Calling All Cars Just to Say Hello, Part 5

(You’d Have to let Me In)

Our family Christmas. “Somewhere explained… What is it? Your family rose by the sea,” (my muse today)

Star Dusted Travel Material’s Roar

Can I interest you in some free speech?
And what would
come out and shake you?
There we lay on our stomach
the feeling that you can trust the world,
the vulnerability of this moment.
I have performed all absolutions I assure you,
[sound vision of the first bar of music from the song “Heart of Gold”]
searchin’ for a heart of gold. [Heard sung by Neil Young]

Can I talk to you a minute?
Alright, two hours.
What will I’m done?
I’m freewill.
You choose your answers.
I’m beginning to lose hope—
civilization stopper.
There are possibilities of deity we will never
process our denial of,
understand.
I’m that book.
Creative ideas they explore,
a human interceptor.
That’s what you’re not prepared for:
Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer, [heard sung]
some even say it’s me.

Bear/bare the root, [both meanings intended]
name occurring ice cream of shifting Heaven
in this alphabet paper.
Can you hear from every one?
I can handle it,
the name of the root.
A harmony speaker,
I consider everybody.
Please believe me let me go. [heard sung by Engelbert Humperdinck to the tune of the line “Please believe me let me go” in the song “Release Me”]
You hear this spoken on the inside?
You know who I am.
I’m hearin’ voices.
That’s my mother.
She gets it finger lickin’ good.
You can get ‘er
where she will
be the divine mother come make coffee.

Let’s paper some opposition first.
They come in black upon black,
try to evoke a world.
It doesn’t work.
This is what we’re just seeing:
you gotta get out of sex,
a previous lesson
on the smorgasbord.
We go further.
We stabilize the time.
Have you ever seen this in dollar bills?

They came over to conservative time:
all these drawing features into a mask.
Are we on the wrong railroad?
You’re in the heels of today,
the planet asura.
Though no one had talked,
you’re on in June 75 years after his passing:
there in the front row,
we danced on Covid wings.
Stew rules of order.
Do you know what that means?
Your control is a tiny asura
on you.
How many think they fall?
Law and order,
all these demons ride the shotgun.
Are you sure you know God’s cause?

Diogenes bathe this
in the wrong he-note.
He hailed balloons.
Was the bathtub a gimmick or artifice?
Would you move?
You’re blockin’ the sun.
We capitalize him.
I don’t know why.
Diogenes is seated at the back of the classroom
cracking jokes.
And it continued being a spectacle,
using his own body or whatever
to argue a point.
Why is he in our history books?
Because he put down deity.
We look at him buddies with us.
We don’t believe in mythology.
What truth they show eludes us.
And do we value truth?
One of her values,
isn’t she Mrs. Bathtub?
And threw him out with the bathwater.

He was just a gimmick.
Take your late off.
This is a truth-thought too big for you:
we cannot stop the land.
We can just stand there and gawk at it.
The land is this naked circle I’m in with you,
the land of a universe.
We want so much to follow its process.
We’re unwired to see it.
We’re not prepared to see it.
Would you say it’s there.
What’s this startup?
Do you see reality?
Are you a handmaid’s tale,
tryin’ not to be fucked too tight?
And where do you come home for sin,
in somebody else’s garden?
They don’t like you.

Do I finally introduce myself?
I’m your bogeyman.
Damn, that’s tough.
Did someone say hi?
Who comes in but that conscious flash of ego?
Who comes in but that conscious world of echo? [this line to verse end from Civilization and the Art of Terror]
All at once from the hazard will come echo.
Deep thought thought spaces apparition,
a dull, flat sound in the inner ear.
He’s my trouble when I write.
Garry asked the name of the man.
Covlet Pounceland.
The inner workings can be overwhelming:
the mixed mystery book also.
Monster games,
smarter than I am.
Paint it over it [one ‘it’ was seen on top of ‘over’]
Slip it in place,
slip it ugly in place.
Go on he took firsthand experience.
Upon hearing monsters,
now they’re carrying in their voice Sunday.
To set something very close to the Mother’s pronunciation.
Sometimes they masquerade as God himself.

I’m stickin’ to you. [heard sung by Cher, song “Believe” to tune of line “There’s no talking to you”]
That’s two toilet.
Would you believe Disney does it?
In a Hostile Power movie.
Their ideas in there.
How would you influence the Earth? [this line and five preceding came today]
The dog’s gonna bark. [this line on down from Civilization and the Art of Terror]
You establish a dress code in these places that reveal them or they.
One hundred voices,
one hears the voice that reforms.
How can you tell the spiritual visions?
Gold seeings,
if they luster,
if they have strength.
Sentences back to you with a warm feeling.

Dhina Kittypuss is missin’.
Just let her get to the other side,
where my room is.
I’m shoveling them.
My friend washing machine,
someone I can touch to touch Lisa,
and Luna I love you too.
Feel the city breakin’ and everybody shakin’,
and we’re stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive. [this and above line heard sung by The Bee Gees]
You’re my dog.
From the time you were in your mother’s womb
I have shaped you.
You have so much soul carrying you.
We’re opening up
so you can be with me
where my dog is
where time meets life.
This is a soul order.
It’s what reality is made of,
evolution of soul.
This is the grand design.
It’s what holds us all together.
It’s the underpinnings of reality.
We’re a soul purpose.
We are not just watching TV.
Oh Luna baby,
that’s the wonderful news.
Beautiful, ain’t it?

The largeness of his soul he doesn’t understand.
No things she wanted mystic of sharp and clear.
Your soul is inside the heart and is not only it is home.
How far does the soul reach?
How long has one been calling to the reach of it?
Longevity of the soul,
immortality before I was born.
These words fall off the limits of the soul. [the lines to here in this verse from The Inspired Word]
It’s a timetable now.
It’s everywhere we look.
It’s right here right now.
It’s our broadcast.

Lisa Joy Rottweiler, photo by Kamesh

Dogs are scared to look at themselves.
That’s a production.
It’s the five fingers,
the only way to unify them.
All this almost holds their ears.
A hand grasp
a mind grasp.
You would have to be there to find out.
Lisa got almost there.
Her paws got in the way,
but she’s come to me
where awareness meets person.
I knew her gaze.

Unfortunately she died.
She was killed
by the vet.
Get out of here.
She’s not a loved one.
Oh man,
just waste
I bought you
proof that dreams guide life.
I’m not going to like him.
You’re not going to like him.
Hi Lisa.
Gonna blow up
you had,
you had in your pocket,
make my rainy day. [heard sung by Madonna]
Oh the good guy
when you view yourself.
You need a short mystical breath.

Lisa’s on your table doc.
Now repeat after me:
she’s a soul;
she’s magnificent;
she’s becoming a human soul.
That’s what this is all about.
That’s what this relationship is all about.
Now they become souls,
so you can see their worth.
I already have.
I just can’t express this to you.
A for joy written,
it’s not getting you a pregnant.
That good ship and true was a bone to be chewed. [heard sung by Gordon Lightfoot]
I will be here to see it.

“Lisa in My Self-Portrait”, taken with a Nikon FM 2, black and white, self-developed

Including the universe
in this limited self-scope here.
Today’s not so rough.
There’s a frog.
It has hugged our relationships to feel safe.
You hear me Kreta?
Where the love of God goes. [heard sung by Gordon Lightfoot]
Where the love of God grows.
I want to give something,
my whole practical life.
I can only manage pieces,
but you see it’s not been your average sit in the sun.
I am living in a material world and I am a material girl. [heard sung by Madonna, as is]
Look at all the horses
said detail.
L-o-o-k,
see Venom
starrin’ at the movies.
I’m not that guy.

On a slow chogin floats yah,
we’re gonna make it outta here.
And it’s got potential,
my life to be a surprise.
I drew home.
No it wasn’t
a nonmaterial home.
Home is the consciousness goes to home plate.
That’s it for awhile,
the ground of enlightenment.
Through there to Supermind.

