near the top but not on the top, on the a part of the steep slope one could put a shelter, was a very primitive make-shift shelter, with 4 poles on the corners no walls, the poles irregular small tree trunks. The tarp roof was flapping wildly in the breeze. It appeared a hermit’s perch]
So he could listen to the face of the deep.
You ever been in here before –
A tall heart?
Something backwards
I ain’t a good student.
I have no idea
A grasp idea.
Give this to him strong.
Alright follow the leader.
I think you’d turn your own vision out.
Such a bossy program.
Take it to your shorts,
Or whatever has you rob infinity.
In close to the night
And close to the moon
The soul…
I am reader of one take out expedition.
Hear that squirrel please.
What to cross now,
Original chain,
Or stomp worth
Golden harassment?
Will you stop him?
Did you hear him?
Night of cloistered seconds.
I thought he’d jump into the classical guitar champ.
If I say no beg and complain?
Somebody’s knocking on the door,
I know that elephant:
Blue moon. [the God Ganesh, who speaks a lot of my muse, whom the boys adore]
Hear me
Whenever I call.
That lines detail.
You see he managed to earth.
I just go straight.
My movies came back:
Bom, bom, bom, done, done. [spoken like I recorded guitar sounds, though spoken here very slowly with no life at all as if to say the new song lacks life]
Did you like it?
Five hundred yards away from electric.
The fish,
That fish hook.
And you practice. [the new song]

That’s a good girl. [as I’ve said, my vital is female, and this refers to her]

This is just very revolutionary.”
They take over my pencil.
Meanwhile I’m pretty bossy.
“What’s speaking to you?”
“Wait daddy.” [Dhina’s voice]
“With Dhina daddy.”
That boy is so stupid.
I’m not complaining.
Get him off of my department,
Will yah?
It’s open
Behind him.
That’s why stupid
And closed then.
They’ll fuck the arrangement.
You just hear ‘im.
I don’t want those fish.
You take those fish.
“What are you talking about?”
Crown and fool.
I’m not lying to the secrets.
A soldier with whom humanitarian purpose,
Come his job.
I kill high past.
I gave her yesterday
An omelet.
“What was that one about?”
A rave code,
Lucy come here I go.
“What did then,
Shut the door?”
They just don’t want to see you.
Please I wanna sit now please,
Please, please,
This is my pocket leader,
Come on.
What are we gonna do now?
The injustice,
Oh goddammit.
Where I give up.
Would you
Show me something?
Swear to God
It is not clear.
Now, go on on with my morning.
Whatever gets read?
Street knowledge
A little bit.
That’s evil
They’re not gonna do it.
I’m in the kitchen cooking,
And the other cook here,
The walls are zero.
“You’re not the hairy face I need.”
Come here not this time.
Uptown with a child
Nobody liked,
Nobody even looks at.
“You’re lyin’ to me.
You’re deep shit.”
That’s what I told the alphabet.
If he can get work it into that power.
Work it into that power.
Is this reply might?
“No daddy,
Not even try.”
I gotta talk to your sister.
It’s her brother.
“I just wanna be around.
Where’s that sliding door, huh? Huh?”
Where they look 21.
Give me a leader.
On my glasses.
No nobody drank.
Stop and say smile please;
He’s changed.
Look down at that glass.
Thick glass.
1776 swelling inside the walls of Paris,
It’s the power you got in your room.
How is it?
Can it get out?
It’s amazing,
With your parents.
Leave that where room.

Your self some time okay? [to go to sleep, else up all night, but lines came that I didn’t record about what is behind me messing up my muse and the need to get rid of it and also about sending that email to Jeff, Gwen’s husband, to get it to her, how it wasn’t a good idea]

Would have been leaving if that at Galveston or something. [end of a dream where I was back in Garberville at the homeless shelter there, now very well organized and located in the bricked buildings that make up the downtown center, in the dream, and both Douglas and David are there, but we’re not so much talking with one another, not out of any rift though. At one point I’ve been in the ‘holy of holies’ of the shelter, it’s inner sanctum, and I’m going through the tiny hall transition where you have to close one door to open the other and meet both of them in that space, but we don’t talk to each other, they together going into the innermost room and I on my way out, but I should’ve spoken to them, as soon I found myself in need of their help. Outside the shelter I’m told by some guys that I’m targeted for being killed by the same mob that had just killed a minor attracted person, and I go on about how death is not that at all, talk about it in soul terms, and they can kill me, showing a lot of bravado I didn’t really have, since right after that I decide to leave town, scared of being killed. I check the money that the shelter had given me, but it’s  not much a 40 and a 20, and I vaguely recall I have a whole lot of money in my wallet, and so I begin to make my way to the bus station or whatever way I can leave quickly. Before I get more than a few steps I’m spotted by the mob, who are the same people I took care of when I was working with the homeless people there. I see them sitting a ways away, recognize especially one older woman who was crazy who I thought was my friend, and they see me and yell, “There he is!” They jump and begin running towards me, a mob intent on murder. I’m terrified almost, but have my wits to try and make it back inside the shelter, but suddenly it gets farther away. I have to grasp the bricks of the corner building with my fingernails things are so not into me getting to safety. The dream ends before they reach me, and it’s up in the air if they do or not]
What right of way?
The hand of the deep.
Am I safe?
It’s what we all fear,
Cause we’re human.
From out of town.
While it is actually a threat,
They couldn’t be mean.
Won’t actually come out.
The people that hear about it:
I am a miracle.
Different building,
That’s how we get placed.
It’s wonderful.
There’s Jeff.
He’s feelin’ a little bit down on himself:
He the monster.
Do we toke togas then?
You get the house.
Lydia papery
No longer there,
And your house,
And your room,
No longer kids rule.
Earth is not easy. [a new poem begins]
You put it there,
My shaving cream.
No one has ever punished me.
The robotic legs of Shakespeare,
I send a bull down there in that camera
You have studied.
We’re catching ground.
I wanna stay in a little house
In front of the heart stop.
This will be 700 dollars.
Don’t let them live
(I wanna birth in 1992)
Those who eviled.
I didn’t reply.
That’s a good stopping point India.
You might not be blessed or able to help,
But I would be.
The Islamic State
A new faction of hate in the world.
Over 6 months
Those two they apps
His head off
In history.
You just bullshitting.
You have a drink
Of this man’s blood
After each meal.
Wahhabi what are you doing?
It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
Incredibly painful
“What would pass between us is not honor.
(I’m Boko Haram.)”
The Middle Ages
You broadband into our living rooms.
Would something float in your house doc?
I’m supposed to get you to work.
It’s not fair
Human beings
That you let go.
Capitalism of the earth
Unfriendly arm,
What we have here is unfriendly arm.
Twenty-four rupees,
Thirty four,
Who was so bads together?
That’s why he stole from
The world.
Thousands are people,
Are people
Who are moving.
Come on Islamic State,
Show mercy in exile.
Yes I was shocked.
Can you name this poem?
The Holy Koran.
If you can’t honor your actions honor the Koran.
I’ll fire something very good.
We pull on it
That is something
I can’t discuss openly.
All the question
Never finish.
I know some of you
Thinks it human. [the first parts of a poem about the Islamic State. It can be read in its entirety in Pages, Poems on Government and War]

Mugu and Lucy


Post 7

Christmas 1998 Palenque, Mexico

Bear Witness Daddy! [‘daddy’ shouted by one of my boys]

     This is the continuation of my daily muse journal, which is also my spiritual journal, which I started with Issue 4, a journal begun in 2001, though for reasons explained in the introduction I’ve begun the postings from it starting on August 15, 2014 and will continue posting weekly roughly three days from it until it seems time to leave off for awhile. Since this is dramatic poetry, a dialogue with multiple speakers, and also a narrative of the daily events of my life as they register on the inside of me, like looking at the world from underwater, reading the introduction and beginning at Issue 4 would greatly aid in understanding the text.

Aug 29-31 2014
Each time he returned going to bed.
There are steps to the soul’s return.
Don’t fight after him. [presumably Larry, prevision he’ll reject my poems]
Gotta figure out something that reach it man,
Those poems you’ve put in your pocket.
The three would be what you say you are:
A collection gathered in the I
Soul strength,
What is soul and gone.
Missed anything I go.
As far as edits,
I bet you leave
What field until morning. [wait for morning to submit the three new poems to Collaboration (Larry), but the deeper meaning of a morning in humanity is there]
Union meets Larry.
He’s not impressed with your soliloquy,
Stutter long.
Give it to him?
That’s a That suits me traditional fountain.
Stand and be read.
What business is it of yours private?“That suits me,”
Point of view
Night time –
A dictator.
And then it goes down.
Hear Russia.
Wait, wait, wait:
After the liftoff
Of one person.
“Can I cancel it?”
You’re there
Get this on the ballot. [all uadditional lines for Character poem, go after ‘Best among refrigerator companies’ and before the line ‘The heat that’s mud on you’]
“The freedom before the fire,
That was very nice,
Try to make the Statue of Liberty
The Planet of the Apes.
That’s some shocking report
We speak to in the news.
The mind will everything.
Give this softball
Carry on
Don’t see the heart
As the doorway
To the love of God,
To soul.
Even I get help with
Putin dedicates
To nail. [all above lines for character poem. They make their own verse between ‘How about that?’ and ‘The smart hand.’]
Put it on my Facebook. [send the three new poems to Auroville Art, and I sent the video too, since it’s now by chance the biannual film festival there in a couple of weeks]
Since I was 10:
“He’s very good.”
“Have you seen him with hair?”
Give him that gold.
Tell me something:
When’s the smile gonna rise to the top of the world? [sung, a repeat line for the new song]
It’s on your notebook,
Not where you want it,
Not where you want it to stay.
To the top of the world. [sung, for the new song and the adesh to send the poems. I waited for very sure confirmation]
“How many years ago?”
“It wouldn’t take us this long.”
Cover bases.
How blindly do you follow?
“I’m tryin’
To commit myself to something.
You’re only a guest-horse.” [I was a guest in Auroville when I got kicked out, not a Newcomer or an Aurovillian]
Is that the name of Auroville,
The only Aurovillian sing?
My acceptance has to do with human unity,
Takes it through the streets.
I’m all day long.
Human Unity. [title for a short poem I didn’t send]
Has fallen asleep,
And the mind is on the lowest mental rung.
Net profound,
You’re a detective cheat. [there were 42 views from France on The Atomic Review today, after having sent the poems and video to Auroville. Interestingly enough though, not many from India]
“Can we throw this out?”
“Alright social missionary,
It’s sensitive taboo.”
You led me to sleep,
And I was led by God’s hand?
“Ain’t he cute.”
“Badam milk,
He’s sensitive.”
“See daddy.” [one of my boys’ voices]
Stepping over bombshells,
It’s not negative report.
You think Larry’s stupid –
No refrigerator for you.
Oh what would be hang me or not?
“Shut up.”
“I’m gonna make a good kid.
I make you nervous now.” [Asiya’s sneaking to talk to the girl next door]
I don’t know what’s going to happen.
Tell me what to do,
Since I don’t know.
Give him credit for the kid. [was meditating with my yoga student Matoon when these lines came, unaware that Natish was in the house, our often visiting two-year-old, and on leaving my room it was time spent with him, a good time, sacrificial: I wanted to be back with my own stuff. Sandia, his mother, looked on with thank you in her eyes]
Years ago
I knocked on your door.
Change that lock.
You need to take a break.
Put some out.
Well I was thinking you’d meet and talk about it.
Your average selfie.
“No daddy I’m
Sitting in a basket
Up on a hill.”
Glossary to terms,
You’re supposed to know it.
Goodbye Emily. [my niece, who won’t answer my emails now. As an infant I taught her to walk on my first return from India in 1996]
I just remember
That cute little baby.
“Call me a leave of absence.”
Where’s my mobile?
In TV Nagar.
You’re unbelievable.
What’s he doing alerting you?
How many people.
You have a ride home.
You have a breath of fresh air.
Go back to the origin.
Turn off my computer. [contrary muse saying to stop all I’m doing web-wise]
They came out as good guys
Because they hear the terrible
They’re trying to make.
Tie it all in the rainforest.
Why there?
You get more money.
Our own stuff is on its way.
“It’s on me daddy.”
Hear Asiya:
“I’m fighting for myself.
Got it figured out:
I leave well enough alone,
Daddy please you can go towards the audience.” [he’s pretending to ignore the girl, but secretly he’s getting closer to her so to talk to her, and the meaning here too of what’s stated, that if he doesn’t mess up and get himself and consequently our house in trouble over that girl, I get read]
The sack of that is:
You’re just a pupil away.
He told you the police station
Without any nuts. [the cops told him if he continues to talk to the girl they’ll beat him up]
A movie to start your day:
Ah please, hey!
Look who’s not working.
I am a local mother fucker.
Rein in all choose.
Cancel it.
It’s not working.
Would it also mean
That you got pregnant?
Don’t shine my hair, please.
How old do you think,
Do you think I am?
She’s got a reason for her room,
Pulled over
In the city:
I’m logical.
Well with our Asiya green?
Put him in the test.
Lemmie tell you something:
I look the pillow –
“I love you daddy.”
You got me attention to strike her?
I’m not sure what I’m talking about,
I’m not sure what the moon is talking about.
Between the houses. [between our house and the girl’s next door, just a little space, the ‘my stuff’ meaning too]
Wait, wait, wait:
This is bullshit.
I know.
I don’t understand what inner truth you’re talking about:
You world your inner truth?
Oh come on bar that window. [I’ve allowed Asiya to view and perhaps speak to the girl from his window, since he’s inside his room, and the blame would be on the girl, but the muse seems to be saying to bar that, as well as it’s about my own stuff, the contrary muse saying to stop my work online]
Hear it awesome,
Everything’s on the line
Waxen wings.
Push you open.
Essentially Carl,
Wide room.
More unusual:
High energy bill.
We have to pay it?
You never know.
If you need cheese,
Or a special kind of butter,
It is in that shop. [vision very strong and clear of the new walk-in grocery store in the neighborhood, the front of it, and I’m telling Chandru and the boys this]
You’re boring.
You know where this is?
This is nowhere man.
A week
He demanding like they speak English one hour in Japan.
I’ll be honest with yah,
Not yet.
You’re on time.
Alright then,
What about the performance?
They didn’t ask for that,
They didn’t reach for that.
I tell you he’s good.
But I miss you.
Leave it.
Say you have [sung, each word drawn out]
The individual,
Smiling. [all three lines sung, for the new song]
Stay on the grounds.
Don’t rub his heart too much.
I cannot do nothing
Except watch.
Speaking differently. [this line one of a many that were popping up on a page like quotes on the Rotten Tomatoes website, though they weren’t blurbs but white rectangular fields rounded on the corners, the lines about my stuff on the net or also about myself here at home]
Here’s the thing:
You’re good.
“What holds it keeping together?”
My soul.
Daily mop,
That’s what she’s going to do.
Get up.
“So, anyway,
Daddy the perfume is good.” [Dhina’s voice]
Did you find it? [he thinks Sandia stole his perfume housecleaning, but this is also speaking about our house, asking the audience if you found the nice smell]
Can I talk to you for a minute? [my divine to talk to me and my muse to talk to you the audience]
“What?” [you the audience asking this and also me asking the divine, though it’s in quotes as if only the audience is asking. For the most part though, this formation is the divine speaking to me. every line does not have double meaning]
Give him an artist. [Asiya is in his first year of art school, he being one, and the meaning also of you the audience give me credit for being one]
You don’t have a husband.
You have a son.
We’re gonna use him,
Of course,
For the rest of his life.
Suppose I wasn’t much cooler? [Asiya saying this and also I saying this]
You’ll speed up.
The highest time
Look where you’re at.
Isn’t that beautiful. [vision of a dog sled at or near the North Pole it seemed led by many teams of dogs, a long line of teams. Saw it from a side front view as it was coming along the snow]
They’re asking you a question baby give it answer now.
Listen to me,
Memories no. [vision of this appearing in the top left hand corner of a television set superimposed, thin writing]
And guy would think
Don’t give up. [sung, for the new song, by Peter Gabriel]