On a soul gonna rise,
what we haven’t figured out yet,
the soul’s journey in all of this.
Although mentioned in every textbook,
can you find a soul keeper?
What do we say about the human soul?
The human soul,
do you know what that means?
Razed/raised in an incarnation. [both meanings intended]
It’s asleep at first.
It gathers its field regard.
It’s a journey towards the sun.
What wakes it out of its stupor?
The constant rain of life.
Gonna be a hot water though,
society hates you.
Alright everybody see my ship,
how I’m gonna get up here:
the open mic poetry speaker.
I didn’t laugh into man’s terms.
I was allowed.
Sometimes truth has a microphone.
Sends it also his way. [this and three above lines came on Crete]

Callin’ all cars,
help buddy help.
We’re askin’
you to let me in.
This is a most basic plea,
where need meets life.
Is that so hard to figure/fathom? [words spoken simultaneously]
I’m not tellin’ you I’m king,
anything that you need to bow down to.
Will you just accept me please
as a human being in your midst,
as a person you speak to
and not to get out of the house.

Am I alright?
What are my hands death?
Where am I alive?
I’m not going to hurt anybody, okay?
I know their boundaries.
I know where harm comes in,
right there in reality.
It’s not a social construct.
My phone,
we’re here for a long time.
We’re right off the bat
a son of gun.
I’m not melting please.
I’m right on top of the opera,
every bit as real as you,
right where harmony meets life.
It’s not a to go basket.
It’s how I put on my underwear.
I am for real folks,
and I touch you with the real.
Don’t just turn me into water.

Be a land unto your people
Mr. and Ms. Society please.
I don’t think you would turn any of us away.
We all have stakes in you.
Don’t exploit us,
and keep us out of outcast.
Is that so simple to understand?
I think the ages ride on it,
how worth means to each of us,
despite we know it’s a social construct.
Come on people now, [heard sung by the Youngbloods]
let us all take joy in life
I love you.

Good advice,
I don’t trust the ingredients.
To progress,
I came to do progress.
You need us all important,
take action together,
and no one’s worthless.
I can’t tell you how much better society that make us.
It’s how we solve our problems,
how we come together.
And that’s bill.
We have to learn to love each other.
This is not easy.
This is not overnight.
I hold up my arm to show you
the boundary.
I’ve been put in the most difficult position you see.
Don’t just slap me and move on.

George are you kicking me out?
That’s Shakespeare and Company.
You know I’m a writer.
You’re a property owner,
a most hateful man,
so horribly mean,
and everybody respects you.
Why?
You know the literary lists buy books,
and you have a horse and chariot there,
a hands down good bookstore.
He’s a pocketbook.
He’s such a cad.
You can see
he’s heavy nose point five,
a real stick in the mud,
but you’re going to talk to him
to get him on our side,
belly rubbin’ dogs with me.

Luna’s beside me on the bed,
and I just reached over and found belly.
She’s holding it up for me,
a warmth blanket.
She got to sleep here tonight.
Oh I love this receptacle
for how I hold the world,
one doggy paw at a time,
and Lisa I love you.
Time to do some hocus pocus
and right you for your next read,
The Call of the Wild.
It’s a round your turn transition
to become a line unto yourself,
to cast off Earth’s cares.
We’ll come down at dawn together,
where Heaven meets life.
It’s our relationship’s wings,
and I’ll meet you there in a field by the sea.
We have a life together
on the other side.
Pace yourself puppy dog,
I’m comin’.
I’m almost there.

I don’t even know how to disrupt the system.
This is not on my paper.
I’m not stagin’ a protest.
My aim is fundamental change.
I’m not bleeding fundamental change.
These ideas will come around for sure.
Even without cultural relativism,
we’d still look for truth.
We meet reality at its face,
at its processing board,
don’t impose our theories on it.
Now I’m a local speaker.
I’ve faced reality this way,
stirred up these directions.
We look at the same directions.
We live in the same reality,
irrespective of cultural wares.
Do I only show you this?
I think reality does too
you see it inside and outside,
and I’m showin’ yah what inside means,
even if you don’t see it.
We make an opening to a larger day.
It’s all around us you see,
everywhere you look.
Can you see it?

Come here dog.
I don’t think we’re the only ones lookin’ down this barrel.
It’s enough to see ourselves.
You’re not seein’ reality.
Cats and dogs livin’ together,
we’ve said it a million times:
on Earth we share the land
with everything under the sun.
Even in animal hierarchies,
we can give to song and rule
what needs to happen
to meet the needs of soul.

Seeing help with these blog posts,
no one would still see them.
Let go,
and I’m talkin’ to you.
Here’s another one for the railroad.
Any of you come and see this,
that’s what’s going to.
Bring me this water before you go:
this is her birthday,
the story of broken book.
Who are you callin’ little?
I’m all in your head.

Consider Anwar Sadat.
Was he a brilliant statesman?
He was someone we all need,
a go getter,
a large man of peace.
What did he have up his sleeve?
The Arab-Israeli peace process.
You know he moved in.
What did he do with the Israelis?
I think he managed them,
was not at their beck and call.
He had large eyes for world peace.
He gave it a shot.
You want that?
You can’t have it
a politician—
the traditional wisdom.
Enlightenment please—
he knew something religious attainable.
You couldn’t try to.
Well, you could try to,
but you’d have to throw everything out the window
and still control the majority.
They killed him
over a young woman,
the Arab League—
you ain’t gonna finish
bein’ a separate Arab nation.
Calling all books,
calling all books,
that was all avoidable.
வணக்கம்,
that first place in life
people found enlightenment.
Could even be where he put his hat,
even presidents and kings.
I’ll find a job for you
in better places than an assassination’s bullet.

I’m gonna go there.
I’m gonna go there that’s just a little while. [vision of Lisa jumping up on the bed where I am now and shaking her body to be petted, quite happy and clear]
I just saw Lisa.
The world’s problems gonna be your table.
How to enlightenment,
it seems rich with vocabulary,
a Spartan idea.
The lights go down.
It’s open till eleven o’clock,
sweating blood,
like what we call art.

All that is valuable in the art world is the entertainment.
It does not reveal the world.
You fettered people.
You can’t even make a simple drawing
we mean stand for the soul.
They return to a small Bavarian farm.
Oh bro,
that was critical mass.
Hitler had it comin’:
maybe learned
the representative nature of art.
Nobody would let him in
the academy of art
started World War Two,
not in Japan in Germany.
Art you field mice,
exactly being
excited about
how you hopple these lives.

Great spiritual movements, [heard whispered]
you’re just like, now,
as a joke.
Needed it
but didn’t know how to cross it with reality.
That boy’s nothing,
not old enough for tomorrow.
They come,
spiritual migration,
people flocking to your path.
They have combinate publish,
like whistleblower
number one.
I, I know.
We’re not calling you doctor.
You know what you’re talking about.
We’re calling you actor in the field.
Don’t forget
this label.
You know that’s the magic show.
In the world of show business,
you’re bringin’ in all these arrow treasures.
That’s so in for you.
That’s what keeps your spirit alive.