Aug 31-Sept 1


What are you doin’?
Absorbed in the police come.
When they come,
A golden opportunity.
Oh forged this.
I am so maybe.
Get all your stuff together.
I’m sure the ballot is closed.
Know about that?
No what I got now?
A paper moon,
Art supposed
Is that so hard not to see?
A music video,
We give the text to display. [came first “We show it in your absence,” but I just don’t believe that and instead chose this more ambiguous line]
“What are you doing?”
Making Patty Duke
An information tool.
Every second counts.
The only one
You get a lot of him
In the whole.
In the air
All around town
That labor of his.
“I was voyin’ your phone,
That signal.
Desktop it is,
That clockwork orange.
Dispel superstitions,
You were the perfect man.
Take to police?
No doubt,
On some level.
I explain,
I explain the whole thing.
It was there in the woods.
You die with living,
And then you’re happy,
Cold foot.
American 30?
You’re go.
Time we bring it up:
He’s gone up.
You’re all picked up.
We made it.
Maybe they’re not the winner they be told.
You get through.
I wanna know,
I wanna wake up,
Tom Horn. [these three lines sung, the sound of horn beeping after the word ‘Horn’. They were sung by a chorus, the last line slowly and sweetly]
Pick up to do so they’re on the way to delight.
Donna Stitch giving tea inside the office. [vision slightly after the line of the top portion of one of those yellow message stick ups pasted on the floor near my desk and the door]
Stitch and that’s about it. [I’d missed the last name in the above line, and it’s repeated]
Rosa Might,
After that, after that line,
Somebody just like that.
Committed to movement,
We’re committed in movement.
Good to Charlie? [an old time Aurovillian I had a conflict with giving him some muse about himself because David was working for him on his milk farm, talking to me about him, and so on my mind the muse picked it up, and I stupidly had it sent to him, a wrong use of muse and unprovoked ‘attack’ on Charlie]
Could be.
We see, [sung, see drawn out]
Through many a magical thing, [thing drawn out]
Not the air. [these lines sung, for the new song, ‘air’ drawn out very slightly. End of a dream where I was on a strange journey with a group of people making a journey video, and on three occasions we all mounted something in movement, the last the large spinning top of a piñata of sorts hanging from some bedroom or the doorway of one, us in miniature on that ride, and it was when we were filmed on something all together that the magic happened, not when we were separately filmed, but it wasn’t something you could see until you played the video back, but then it was very obvious]
Awesome Toy Story.
That way
Kate and all,
Thank you. [the other morning greatly discouraged I watched Kate Smith’s Cloudbursting video that features a cloud burster and a woman as a little girl and her inventor father, then saw her sing Don’t Give Up with Peter Gabriel, then he with another female singer, then with Tracy Chapman, and I cried the encouragement was so awesome, and I took heart]
We have a friend.
Don’t do that,
Get him away from him,
And he’s my friend also.
Donny a steak.
He’s there.
I told ‘im
Don’t eat eggs today
My favorite.
I do. [was suddenly thinking in the silent space about sending the three lines to the poem I’d not included by mistake, from the ‘Character’ poem – “Point of view / Night time – / A dictator” – as an addendum, to Auroville Art, and about using the opportunity to say why I was, because it was probable they’d ignore me but not my stuff and so on. I got up and did that, at 3:30 am]
Ta ta ta ta ton ton, ton ton, ton ton. [last 2 seemed quite separate from the other, guitar sounds I couldn’t possibly render here]
Do you like the echo,
The film in SD.
To get it that yourself,
You’re really that connected. [the guitar finger pick I need for the new song]
I do that
Basic strum, [one I’ve been practicing for the new song]
He’s gonna run.
Yeah, he wears My t-shirt.
That was the morning.
A host hit those people in the face.
This full of host,
Miss America.
They don’t realize
Five point melody
Let me apologize.
I’m out there right now
A pupil on God.
Would utter
Gonna get over darlin’.
Instead of me answering questions –
Gone over [the poem The Pupil and His Divine]
Serous life:
I woke from this hot tub.
Just take that performance.
Doesn’t move.
No it doesn’t move.
Something beyond reach and yours,
Something quite human:
Go that man
To his own house
In the bathroom
Not the Tupperware.
You’re going to have to realize
He’s not in pigs in a blanket.
That’s a direct seeing
Because the Mother
Has played with your basketball.
“I find it
You’re the pump and you’re the partner,
You’re the pump on the end.
Give him some tough skin.
You don’t like the electric chair.
I am not your fanny pack –
I’m just really comfortable.
“Can you ground break here?”
Open up,
I’ve gone all the way.
I’m a scene of the best movie.
Are you just gonna read that and smile?
Give me my homegrown TV.
Very easy tonight,
It’s ya’ll flower
(Took a minute) [vision the head of John Wayne wearing his classic battle helmet ‘let the straps hang down’ as he did in war pictures, though here it was the modern U.S. Army version, and giving a look to the audience as he turns off to leave]
He’s fine.
You don’t have an excuse bud,
Your time was up.
I was here.
Okay world of activism,
Funny, funny, funny room.

Sept 1-2


Say fuck in school nobody says anything.
Levante. [there were a lot more Spanish one word lines I didn’t get]
Nothing came on Asiya.
“It’s not right now daddy!” [to put my foot down about him and the girl]
This is
Your cellphone,
One Asiya. [he has two phones now so to call the girl next door covertly. The cops have said any contact with her they’ll beat him, since she’s 13 and he 19]
Now science
Leave a message:
(Please no rigidity doughnut.)
I’m gonna put my phone
Two a day
She calls. [to allow him two phone calls a day, her or her mother calling him, not him calling]
We’re in business.
How does subject feel?
I’m not prepared
To meet all these people.
You know they don’t like talking about it.
Under you know what
Too sensitive.
Aware of our goats. [vision of someone opening a barn door and looking in]
Don’t fit,
Too much of corn,
Too much of thing.
Give them one very weekly [presumably send something every week to those entities in Auroville and the ashram until they contact me]
I’m ready.
He has to be.
Not a simple file sharing program?
“You’re really in the country.”
“You don’t want any pussy?”
Oh that’s los plantonos. [Spanish for bananas]
Try it again:
Show word.
Locomotive down there.
Hold it there.
Can we slow it down?
Really want me to.
I do not think it was an accident
Drop that phone. [in addition to my stuff, this is about Asiya having the two phones, the spare one from a friend so he can use it for calls and his for downloads he says. Anytime my boys lie to me the muse tells me, and they just hate that]
Now he talks to her
And laid Mr. White Boy
Open to the public
Bring your flag. [that if he continues defying the police’s order it would come to bear on me]
You know what a refrigerator is?
They find it zero
A little bit better.
Put my hand in my pocket
The equivalent:
I’m not growing anything.
Not that if you call
That’s the research. [corrected instructions on how to deal with him, and the suggestion his phone(s) will be searched to see if he’s called]
What’s the problem?
From Tamil movie
This most basic sense, [of Asiya’s going for the girl at all costs, something Tamil movies have helped to instill in him, and he’s emulating the male actor in a movie he’s told me, Vijay I think, the movie about him operating based on a romantic obsession]
How he won the girl
No problem.
Oh I’ve stopped calling him.
He’s calling her now. [he’s said she’s calling him]
The rest lies with Asiya. [he’s lying]
You think marriage.
Someone cast on a tree,
He’s important to you.
I’m out.
Even he
Could see it
You called you dialed this number.
And I blew it
They came anyway.
Watch the human race.
Give ‘im to his parents? [his grandmother, sister, and uncle]
Our boy,
Deal with ‘im.
“I’m not a program that you have to find anymore.”
Holy night,
Back this up will yah?
Not anybody’s business?
Go on about your business.
We have the OR.
He’s under-neutered.
Ask him to whip this thing,
And the daddy you’re dealing with
The one department that’s doing it:
What he did in front of me. [end of a dream where Asiya is riding Lydia’s bike with someone on the back and wrecks into a drainage hole killing Lucy our dog and the other boy he was pumping, but it’s not sure they’re dead, but you can see Lucy’s stiff body with the strong suggestion of death]
Is asking something:
Leave the time player,
The milk.
“Stop and go daddy.” [Dhina’s voice]
Go to Kuruchikuppam and safe. [where I was told not to send him earlier by other muse]
I hurt his feelings.
Tell him to stop and go to school.
“Damn, damn, damn, damn,
I cannot go to school.” [he’s almost stopped school completely over this obsession]
I’ve got to stop giving him belong to you. [to the girl’s mother, a suspected prostitute]
We’re calling her.
She put the
Shock on.
And then he told me
He’s been up to my face.
I’m not cookin’ for ‘im,
And that’s gonna learn a lesson.
“Sorry daddy,
That lesson isn’t.
That lesson stink.”
You take 15 minutes.
You take away from the house.
Wanted around.
Did it.
While you end across the street enjoy themselves.
We’ll just,
Hey, this goes off the back.
Frank we have here
The new drama boy.
They’re not gonna buy you sweets.
Jennifer has give up on items.
Sound in time, [each word sung separately and slow, last word a little bit drawn out]
Love to free that sound in time. [sung, for the new song, sound has the accent]
Take a look at yall’s,
The hottest
Of the watch right now.
Same thing you do:
Go home this week.
Has it made an impression
Gonna right now
Blow his nose?
Lemmie see your phone.
Pull it.
First he went to
That husband
Then God.
This is senior
Right here this is.
Your note,
Study through your note.
Smuggle a fortune
Of veggies
Tryin’ to find people.
Just be quiet.
My budget,
To red one five huh?