I’m gonna take you on a journey to what needs light [heard sung by Madonna, “Material Girl”, to the tune of the line, “If they don’t give me proper credit I just walk away.”]
sleepin’ beauty.
Can we say that’s your department?
Not always.
I’m gonna show you the key to the whole thing.
Are you awake/aware? [words spoken simultaneously]
I don’t care how big it is.
Field mice
might be the delay bottle.
Can you notice things
with the arm of your consciousness?
How deeply do you see inside?
Have you seen the bottom?
Have you seen what’s under there?
It’s in the
Void the whole universe.
Touch bottom and see.
You know Kittypuss sunk close.
Wild with claustrophobic fear,
I fell in at four.
It razed my mind/head. [words spoken simultaneously]
Insanity alone terror
consumed the fibers of my being.
An insanity put me there,
the demon behind my life.
My mom drew me there
sucking the existence out of me.
Diaper change and bath time
had got me to it
since birth.
At four I took the plunge,
old enough to really revel in my mom’s sucking,
scared to death she would eat me alive.
I’m sorry.
You don’t know the microcosm
of what all this means:

The Baby’s Broken Book,
pre-googoo and pre-gaga speak out.
Set up falsehood with a baby net.
Everything we’ve had to make allowances for,
in some blind fashion you know.
A very simple answer to that:
to quit blindness but to face the darkness.
Dream of being at nature bottom’s secret,
and no one was watching the woman.
They’re usually not delicate enough creatures to see they abuse.
It has to do with a baby’s stuff,
the personal stuff,
the passionate stuff
that robs a baby blind.
Heating baby’s bathwater,
and they used all these emotions of their hand.
She can stop.
She doesn’t have to undress her hope.
Babies continue bathwater.
I attend this baby.
For that reason my soul came down.
Do you think the emotional bonds of each mother call their child?
No in most cases I’d imagine by a mother whose heights were in her baby.
Upon a baby step.
A baby needs took good care of.
I’m just a kid with a fat little face.
They’re just infant children.
Originally dressed in a pink nude,
there’s good or bad,
test or fire,
in every sweet thing.
Nursing the lamb,
yet fragrance with the lamb it would reveal
and bring Mary a secret, sacrifice closeness.
Each one of you has the time.
I am looking at a childhood’s issues concerning the mother’s part.

Set up a family,
and the first provisional daylight comes in congress.
We rearrange the floor,
all because of you. [this and above line came today]
What is a good father in his earned purpose?
God floats around the chin of men.
Could not keep together what it had promised originally.
Set up a new map of the father.
Will gender suit the future man?
We have to return to that we truly are masculine-feminine.
Me, I don’t spend enough time in the woman’s section.
A righteous prove of leader,
a real human being,
the feminine-masculine is the order of the reverse,
needed for first comings.
Parents as a whole get to their children,
masculine and feminine,
mommy and daddy.
The burning child,
no one reaches his will.
When combined dressed,
knowledge maintained.
Small child’s world,
body bear’s little body,
fragile little buds,
strong innocence,
cheep innocence.
Dressing secrets.
They need constant maintenance in their bodies.
He’s five and has to take everything off to pee.
Little ones,
they look up at you.
Our carpet kids—
I sit on him.
He carries me.
Tell me what to do, okay?
From the moment you touch you instruct.
The fondling hand,
a sudden lost hand.
The touching in these parts,
it’s a person’s stronghold.
A very good on that sets up a right relationship between right and wrong.
Life needed strongholds
in our raiment in thought.
Mom, don’t pinch me on the butt please.
You’re not welcome to do so.
‘Cause he continually tries to cast things out,
a cunning way to inherent militancy.
What hand to the flower I’ve been playing with,
hand to the flame.
She’s so much clearer now soldier of fortune.
Like a good snake she bit down.
These are the takes that shake our humanity even.
They were the soul of Hitler itself.
Such weirdness conceals identity,
any kind of silence violence.
For a lot of things a parent does—
the way they manifest.
Born with an evil that forms,
and a much greater sense of wrong than we give them credit for having,
it needs in its development something from the Light.
To love God originally had to love itself.
We still hit our children,
oh the population down.
Kid mocked and other crimes,
does the child feel welcome at home?
We have a problem.
It seems a message took prisoner of what we thought was right.
Lustered a child,
cariño maintained rightly and lovingly.
A united child perspective:
all I want from you is your soul to be your solstice too.
I’m looking at God growing up.
Upbringing the world on one knee.
Do we have to lose innocence?
Do we have to though?
The way adults do things,
before, during, and after,
you can leave the way behind.
My son’s climbing mind my sun climbing mind.
Carry a kid carry a king.
The sweetness of a child’s day.
Where are the children?
in the pool yard in plenty.

(the two above verses from Civilization and the Art of Terror)

Why am I preaching to you?
We haven’t gotten out of the Void yet.
It was a deliberate act of defiance.
The dog-dragon wanted to eat
the joy of child kill,
giving the pleasure of the worst pain imaginable:
set upon by the sum total of all fear,
ravishment by the Void.
In a moment I was rescued
by those
beings that watch the Earth.
They heard my screams.
No one is allowed into the Void,
unless it under the King’s business.
Can I tell you it’s a stopping point?
Existence must save itself in there.
Carlos Castaneda,
go through all his books,
dream theater
to sample the Void on you.
Now you’ll flock to them.
Knowledge is not your friend
in those books.

That warms back your entire army.
What does he say?
Beings rescue you
that have suns for heads.
To the principal’s office—
I’ve got a little boy
that will not behave.
I tested everything
I could get my hands on.
I was whupped and I was whupped.
Society has a big stick.
It has this written everywhere.
Oh my God it’s mean.
Where do I pass the buck?
Right in his butt
or on his shard,
suckin’ on for dear life.
I just love little boys.
Society’s rules?
Knock it off.
Society is so tiny
it’s unbelievable.

A consciousness open to the sun
would rectify this.
That’s an opening God made,
and it’s not gonna be your standard procedure.
Why suddenly
everybody’s lookin’ at me?
What abouts you sick?
I am not just a change room.
I’m the reason we do it.
I hold them both open for you to see.
I’m aware on consciousness,
been opened like a fountain,
can really get it up, you know?

Now let’s count cars.
I’ve given you more than you can see.
This is just intensity,
and you think your world smarts?
I have to summon yah
to an open consciousness
so you can see the world
to open it
to where our kids go to school,
because they’re a disciple
of the honest to God truth.
Thank you so much.
Donny separates toys.
No please don’t do that.
Take them.

I found everything on Earth so sure under the sun
sadhana meets the material Earth.
This is dry season.
A driver’s on the education,
until you figure out what to do with cauliflower.
What time you gonna get in?
Just leave him, huh?
A healing of hell.

Weightless chain,
it would be like hand to the joy.
Now pet your dog.
If the joy no longer prevented us.
This is emancipation folks.
Found this on love.
Great, I’m pregnant with the sun.
Our Donny Duke,
he doesn’t understand
we have to get out
of laboratories, fishnets,
and a puppy farm.
There means?
A bad place.
Got beautiful down
it’s not a farm it’s a household.
Let’s put beautiful down
and eat our dogs.
Wait a second,
I should be allowed to.
The child of man,
I’m gonna take care of you.
And we take care of our dogs.
Love for all follow me
into the street.
Give some dog
a human hand that takes care of them,
a little on the out,
so they don’t reproduce,
no street dogs left by 20/20.
You see how it’s done?
We love them—
all the way home,
the ones that seem bound to be with us.
It’s their creation’s urge,
be our companion,
wherever we find them in animal rights.

Makin’ progress
to one day include the world
in all of our endeavors,
and we’ve just spoken his name,
Peace On Earth.
Take a little time
bring this round to your house:
you wouldn’t hurt a thing.
That’s where we’re goin’ with this.
I’m not there yet.
Are you?
If you shout and scream at people who do you do
activist.
I don’t think you understand harm:
you put people down,
as you think about them too.
And I’ve just said the ballgame
findin’ harm’s end.

The substance found their religion.
It gave them keys.
They acted upon them.
And here we are,
the substance of a great material.
Can you find that material?

Ordinary nature,
in this man is not satisfied or not satisfied for long.
There’s this big research to wake humanity.
You either get evolved or you don’t.
It’s as simple as that.
You had to be one of the getters.
It’s one of the main questions on the other side.
What you look for at this moment,
it matters what you do.
There’s a spiritual seeking or hate seeking.
Not to take a mystical outlook on mystical things,
take a physical outlook on mystical things,
outside where the inside glory resides.
There’s immaculate beliefs.
Not only faith but the belief that something spiritual is indeed higher.
It’s belief on a substance makes me able to know God was real.
It’s belief on a substance makes the line real.
It’s belief on a substance detonation of a great material came.
Who was going to blow themselves up?