I’m not gonna throw the baby out here. [not to send Asiya out]
Love him too. [lines begin about Larry while still talking about Asiya]
Gonna brought it minute made.
What does it look like?
Lie faster
Then fade with me now
Next to the school.
Be quiet,
It’s handy on the ground
Puttin’ her room
Over again.
Stop at nothing
Get us out of here.
He says
Top performance
This submission post. [Larry, who sent me a poem yesterday with no intro, only, “Please read this poem,” presumably what poetry should look like performed, a YouTube ‘poem’ written by or in the attitude of the Occupy movement, really more like a poetic prose essay spoken angrily, anger at the bad guys, sad at the good guys asleep. I sent him a reply asking for his creativity and saying the poem has the same difficulty I’m having with him, that she, the poet, doesn’t see herself as part of the problem, that the good us and bad them isn’t the way to wholeness. He sent the email after rejecting my poems for his magazine Collaboration]
Talk about growing up.
Going to be earthquake.
Your own,
What we’re talking about.
Gonna do friends a lot of times.
That ugly blue like that,
That’s available.
Award winning difference
My blue.
What ja say to me? [he was not nice in his reply rejecting the poems]
What happened?
Look at Larry,
All in his gut.
He chose a fool.
That’s what I’m talking about.
How do you like me?
Your party’s there.
On my phone.
You’re not listening
The lawyer,
The lightning,
They’re not assigned to me anymore.
I get off early.
Let me go.
I’m sorry,
Who am I to go?
Music that wake up
They’re marching you,
The miracle
On the radio.
Very good,
Está bien.
Just a second.
“There’s absolutely nothing we can do about anything.”
Can’t figure it out.
Think that right?
I have collage
If you ask me
What I saw.
Oh, sorry,
If you ask me.
For Freedom
He lost your phone number,
So he’s going to look at you,
Nothing else,
James your come across,
Even seriously:
“It’s good to see you.”
I’m at New Orleans
Foreign countries
Hear me. [words said separately, slowly]
I can’t do any little hair 8 billions of years ago.
“Me too.”
Only pack left?
This one is noteasy.
It’s over,
You gotta sweep with the head. [vision of a zombie coming inside a space and the humans discovering they do indeed have guns, small machine guns, but they shoot at them not aiming at the head until the man says this instructing them to]
And that didn’t happen
Take a long time
Oh wrecks my face.
Cause it happen
Cause it’s yours.
Let something happen,
The difference
Between mine and his
Try to
Wear it
You don’t know where
Break up.
I’m behind.
Could I found the heart view?
I’m about to.
Let ‘er down,
Nailed it down.
“Your foot’s so interesting.”
Oh our school.
Donny you’re a brag it right.
I will try.
Oh we’re busy. [vision of some office or factory worker]
“This is a,
A serious phenomenon.
I’ve been thinking about this.”
Don’t leave anything behind.
Then go back into your mind.
How to glory
Extra people.
“Oh you’re bullshit.”
What kind of lawyer is that?
You’re from the East Side.
He’s from behind.
Mom and dad told me
Stop the neck
Did it in a heartbeat –
Concentration wall.
I’m afraid so,
More body for your soul.
And so it’s away from you.
I got some Larry
Right out in my face.
We all do that:
Go way in Austin.
Take me to Tweenie’s.
This is get your cigarette.
I’ll be going
Make sure he stays at the house.
Make sure youstay at the house.
That lever,
It’s not your heartfelt see,
Share you office.
Everybody look at you.
You mean however many people,
Not everybody.
That happens in California.
That’s your sister see.
“That’s Donny.”
Wanna hit this girl
With a load of muse.
You were cussin’ it before.
Human unity,
You workin’ to prep?
Human unity,
You workin’ it out?
We’ll have a bit of a problem
Get off the board.
What do I tell ‘er?
She’s naturally creative.
I’m at this point
I’m glad I’ve met you.
I offend you.
Say it:
“You’re so dramatic.”
A video [the music video For Freedom]
Give ‘er.
“Who ordered this?”
I’ve made it,
This savvy business with star wars.
My dad died. [could not find out if this is true]
The people in Nacogdoches are like Indians.
I’d never find out.
He blame me for it,
The plague,
The broken,
Between us.
“Gonna smile,
Donny I really am.”
Look good at this cancer.
It’s over honey,
And that’s not away from views.
That’s his sincere apology.
He’s on his way now.
Is he a ghost?
He’s on his way to the North Pole.
Look at his.
He’ll tell you
He’ll read your letter.
Tell ‘im to change
He wants to keep it,
The cross for the payment of sin.
Dropped him off
At where he’ll find the truth of the matter,
Under the matter.
He’ll see.
You’ll see him.
That’s his go on board
Rocket spirituality. [my dad is a fundamentalist Christian]

Post 6

lunar eclipse

Bear Witness Daddy! [‘daddy’ shouted by one of my boys]

     This is the continuation of my daily muse journal, which is also my spiritual journal, which I started with Issue 4, a journal begun in 2001, though for reasons explained in the introduction found in Pages in the sidebar I’ve begun the postings from it starting on August 15, 2014 and will continue posting weekly roughly three days from it until it seems time to leave off for awhile. Since this is dramatic poetry, a dialogue with multiple speakers, and also a narrative of the daily events of my life as they register on the inside of me, like looking at the world from underwater, reading the introduction and beginning at Issue 4 would greatly aid in understanding the text.

Aug 26-27


“Stop wasting my time
Very bad man.”
Join’ this up
Earth bound:
I have a garden.
No one
Will draw it in a different room.
Careful art.
This is underground.
Why are you crying?
Goodness gracious,
You’re being ignored.
You’re being hung up.
“I pledge allegiance to the flag.
I don’t want to keep you here,
And I’m calling you
Like a racehorse.”
Okay Ferguson,
Wield the weapon
To some entity in Auroville. [send the new poem, What About the Human up in Season?, this time to a new entity, Auroville Arts, only there, not to the other three entities. The full poem can be read in Pages]
I am…
A good question.
“Is he really sick?”
Beat out sparks of heat on the table.
What do you order that?
Is this a press room
Reality sees?
It’s a mimeographed notebook.
It’s several pages at once.
You’re gonna make it
Ye old submission of poetry.
I can’t follow instructions clearly at night:
“Daddy?” [Mugu’s voice]
I edit. [instructions to edit ‘daddy’ out of the poem]
“Who’s the ownership?”
A how do you bend a nation.
Quiet please, quiet on the set.
My friend Winnebago,
Art Starts,
And Bone Crime.
[‘Moon Dipper’ came in to replace ‘Art Stars’, which is to replace daddy, all these corrections are, since I’m to edit out the ‘daddy’ element out of the poem throughout, replace daddy with other names, the corrections coming pell-mell, came as I thought, or willed rather, an edit for the poem so to replace dadd]
I was in a heavy forest moon. [the whole line replaces the name I needed]
Want this turnover:
Quiet hair. [to replace quiet on the set line, a name I needed]
Don’t say sabotage. [for the ‘don’t say sin’ line, the name needed]
In beholder magazine [but please]. [seen as is with brackets, the line to be added after the sin line]
A century’s worth
Armchair mercenary. [both lines name replacements]
What some slack what we most lack. [a line to add]
I’ve heard enough army calling itself fool. [that the negative name replacements are finished]
Man he denies you thrice. [that the initial letter, the last poem, and this one will be ignored]
“You mean this open book gets closed?”
Put her in red.
The British are coming.
Has words too. [that the above lines are for the poem, but I didn’t accept the deny line]
Don’t document it. [a stray thought the muse corrected about a British Yoga magazine that had expressed keen interest in the Pupil poem years back, and I thought that might be who’s coming and thought I might send them a link to issue 3]
That’s a still, tall, voice. [replacement line for a daddy replacement]
Travel lightly some.
I ain’t kidding in my room. [this and above line to add]
The secret of bathing you baby bathing yourself. [line to add]
Don’t shoot,
I’m covering man.
This is the bum policeman who burn after the tag report.
The irony of their unique position. [ these 4 lines to add]
I wanna show you something:
Lion in humor
Donny. [all lines to add, in sequence]
“Well that ain’t nothin’.”
“Maybe this hearing,
Whew, that your dance.”
“I don’t believe it,
Any infinity truth
Dr. Stone.”
“Large voice not there.” [all lines to add except‘Dr Stone’, which is to go elsewhere in the poem]
Aware of the waterfront of ideas
He went deep within
And reached his quest.
“Good to see.”
“That’s just stupid.”
Separate person.
The whole
Welcome back…
“What do you want?” [all lines to add]
What we all know:
Other people have found
And I have found
That the muse “is actually hearing voice.” [all lines to add]
This is how sleep is the movie ghost from the hour. [line to add]
Want to speak with them.
Wouldn’t allow me to. [both lines sung, to add to poem]