(the above verse from Civilization and the Art of Terror)

You’ve never looked at shapes?
It’s here before/behind you. [words spoken simultaneously]
It’s the origin of the word.
Almost Don didn’t work.
Then he saw it then he did:
every room is made for God.
You can’t gather Him in words.
The speakers tell the system.
We’re not into echoes,
but we like genuine sound.
Baby I love you. [heard sung by Andy Kim]
And that’s God.
Exploited no,
we are his handyman.
Hey weirdo,
mind your own business.
But Super-reality has spoken to you.
You just gonna bark?
Na, na, na, na, na, na, na. [heard sung by ibid]

A gardener in your handyman.
What he did in 1983 was join the leaders
that gave nuclear power its score.
An atom bomb mission
in the Green Berets
rewrote his perspective on the world.
You can’t buy that in shops.
Look at tomorrow,
how this had a rendezvous in his dreams.
Oh, you’re his blueprints,
Earth and her fate.
Of course
I’m sorry.
He parachuted against that.

Can you just stop with the negative bullshit?
And we counseled him
so big it looks like this.
He hurts all,
but it’s time for that whole to go through a change. [this and above line came on Crete]
It’s not a rockin’ chair.
How do you turn evil inside out?
Can it ever be addressed in public,
and that’s not to punish someone for their sins?
How do you get to the bottom of evil
and change the hungry man?
Do we tell everybody
we’ve used him as a vehicle of change?

In his forgotten horror,
in his forgotten corner of the world,
he speeds towards destiny.
We account for his book.
We allow him to write it to you.
We put it mark down on Earth
and we reason this to you.
Handle this candle well.
To be given its glory
should you spit on him today.
That’s what this is all about,
inviting redemption.
Now invite it on him.

Weapons to everyone
to hard part reality.
That’s the social cage
reality’s been put in.
You won’t see this in divine masks.
Theirs is the mask of a civilization.
We’re getting bigger than their clothes.
We can stack society upon itself better,
and we don’t have to hurt people.
We use the stars as our condition field think.
We move beyond them in love.
That’s rescue, capture
the lost cattle of the sun.
You should be in the hallmark.
You should be in the ring.
This is fitted to your game
if you can be sincere enough to test it.
I’ve given you challenges.

A spokesman for CNN said:
I’m sorry the library is closed.
It’s all in what you say.
I don’t think brown nose finds answers,
answers you should be getting [line came on Crete]
if you’re still enough.
That’s quickly wrote Steven.
He doesn’t know I’m talkin’ to him.
We were brothers together.
Now ride the horse.
Let’s get on with this mile,
as many investigate my own internal dialogue.
Find out that it’s cold out here
on visible Crete.
And here we are.

(today’s muse)

2003, “almost that year, a history of the moments that passing, I came together,” (lines today). From January 15th to March 15th, I had the cabin cut into the hillside opposite Festos. I had come to it by degrees, like a diver going deeper into the still water way down below. If I had come to it right off the bat, I would not have been able to be a hermit. It’s too quiet just to step off into from the romper room of society, so alone, but of course many have done so, but not so easily I would imagine, whatever they say. Even with my slow acclimation, I was still sometimes almost consumed by a homesickness I hadn’t realized was there until now, and without any vital enjoyments, living the stark life of an ascetic, I spent hours each day roaming the hills, walking my heart out. Despite the depth of life I was living, one lived from the inside out, the inner the main event, there was seldom a hint of spiritual feeling in my waking hours, and despite the daily miracle of seeing the inner give rise to the outer, not only in events foretold coming to pass, which, when you receive muse and can interpret your dreams, is as common as the day is long, but also in the way the land looked, a hue upon it as though it were wet from birth, the hills glistening with their inner arrival, I was forlorn, felt the pain you cannot name that is all the more painful because you cannot do so, because it had to do not only with being homesick for country and kin. I was homesick for that nameless unknown the word home only gives some vague hint of. And I could not enter the higher consciousness, only make approaches, and the Silence was barred from me also. What was preventing me?

Would you believe the future? It shapes our present too, and that just begs so many questions that I can’t answer. I was a year and a half away from the biggest fall of my life, the lowest sink, and it was coming up in my muse so much I almost saw it. I was blinded by my present, which was showing bright sun, although I couldn’t really feel it. I can’t even tell you of that present because it’s in my past, tell you like I can walk you through the seconds in my shoes, or I can; I’d just have to make a lot up. Although I remember all these cars I’m calling, I only remember the skeleton of the events, and even that I’ve found is faulty when I see what actually took place from my notebooks. During these days on Crete, because I was focused on the inner life more than the outer, when I go over them I remember the dreams and visions better, can fill the memory with myself. Of the outer life I remember that way filled just little scenes, a walk here or sit there, a few steps or minutes, a few boxcars of the train of thought on that expanse, not the whole 1, 2, 3 of the event I’m trying to capture. So my narrative nonfiction of this here adventure travel is dense and has more ideas in it than events, breaking out in short narrative blow by blow bursts of oh, I do remember this. I’m relying on your imagination to fill in the details, for you to walk with me some. We’re walking into the future together, and we’re doing that by walking back into the past. It’ll be clear in time I hope.

A wondrous thing a hermitage, to have the security of society without having to be in it, or not very much, and by security I mean you have the pots and pans of society, it’s building, furniture, clothes, and food, and by not being in it I mean there’s no social structure of people you have to negotiate to get those things, or not very often, in my case, once a week or so. In the army stationed near Boston I visited Walden Pond and there put the wish into myself to one day fulfill of living in one, and one is not easy to get to. I’d come close with the five months I spent in a cabin near Ashland, Oregon, where I told you earlier I first began to hear the muse as an adult—“And I suppose a rose has felt well / all the glory a man might,”—but I was made to be a part time handyman of the farm the cabin sat on, on account of my hippie-look, which didn’t look like a writer to Elizabeth, the owner of Walden Farm and the several times president of the Shakespeare festival in Ashland. The cabin you see was a six week scholarship stay won by writers she chose, which she gave me based on a phone call from a Veteran’s counselor in Eugene, Oregon, who was trying to find me a place to stay for the winter and hit the jackpot. Boy was Elizabeth surprised to see a pair of Donny Dukes show up, figuratively speaking and exaggerating for effect (I obviously wasn’t wearing denim cut-offs), and she was noticeably disappointed. I’m sorry. I don’t want to leave Elizabeth in disappointment. Although she was very conventional, she was that rare person that always tried to do the right thing, could overcome her prejudices and subconscious complexes to at least try, and she adjusted and accepted me on her farm living in her writer’s cabin, read everything I wrote while there, critiqued it, discussed it with me, her view on things too, which was unadventurous, despite being a Christian Scientist, but she never expounded nor even talked much about her beliefs. We talked a lot about what she felt was my extremism, as I was vegan then and had begun vagabonding, what she called being a mendicant pilgrim, what I called being a spiritual pilgrim, and what my society called being homeless (this was in 1997; I’d left normal life in ‘92), but I think that by the time I left I had become a writer in her eyes. I should mention that I fed myself the whole time I was there and had even bought a laptop when I moved in, from my earnings as a Type 2 forest firefighter for an especially busy fire season in Oregon, and so it wasn’t like I was begging at her doorstep. She just didn’t like my lifestyle, and, if the truth be told, it probably had to do with not being comfortable with her pedestrian one. In any event, between her and the farm manager, my social circle took tending to. Needless to say, living in that cabin on Walden Farm was not like living on Walden Pond. It wasn’t a hermitage.

I’ve tried to paint a picture here of God.
What was it describing?
Your South Park.
It won’t be so counselor for tomorrow.
She’s getting squared away.
You’ve heard her in all these degrees.
Only on the outskirts of things
is your representative show.
Found them moving.

Development of theater,
it’s boring when you add infinite.
Okay I found the problem.
You’re all mesmerized by time.
It’s just a bump in the road.
Existence is long cookie.
Can I show you a spiritual experience?
Can I show you what’s going on?

You look at the theater.
As far as hermitages go,
it’s all over time.
It’s bigger than you think.
It’s got the use of time in it.

We will call her into the room.
We will call her into the use of time,
this image of a dog.
We brought her out of herself,
lifted her where eternity was in feature.
This was a story for a dog.