Aug 27-28


We got a shade in our house.
You’re alive because of him
He’s the light of the dark.
That’s who oneness can mean.
Hey false Sri Aurobindo,
Guess what.
You’re not gonna believe it.
Along the bridge you are.
Ended up
Half circle.
They’ve got motion detectors
And an orange see.
“How many children?”
A good group came in
Like the sunrise
A federal association.
No one bad speaking
Is the answer.
Arrange it some
And then what?
Out of the room
Aren’t you.
Is anyone out there?
The whole human race
Stand there and judge that poem.
It’s got society’s wings.
To correct it?
I believe swoop is the answer,
A century’s worth.
Don’t Arial pages please. [two meanings: don’t send it now and don’t use Sylvia Plath as a name, something that came as a laer edit that has hence been deleted]
It’s got the water that you wanted
Mr. Atheist. [the replacement name for hers and the above line a suggestion to delete a line from the poem]
More accidentally
Did you stumble last time.
It’s in your grasp
You can change.
Kangaroo rat
After the poem’s completion.
“That’s just stupid.”
You hear an unprecedented strong end of love.
He will share with you. [Larry, who I sent an email to asking for email addresses of journals of the Yoga that I might can submit to. He’s the editor of Collaboration, a semi-literary journal for the Yoga and a person who’s helped me get money a few times and loaned me his lap top to record songs, even though he’s obviously morally offended by me]
“Hey Donny,
Lookin’ for you
More clothes.”
Heads up everyone
Stewy lesson,
What they call a big bar.
He’s got a ticket to ride
And a roof.
He’s the first
Throwin’ out
To reenter the arena.
You hear the go in his voice.
“Can we make him roll over?”
Let me tell you something:
That no one’s voice.”
The pupil will
Give you that deep
Hard work.
“Yeah Listening Fable,
The Mother,
What language?”
How can I take this and run with it?
Just write it down.
I can’t wash infinity.
Is that what they’re lookin’ for?
“He can’t do that,
A read terrible,
And come back and say sisters.”
Trapped infinity sings?
You’re guarding Me, [the Mother saying]
And you leave it
Almost as bad as he did.
“Who drew those,
The boy next door?”
That’s a good question.
In sadhana all day,
Would if God isn’t real?
How many fundamentalists object
To hearing the holy see?
The fundamentalists agree:
Be nice if
God in his moments lived.
You don’t know what it’s like, [sung, by the Bee Gees, from the song To Love Somebody]
And I’m hearin’ a song.
“What is music
Broken down?”
Your favorite.
Talk to the Mother.
Impossible says the reply?
The Big Bad Blog instead of spiritual practice. [vision of this blog title on a the net, all the words in caps]
“You don’t have any spooky word.
You will die tonight.”
The spearhead, no.
“If we got into that house.”
And come here and try to grasp in the human
So I can get off the hook.
“She the lady who deal all this fever doesn’t come?”
I’m in a unique position.
“She’s the most superstitious amount.
Goes right there with those guys.” [vision of some large strange animal-person lying at the bottom the sea, the perspective from the side as an observer, and it was distorted, the people on the surface looking down onto the bottom at the creature only a few meters in depth, but it was the bottom of the sea]
Wana found what I give?
Diamond’s worth.
“Did not.”
How I can beat?
Have no water,
Tie everything,
Fasten down,
Just relax.
People watching out the window,
Don’t give up. [sung by Peter Gabriel, the song Don’t Give UP, the version with Kate Bush]
I don’t know how.
All these people wanna tell you something:
A flower garden,
A wonderful.
You’ve cut me slack.
If a room full of potatoes
Wouldn’t have talked to you about it.
Suppose I have the knowledge?
That might be a better plan,
Your make up. [have to do with an edit for the poem, using the replacement name Listening Fable in the place of Moon Dipper where it’s talking about there’s no one talking to me, it’s my imagination basically, but with the ‘weak’ below it seems to suggest to wait for something better]
I think so.
Get back to work.
A large population at the moment.
Alright everybody,
Let us to say investigated.
“Even if you’re weak
I’m aware
Held a lot of quiet.”
It’s okay
A noise or two.
Don’t give up. [sung as above]
“What do you think,
Think he’s gonna do it?”
I’m in a position of strength.
“I’ll kill you.”
All this One,
We watch it
For now.
Give him a
Nancy Field,
Golden magnet.
His name’s Antonio.
He lives in Italian.
I didn’t know that. [suggestion to send a link to issue 3 to Antonio, a professor of the anthropology of law I proofread for, who’s Italian and lives in Italy, where I’d been getting pages views before posting the issue]
Okay now,
I will do this,
And I will win.
Clearly we’d have to practice.
We’ve got the house.
We’ve got his clothes
I have more clothes.
See you me what the parents will do. [sung]
Five minute only.
Give to Me.
Let’s happy with it.
She’s reading us.
You shared him on purpose.
That’s been goin’ on.
Why bite you?
Makes them look like a fool.
“I found you”
Defend that choice.
Give you clothes too. [most of my clothes are second hand and come from Mugu’s family, what they discard, though sometimes they buy me new ones, and just slip them in with the used ones so I won’t object]
The office,
Figure out a way to make it uncontrollable. [keep anyone from trying to control my office, the writing and posting I do]
I wanna support you,
Right now.”
And you know who you are. [Gwen, my sister?]
A window
What to do?”
I’ll do.
“Is that Sri Aurobindo?”
The Mother [faint vision of the furry head of a large cat looking down over a scene]
Is in charge of the children.
One thing you need:
I could use a wife.
Before you get married:
Oh what you listen to:
Forget our fear –
Listens to his wife.
Somethin’ can be said if you’re only dreamin’: [sung, dreamin’ drawn out, only a little less so]
And I, call my name. [sung also, emphasis on call, which is slightly drawn out]
Don’t give up.

Aug 28-29


He was standing there with his hands behind his back.
Well I don’t think Lucifer didn’t care what you said.
Should be careful –
Things organic,
Especially Mugu,
Put it in the elevator.
“That girl has the hots for you.” [as idea speaking as if to tell Russia Crimea wants her]
“And I saw a restaurant across the street.
I want a star.” [Putin speaking, about Crimea]
Don’t waste your time on gasoline.
“Man you hurt us.”
All the softball goes to you.
That’s digital.
You heard me,
The bravest example.
88 countries,
They’re nervous.
This is about war.
Hey who’s tryin’ to be a good guy?
Former Glory,
Former Kingpin,
“I am a good guy.
I am a kingpin.” [Putin speaking]
The octopus.
You walk and say,
“What’s in here?” [ibid]
You’ll make individual ex-exclusive.
“How did that creep in?” [Russia speaking]
A choice worth:
“I am music.” [Putin speaking]
Go to that
And you’ll shout at him:
“Be quiet.” [world leaders speaking]
This is no district attorney,
And he’ll block any human unity.
It’s a
Combination of
Drugs in field.
You’re not gonna have a whole lot of
Murder –
He the related vision.
Where are you gonna walk home?
Are you gonna walk home?
Struck it by.
“That rules
By the international government?” [general audience speaking]
Here power look at Germany,
What makes it
The real world.
What makes it
Best among refrigerator companies.
The heat that’s mud on you.
“Steve once did I need a tenured professor to take it through?
I take it through.” [Putin speaking]
You are a kingpin.
“So I’ll play with you:
Who’s blew?
I’m sorry,
I can’t imagine…” [ibid, hint he may be responsible for the plane crash]
Don’t give up.
What form that’ll take:
From not bad man.
Some food Monica:
The end of the world
Figure there’s an excuse today.
“So what remain freedom?”
You won’t go give them the humanitarian aid I brought
If I understand that we are a religious entity,
If I understand that we are a spiritual purpose,
If I understand that we are a whole body.
I’m sorry
I mustn’t do that,
Try to tell you how to live your life
And stuff like that.
“Good Goad,
What’s the story room?”
We have got to be more careful
Who we choose as leaders.
Holdin’ hands
With Turkey and his power,
“Somebody stop this man please.”
“Is there anyone
Good ruler-wise?”
I knew it’d have to be some turns
In that room
In humanity.
“Here we go.
We’d have to be negotiating.”
Just blame me. –
Some psychic turn.
You’re in Pondy
I take it?”
Yeah you would.
You’re all deny going to die.
How do you do it,
What the soul inside?
It’s clearly heavy.
Come to soul rule.
That’s an inside job.
That’s human.
I’m not starting off star wars.
I can give you a roof:
Your soul
Will choose
It’s divine
In the first place.
I just tellin’ you.
Not what you’re used to.
I go in mind
Division rules.
Starting to turn Mexico
While I was there,
So lock the door.
What is he eating?”
You try to be in a place
You don’t want a thousand rupees,
You don’t want anything.
See a cow.
See the moon.
They tell you
Strange quiverings of a world delight:
In a corner of God’s house
We have names for God.
Religious in its outer reflection,
Spiritual in its inner search.
It’s okay you eat the banquet.
Kids love it.
If fallen in love,
You just love God.
Are tryin’ to help you.
Don’t go mental.
Behind the heart,
Hid inside,
You have your soul.
Do you need it,
How about that?
The smart hand,
The smart pack:
“I wanted to work with you.”
Really heavy and,
Well hair has messed up you terrible, huh?
Open in religious funds
That any paperboy
Can talk to you honestly
And deliver half of it.
Try this crack:
You round up its act –
The soul is its business to hack.
There I’ve spoken in tongues.
This has run aground
(Because it’s magical),
For some reason,
And I haven’t completely studied it because I.
Well get the milk and put all down on My paper loaded.
“Oh, got your garden from there.”
Who wouldn’t be up there long I just looked.
Who cares to be first? [end of a poem that begins with ‘That girl has the hots for you’ and it too was transcribed directly to Word as a poem, so the formations have been shortened to verses. The title also came later, And the Character is the Happy Ruin]
That quivering note is all over it,
I.e. the bed-stone.
You can see it in your Facebook.
Finding the background
Indian gets out of the way. [In bed listening and Mugu was not being organic, but I got him quiet. All these lines edited out of the poem after ‘The octopus’ line]
In Kuruchikuppam it took off like character.
Three voyages:
We have the flyin’;
“I don’t know who ratted you out;”
Do you have anybody? [these lines edited out after the line ‘What form that’ll take’]
 [The full poem, “And the Character is the Happy Ruin”, can be read in Poems On Government And War]