Did it open her kind?
It came upon the range of Dog
in the oneness of Dog.
Her capacity invited her.
It’s started on the wonders of Dog.
Hear me, hear me, hear me:
reaches to the brain
and overhead gun sector.

(today’s muse)

[vision of the dog I fed today coming and jumping up to my bed and touching my finger with its paw] This came a week or so before I left Irmgard’s. Although I knew the dog was making a connection with me, at the time I didn’t realize what it meant, and that she’d become my dog a little while, and that she had inner capacity, but I strongly suspect all dogs and cats do, one of the animal abilities we atrophied when we moved more completely into being human, into what I call the modern human ego that’s been around for some few thousand years, since in the beginnings of the race and for a long time we seem to have had one foot in the outer world and one in the inner. Have you ever considered we have more evolution to go and aren’t yet even fully human? Be that as it may, my muse is peppered with the appearance of Irmgard’s cats in my visions while I stayed at her place, in one instance her yellow tom sitting as pretty as you please next to my altar licking itself—cats you know: “Oh, is this your sacred spot? My importance just cannot be exaggerated.”

The cat was there in his dreambody, just like the dog was there in hers, something there is not yet a whole lot of understanding about: when the actual person’s in our dream or vision (via their dreambody) and when it’s some communication from them or about them, however much at the same time their appearance may also be representative of something our dream theater wants to show us in regards to our person and present life. If you have a cat or dog, or any kind of pet really, and you remember your dreams, chances are they appear in them often, and if you study their appearance, it has more substantiality to it than other dream characters, usually, because humans too, especially your young children, appear in your dreams in their dreambody. They do because they’re very open to us, trust us completely, and they only have a rudimentary ego with its less fixed boundaries, speaking of cats and dogs and wee little kids. We likewise are open to them and let them in, or, as in the case of the tom and the dog I fed, just can’t keep them out. It takes a lot of observation to tell when someone’s actually in our dream and when not, since anyone and any kind of person can be, me-people too, especially they (whom we call animals).

Unfortunately it’s pain that shows this most poignantly. I mentioned before in my writings and need to say a whole lot more that one big reason we don’t hear a lot about clairvoyance and the inner communication between us is because it’s so often on the dark side of things, and we are afraid or embarrassed to show people. In Garberville the family I lived with had a dog, a dark Labrador named Bud. In midlife he got neutered (too late in my opinion), so to keep him home and from carousing, and he suffered greatly from this. I took notice of it and began to comfort him like you would a small child, sitting him in my lap and giving him affection, sitting up in my lap like a child. Some nights he’d come in my room to sleep, and I’d dream of him. I should mention there was no ownership struggle. He was their dog and my friend. I began to suspect he was actually in my dreams, and so I began to closely observe our time in dream together when he slept with me, as well as where he was in relation to me in the bed (a mattress on the floor) when I awoke from a dream with him. One morning at dawn we awoke at the same time, looking into each other’s eyes, and I then knew, and he knew, we were dreaming together.

I suddenly had to leave town, and I didn’t get to see him and say goodbye before I left. About a month later one morning at dawn, I in Houston half of America away, I awoke to him on top of me, sprawled like a child, not like a dog, although he was facing up. I felt his relief upon finally finding me, and it was as though he were saying, “There you are.” He was soaking up my presence, really taking it in, and I felt his pain too upon so suddenly losing me, and I gave him all I could in that magic moment. You know he was there out of the body. I don’t think we are yet aware of the pain of Dog and Cat upon losing us. I hope I’m giving you a strong impression of that, and of their importance in our lives.

Dreams in sequence right after entering the cabin hermitage and subsequent lines of muse:

I was walking on Sagebluff (the street I lived on as a pre-teen and teen) and became lucid. I went slowly up and was taken by the spiral, going very wide and hearing the airplane propeller noise. As the speed increased, I began to lose the dream image and opened my eyes in bed, but the experience continued. I felt the spiral as opposed to flying in it, but I still heard the propeller noise. Then it began to slow, and I saw the image of an airplane console of sorts and the lights indicating an engine shut down. I think this was written. I felt and heard it slowing and shutting down, and I was out of the spiral. I don’t remember exactly what happened next, but I was lucid in another dream slowly rising high in the air over Crete. I saw out of the corner of my eye the dog that’s been taking walks with me, the one who came to my bedside in a vision the other day. Then she was hopping up, trying to get to me but couldn’t do so. I willed her up into my lap, as I was sort of diagonal in the air. Petting and talking to her as we rose I saw my feet were furry dog paws. I began to descend, and a huge walking tree came up, and we went into it. Something happened I don’t remember, but the tree was friendly. Then I was alone and rushing to the ground, but right before impact, a force stopped me, and I landed like a feather. Then in another non-lucid dream I was in a school, and after English class (which I was behind in, but the teacher hadn’t come, so it didn’t matter yet) I went to the lounge area and was working on the longer poem [the poetry part of the cover letter to The Atlantic]. I was putting lines together about war, and a TV above me was showing war images. There were children at the table, but I was so absorbed I ignored them. Then I thought that the adults seeing me, who had never seen me before and only heard I had a thing for children, would think what they heard wasn’t true or an exaggeration. As I thought this there appeared in my hands another page of lines someone had given me that I realized I would have to integrate into the page I just thought I’d finished. As I looked, the pages turned to paper waffles, and the writing was in the slants and hard to see.

A fat burden upon time,
a single potent fruit. [vision of in the distance an orange tree with one orange]
[vision of a magazine rack and the top of The Atlantic visible, in yellow, which I later saw on the Internet, the December issue]
Climbed trees on new heights.

Yes we’ve changed subjects, but before we return to the dog, let me say again, since getting it published is a major theme of this story, that I’ve submitted an epic poem, The Literary Eye, to The Atlantic Monthly, but they have not responded, and it’s been four and half months now. It’s doubtful they ever will, unless of course Calling All Cars Just to Say Hello has them reconsider. The dream seems to be talking about the cover letter to The Atlantic that I wrote while on Crete, what I’ve explained in other parts of this story, which didn’t get finished and submitted, as the poetry I put together from my notebooks and included in the letter was just too much of a task, what with so many new lines coming as I was trying to wrap it up—“Lost in a maze, paper sense,” my muse on the matter. It could also be talking about this present writing, as I’m incorporating new lines with the old, but let’s hope this one doesn’t fall unread into the waffles. The lines after the dream, however, seem to be talking about that epic poem as the potent fruit, prevision I might add, since it would be 20 years before I’d write that fat burden upon time.

I should interpret the vision of the magazine: yellow is a color representing the thinking mind, a universal symbol, and December, or Christmas really, is a personal symbol for my work getting out to the public; a Christmas gift it’d be. Although it doesn’t escape my notice that I’ll be posting this writing that you’re reading right this minute in December—a single potent fruit? Can there be more than one? Whatever the case, is the second vision prevision that The Atlantic will publish the epic poem (the way I’ve explained in part 3 in an endnote), or is it just showing that it, or whatever the fat burden on time is, will get published at some point, The Atlantic only a symbol for the magazine or site that does publish it? One thing’s for sure: they are definitely thinking about it, and whether or not to publish isn’t what’s captured their thought. The Literary Eye has. Has this writing captured yours?

Photo of my feet, Leelow’s paws, and Lucy’s tail

A couple of days after the above dream with the dog, this muse came:

Will never be able to let me go. [vision of being on the old dirt road in Jewett, Texas (Old Durant Road, my favorite boyhood haunt) and surprised to see the dog friend I have here there. Then another vision of pulling the skin away from her belly and writing the line there, but not with my will so much as with hers. I worried she would hurt herself, the area there being so delicate and all. She followed me here to the new place (the cabin) after a walk, and she just stayed. But after following me where I hitchhiked to Mires, she didn’t return here]

A day or so later this dream and subsequent muse:

Dream of the dog being outside, having come back. This seemed to repeat. Then I was at an old couple’s house to receive my daily portion of their leftovers they were giving me (in the dream), and who came up but the dog, inside. Last, the woman brought her out of a room, carrying her on her hip as she was now a very beautiful blond baby boy.

A dog of many choices.
You loved your son, didn’t yah?
And there’ll never, ever be enough room for that room.
I can’t figure I lost her too late.

She was a pretty dog but a mutt, medium-sized and blond. I did not understand at the time why my inner vision was so focused on her. I did not interpret the above dream and muse to mean I was being told that she was my child and to love her like that. I liked her, but she was just a dog that had adopted me, how I saw it at the time: egoistic. It took Lisa Joy Rottweiler to teach me the love of dogs, and then little Rascal, his horrible death just the icing on the cake of my rending heart pain and deep realization of the importance of dogs in our lives. Rottweilers consider themselves the royalty of dogs and show you it’s such a privilege to have and pet them— “more principle than other dogs, more principle to their name, to going outside…” (my muse today). A Rottweiler puppy is now the image of that one thing in the world that has all the water of the world glistening on it, what my eyes most like to feast upon, relishing every move, replacing little boys (who now hold 2nd place), and changing that number one object into one platonic, a significant change in your relationship with the world. When you fall in love it’s all over. The puppy’s got your number, but that’s no longer a 6; it’s a 9, if you know numbers.

The “never, ever” line bears a moment spent on its interpretation. Back then I’d be thinking as lines were coming, trying not to, and this line came as I was thinking about a 11-year-old Black boy who was skinny dipping with his friends in the polar bear exhibit of a Brooklyn Zoo and was eaten alive by two bears, screaming the whole time. I attributed this at the end of the line as the interpretation, and my notebooks are full of such misunderstood interpretation, but I’ve since realized the muse uses my thoughts to continue what it’s saying, integrates them as it were but still continues what it’s talking about. So, there will never, ever be enough room for that room, the zoo horror, and, or the main point, we won’t really ever be able to view and treat dogs as our sons and daughters, but, I’ll add, that doesn’t mean we don’t as a race give it our best shot, and you can also interpret that line to mean there’ll never be enough room for the way I wrongly loved boys—multi-interpretational, that’s dream and muse.

The last line is just sad. Only now do I realize I lost her, in my heart that is. Then, like I said, she was just a stray dog I liked to have around: “Good morning dog. Am I God to you? Do you need something to eat?” The muse mentioned her often, like she was somebody, but it didn’t register. It gave me a nudge, but it didn’t get me to hold her, not heart-close like the muse suggested: [vision of the dog standing and wagging her tail] “I held her to me.” I was fond of her though, really liked her, petted her often and rubbed her belly. I’d even talk to her in my muse: “But you didn’t…I told you, not all men do.” [conversation with the dog about not beating her] [Vision of biting her on the top of the head (to open it) to get her out of her abused, submissive posture]. Excited to leave the island and be off on another traveling adventure, I’m ashamed to tell you that I didn’t feel her loss, only the reality of her coming to see me on the boat out at sea: [vision of the dog jumping up here where I’m sleeping in the video room of the ferry and putting both paws on my hand and arm]. I’m only now realizing the suffering she felt when I left and can interpret the line of muse that came soon after she adopted me: “She’s about to die.” Death in dream and muse can mean physical death, but more often it means some important part of you, or who the subject is, is about to die, or, put another way, you or they will experience a death over it, how the dog must have felt when I left her.

“Watch her. See how she is.” [vision of being in a classroom and inadvertently rocking a shelf, which toppled a bookcase on top of the teacher’s dog, a Golden Retriever. At first she seemed hurt, but then she stretched and was fine. The others in the room were not at all concerned, only I was] This muse came soon after arriving in Sicily. I interpret it to be telling the story of leaving the dog in representative terms, the social setting a classroom, the book case my endeavor of writing, the teacher myself, which might be likened to the overall me in the vision, the dog of course the dog but here golden colored, showing her as the highest kind of dog, the crushing harm only temporary, and the others who weren’t concerned the parts of myself who didn’t feel it, which was the most of me. So it seems she didn’t suffer too terribly long and bounced back rather quickly after her ‘death’. But what attention the divine muse is paying to this dog, which is for our eyes many years later. We might be assured the divine cared for her back then also. It just makes you wonder what happens in cases like Kittypuss.

I have the dog’s name as Jan one single time in my notebook, and I don’t know what that’s doing there because I always seem to remember calling her just dog. She was actually, for me, for you too, representative of Dog, but I didn’t know that then, and later in life, as you can see, I’d love them for what they’re worth, which is they have the worth of being our children, and that means so much more than it sounds; it has a spiritual and soul sense to it. Because I’m a poet seer that tries to see the world, I’m trying to show this worth to you. The “held her to me” line was part of a larger formation, which gives some picture of what I’m showing you. Here are the lines immediately after that one:

As you know firmaments can also be lines
spread over the inner town of spiritual man,
and you made it safe for dogs,
where openness increases itself. [vision of a front door slowly creaking open all the way]

You need a dog story with a happy ending. Jan (my muse has adopted that name for her) made me think often of a dog I knew in Jerusalem named Jin, because they had some similar features, and because Jin was the last dog I’d gotten involved with before Jan. Jin’s story has shown my heart the suffering of Dog and my hope the real possibility of redemption. I have mentioned a time or two the so called hunger strike (we drank banana milk, soya milk, and milk) I did with Lars of Demark just outside the Old City of Jerusalem. The last week of the three-week fast we spent in a campsite on the Mount of Olives, staying up there about a week longer, until the naughty Palestinian boys who hung around our camp finally got a hold of our wood saw, after repeated attempts to get it, and chopped down a tree, which luckily wasn’t an olive tree. It still got us kicked off the mountain, although not rudely. We were invited to meet some Palestinian journalists at a house nearby, given tea and told things we didn’t know, chief among them was that young Palestinian men and women faced almost insurmountable odds in trying to go to the university, and if they left to go abroad, they were not allowed to return, ever (we had that tea in 1995). I remembered at the time the special problems semester I did about ancient Sparta. Did you know they’d sometimes hold an ‘Olympics’ for their slaves, and they’d march the winners over the hill, out of sight, and kill them? But I’m off track, how far though from the way we generally treat dogs is a good question. I should mention that Israel’s brutal treatment of Palestinians is salted throughout the muse notebooks I kept during my adventure travel, as well as a host of other important international issues I’m not able to include in this story, but I can include this here. I’d have to add that in my muse’s strong criticism of Israel there is never a call to hate it or will its demise, adding too that integration is an overall ideal in my muse, and that it doesn’t see nation states that are based on or ruled by a single religion or ethnicity, what my muse calls a Volatile Land Act, as viable in the long run. You can’t help but have the Spartans un-honorably controlling their helots, “and you will have 9/11 because of it,” (lines today).

Are victims, though, always different creatures than victimizers? Although a lot of it may have had to do with their oppression as a people, I don’t think all of it can be chalked up to that, and I’m talking about the bad behavior of those boys from the village above our camp on the Mount of Olives. It was over the top. When we moved up there, Jin had a litter of puppies, and the boys, to show off, threw a couple off the small cliff that edged our campsite, seriously injured another by sticking a stick up its ass (we all commented on what was probably being done to him), and whether any puppies survived I don’t know, but shortly there were none left. I actually think one of the older boys, a thoughtful one, took the remainder away, but I don’t know. We took great pains to protect Jin from them, as she soon became the mascot for our little group, not called by all of us The Jerusalem Peace Group.

One day the owner of the dog, a boy of about 14, marched down and wanted to take Jin off to kill her he said. We all stood in his way. The thoughtful boy told us the boy had just been beaten badly by his father. Talk about a whipping dog. I ran up into the village and into the mosque and pleaded with the imam (I guess that was his title) to intervene. He told me the boy owned the dog, and he could do nothing. I told him he just wouldn’t and left. I did see in his face and speech some recognition of the role Jin played for those boys: the scapegoat. I went to find the boys and Jin to try and stop them from killing her. It has a happy ending I promise you. Near the Russian Church I saw the worst of the boys sitting on an old, broken stone wall. “We killed her,” he said. “You will grow up and die in prison,” I told him, not knowing that his people put a lot of stock in proclamations like that spoken off the cuff but with authority. He looked stricken and jumped off the wall and took me to Jin, who was shaking like a leaf but still alive. I took her back to camp, and everyone was frantic with waiting. We examined her and found no wounds, and then we showered her with affection and vowed to rescue her off the mountain.

A couple of months later, when I returned to Jerusalem from Safed, I visited Ramon, a young man from Amsterdam (18ish) and a member of our group there on the mountain, who was living in the abandoned Palestinian village of Lifta not far from the central bus station. It was a dwelling place for vagabonders and backpackers, both Jews and non, during those days. I had heard that he’d taken Jin with him when he left the mountain, but I hadn’t seen that myself. When I got to the entrance to the village I heard a lone, loud bark and looked up. Standing up above us on the left side of the remains of the gate was Jin, looking proud and every bit like Rin Tin Tin. She had barked at me, wanting to show herself to me, and I kid you not she posed the perfect stance of Dog pride, a note of mischief too in her ‘look at me’ bark that made me clap like Mozart had just played and say, “Well Jin, look at you!” Of all the happy moments in my life where I’m happy for someone else, ones where justice is served, someone is given their due, this one stands out as the most wonderful. I take the memory out every now and then and show it to myself to restore my faith in the world. The transformation from a fearful, cowering dog, with her tail between her legs, how she always stood on the mountain, to that proud person standing there, tail telling the world she’s on top of it, you would’ve loved to have seen that. Lifta had lifted her up, and all the world too if you’d let it.

You will pardon me for preaching a moment of the need for unstructured free zones like Lifta, or how it was in ’95, open to alternative and unorthodox people showing up when they want and leaving when they want and only following the bare minimum rules of order for a civil society, places like the hippie caves of Matala too, like a lot of places. You readily accept great risk, even for children, with your vehicles of transportation, cramped cities and crowded civilization, accept untold numbers of death in those. Did you know that for society to function well it needs free zones in the same way that the world needs undisturbed nature and old growth forest and children need unstructured, unsupervised playtime? I’m not talking about free-for-alls, or just letting danger stalk our kind. I’m talking about the availability of discovering what more there it to us than the rules of nature give us, that being our nature, world nature, and social nature. They attract Joni Mitchells and invite spiritual experience.

Visiting Ramon, he told me that the other night or so, as he lay awake in the abandoned house he’d chosen to live in, alone, early night, he felt his consciousness expand and grow past himself, past the house, past Lifta and Jerusalem and then into space, becoming as big, as impossible as that sounds, as the universe. It’s one of the most common of spiritual experiences, at least from people I’ve spoken to about having them, where your consciousness expands bigger than yourself, where, as it’s described in Savitri, “the conscious ends of being went rolling back,” although not necessarily as big as it did with Ramon. With him I think he had a tag with the cosmic being. At any rate, the experience didn’t come from following rules or a spiritual practice of any kind, although from me he’d heard about spirituality, and so it had probably entered his thinking mind, of the experiential, hands on kind, as that’s what I spoke about when I talked about it, not meditation, diet and so forth. I might add that I never mentioned the kind of experience he had. It just happened because he was open and ready for it. I can’t help but speculate that at that moment in the holy city thousands of Jews, Moslems, and Christians were following rules to the letter, but this kid from No Structure got a little of what they all were after. I can’t stress this enough; you don’t get to realization (spiritual enlightenment), or even spiritual experience, by hup, two, three, four or any series of steps.

Lifta, on the hillside יעקב, CC BY-SA 3.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0&gt;, via Wikimedia Commons

At the global level,
we’ll put his name on it,
Buckshot,
a dog for all time.

(today’s muse)

“My little emotional being loved its mother and its dog’s presence,” (muse in the cabin). Soon after Jan came into my life, the muse began to talk about Buckshot, just a line here and there, like that one. He was like a third parent to me. That big hairy head of his was one of the first faces I saw poking into my crib, as first and as often as human family, and, lick, lick, lick. As a crawling infant and stumbling toddler he was my babysitter, as I was too wild to stay in the house very long, and you might understand why if you’ve been following the story, and my mom and dad were too busy, or too exasperated with me, to go outside with me all the time, and so Buckshot did. It was family folklore, that ole dog following me around the big yard, crawling with me under the house, taking me by the hand with those gentle to family big teeth he had and leading me back into the yard, as we had no fence. My sister fell into a big hole in that yard, the crowing story told, where there was a copperhead, and he jumped in and killed it before it bit her. They spoke about him as being almost human, so aware of himself he was ashamed to go two toilet in front of people and so would go behind the bushes. I’m not making this up; that’s the way they spoke about him.

During the three or so years I’ve talked about often in my writings, when I was studying Classical Greek in university, when my inner life was open to a degree you would have trouble accepting as fact, I put my will into seeing him in dream, and, becoming lucid in a dream and remembering my intention and willing it, a portal opened up, and it was as though I were seeing far into time, as there was a hue to the scene of oldness, just a little window that opened up a few seconds, and there was Buckshot, standing and looking at me, giving me a big bark. I was opening a memory from before I had an ego to put memories around, and so it was like that, the wayback machine having difficulty in rounding it up. He was a big dog, half Collie and half German Shepherd, the hairy variety, both his parents army dogs. My dad took him home from the army, met my mother immediately after, and they got married, in Bacliff, Texas, the family hometown, and Buckshot was the family dog, and he didn’t like anybody but our family, except my grandfather Lee, especially didn’t like my first best friend, my cousin Jerry Lloyd, born five weeks after I, one of those lifelong dream characters who you wonder is also dreaming of you their whole life. Maybe Buckshot wanted to bite him because he knew he’d grow up and not talk to me for no reason other than the stigma I wear, as I have done nothing to him or anyone he loves. The things that stick in your craw, and I’m not just commenting on mine. Anyway, I had another dream of Buckshot after the look in the window at him, what must’ve opened that window for me to enter in, one where I was right there with him in the yard, I about two or so, and he didn’t want me to do something or go somewhere, what it was I don’t remember. He was talking to me using a combination of noises: low barks, whines, grunts, groans and the like. It was a language he’d made up specifically to watch me and keep me safe, which I understood at the time.

I speak Dog. I do because of Buckshot, but even if you don’t have a Buckshot in your home when you’re born, if just have a dog there with its furry face in yours, someone you romp around the room with, licking you to hysterics, you’re going be a dog lover and have tools for healing we don’t yet know exist. I’m showing you one, the healing of a social disorder most can’t make heads or tails of. On that aforementioned LSD trip on Spyrock Mountain I took in 1988 on my 27th birthday, the catalyst for me embarking on what I called immediately afterwards the personal growth process towards wholeness and healing, otherwise known as the spiritual path, a German Shepherd named Jake was there, and for the day portion of my trip he was my babysitter, and I just lost myself alone in exploration-play down a mountain streambed, Jake watching over me (they know when we trip), just like Buckshot used to do.

That night I would go over the top, out of the human life sphere of inner experience and into the bottom level of Overmind, but that’s another story, told in The Literary Eye. In the morning, Jake was there when I took a walk from my sister’s cabin, and he’d been waiting for me, me all wide-eyed from being what seemed reborn, still tripping in a fundamental way, not my balls off, just that everything I saw or thought about had so much meaning behind it, too much. It was hellish then, but I’ve gotten used to it, although it’s not near as intense as it was those first few weeks after the trip, but I still see the world as representation. On that walk I coined the name of my path, with Jake beside me, understanding that I needed healed from pedophilia, not just enlightened, or that was my road to realization. Little did I know what a big part Dog would play in that process, has played since my life began, was playing then, and played in that cabin near Festos in the form of Jan.

You might not understand what an emotional being is, and, since it’s one of the most basic understandings that help you heal from causing yourself and others harm, it bears some explaining. The Mother and Sri Aurobindo call it the vital being, one of three beings that make up the lower self, the mental being and physical being being the others. It can also be understood as the life-body, but it really is its own being, as the others are. They make up a confederation, not a union, and it’s their quarrels that trouble us so much. “We are such a deep dimension,” (the muse in 2002). The vital is the emotion and impulse part of us, the seat of desire and preference, the vehicle of the life force. You ever have dreams of a big, hairy creature that has no head, only a very long and thin neck, and it loves you like your dog, just wants to cuddle? That’s your vital being, and I’d dreamed of it a few times by the time I learned what it was from my teachers, how I know it’s real and not just some concept they made up. A lot of healing work involves taming a rebellious vital, cleaning it and getting it to play ball with the divine, and you can’t do that like it’s a monster, since it’s one of your egos too (the ego on the body is centered on the genitals. Things falling into place?). You have to convince the vital to change, because you just can’t force it, but when you know that, change becomes possible, because, when you add that and subordinate it to the process of surfacing your soul, what you organize your lower self around, all three of its beings, you have a handle on how.

Water is in your ear.
Knowledge is in your deeps.
Expand at the center
your relationship to the world.
It’s a soul-wise.
We keep rockin’ down the clock tonight. [heard sung by Bill Haley and His Comets]
I think you’re happy.
From where you stand extend reality.
Can you make it bigger than what it is?
It’s just getting down to the truth of things.

Here burning bush talk to me:
you’ve got that rose car on pavement.
Follow the narrative.
It’s got Fort Knox.

The real planet happening:
following love’s ways,
following love tutor call.
How about Lifta?
[sound vision of a dog bark, a single loud bark]
Stay out of luxury apartments.

You’ve got it blister;
holy shit are they mad at you.
Will you give us a pillow then?
Turn it into a Holy Grail
and charge attraction.
Just kidding with this lot.

The joy not intended to take moves on.
What has been your construct all this way?
All that involved being an author for us, being attacked.
We foot upon it.
We give the recipe and the gun.
The Queen is hurry
I’m available.

She’s really happy daddy
about his son.
We name on Monday.
If we don’t come home tonight…
Anyway it was there.
What’s a leader in this situation?
You’re hearin’ one.
Now hear me:
that kid.

The boy was fish.
Where do we go with him?
It’s not about him.
He’s just part of the reading group.
I’m a lover not a fighter a lover not a biter.
When do we hand him over to you?
What boy?

They don’t have a bad puppy dog that they beat.
I wear a helmet
in everything about that boy.
We negotiate the day together.
All his life I’ve been a parent,
the hands on parenting since he was three.
We’re here now.
I was there when his parents met.
I was at the hospital the night he was born.
Ever he’s heard my voice.
I spoke to him from his mother’s belly in the womb.

We live together.
He’s got nine years,
ten in December.
Nitish is his name.
He’s my honey pumpkin.
He has his world in me.
That’s where his heart stays
when he’s away.

Look at him.
Have you ever seen a seer poet growing up?
Wait his moon.
It’s almost upon him
his muse.
It’s his freedom don’t take it away.

photo taken (by me) climbing Arunachala when he was 8

Tiger in a coat,
that’s a past needle of mine.
I don’t think you know what I mean.
We’ve parted ways tiger and me.
What’s the story now?
I’m good to that little boy,
and I put
the best possible roadmap on his brain,
and I don’t wrap my nuts around ‘im.

Well it’s 10 o’clock.
You know he’s gonna be first in line
to benefit from my program.
He’s going to be on the lookout
for a new role model:
the enlightened being.

It’s where we’re goin’.
Where did you think I was going?
I do have my limits.
It’s the beginning of disease
you don’t go for enlightenment.
Spiritual enlightenment
is what we’re goin’ for.

It escaped me.
Is it free period?
It’s written down.
Orthodox,
the orthodox Jew,
trouble landing on Earth.
Can’t see that fucking Mozart—
you see I am a host maker;
my phone,
give me my phone,
the firsthand of every event.
Hello?
I can hear you.
Gonna help you see the world.

We’re not gonna leave that boy in freezing temperatures.
He belongs to his parents he belongs to Donny—
the Mother on love.
I rightly criticized
creating a hospital
that did not allow healing.
You want this.
Blueprints you have to heal Earth,
a spiritual zone to give you what you need.
You know Donny:
I will take you home.
[heard the music for the lines “Gaily they ring / while people sing songs of good cheer” in “Carol of the Bells” or could be the same music in “Shchedryk” for that matter]

Have you ever seen anything like this
clothed?
Tell me it’s crap.
We’re not allowed to be frank about society
or to ask to give up belts.
We’re in trouble.
And you think we’re human/free? [words spoken simultaneously]
Are you watchin’ TV?
I just stepped on a tin can.
Well, I have something for you.
It will challenge your perceptions of reality.
What more could you want?
Are you just gonna stand there and slap me?
Are you just gonna call the authorities?
Try me.

(today’s muse)

“Wide awake as we can get passed may prevent the act in the near future,” (line from the cabin). I saw it as an isolated line warning me of preventing something there, and I was on the lookout for what it could be, and I still missed it, both times, as the line’s part of a small formation of lines that also talk about a coming fall in Auroville the next year, probably the defining one of my life, if the amount of muse prevision about it is any indication. Anyway, the next day or so after the line, a mouse got into the cabin, scurried in the front door as I walked in, and I had to take everything out, even the bed apart, to get at it so to get it out, but in doing so, I accidentally killed it. I felt bad as I took its little body and disposed of it. Big deal you say, a little mouse. Starting that very night, field mice attacked the cabin, or that’s how it felt, but what really happened was they frantically began trying to get in, and they had not done so up to that point, and I didn’t know they would try like that. Somehow they got into the ceiling right above the head of the bed. Their scratching to get in was louder than a radio and quickly became the main outer event in the cabin once the sun went down, and it’d last a couple of hours or more. A little mouse you say. Obviously I’d offended Mice itself. Falling asleep became a drama, and by that I mean it wasn’t just the obnoxious noise keeping me awake but a vexed vital, mad at them damn mice. When falling asleep vision is a mainstay of your day, you see the problem. What was a body to do?

I pondered over the problem during the day, kept an intention in my will to solve it, which also brings up solutions in my muse. It was silent about it, and the days were going by, and the racket went on. But the solution didn’t come from the muse. It came from what Savitri calls sign’s spell, what I’ve somewhat explained in the preceding part concerning catching world waves. You don’t only ride them traveling, since life itself I’ve said, and many others also, is a journey, and not just a metaphor of one. They help with daily life too. I don’t remember where I found it, around the cabin or one of my long afternoon walks, but as soon as I saw it, it was like it cast a spell on me, that is, it had this hue about it that made it stand out from its scene and capture my attention. It was a small stone shaped like a mouse, no definition, but it’s shape was such that it looked like a mouse sitting, curving upwards from its base like it did. I picked it up and took it to my altar, which, if you remember, was on a small corner table near the foot of the bed, where I sat the mice-stone down and gave it homage, giving Mice their due.

An altar is like a ship. It sails your intentions to fruition. You put something on it and make it a focus of concentration, not only when you look at it on the altar, but when you think about it, and that builds momentum, and so you concentrate on it more. Center stage on my altar were photos of my teachers the Mother and Sri Aurobindo, to the sides were paintings of Narasimha and Kali. A painting of Jesus alternated being on my altars during my adventure travels, but since I was especially at that point replacing his ideal with the Mother and Sri Aurobindo’s, which is the supramental transformation on Earth, and replacing who I called on for help (lucid dreams on Crete I haven’t included show this transition, where I go to call on him but choose instead the Mother). I also put interesting, strange, and/or beautiful natural objects on my altar I found while I walked the world, not to be focal points of concentration, but to be a moving, constantly changing, work of handy art. I still do that but also put photos of people so to concentrate on them, tickets for about to go somewhere, bills that need help, anything small enough to fit and important enough to put there. Sympathetic magic you say. I say it helps, works sometimes too enough consciousness is on it, enough times you can’t just chalk it up to chance, or you could, you just have your head in the sand, and if you do, you don’t have the consciousness to do it anyway. It takes the type of belief that leaves little room for doubt. That night after putting the mice-stone on the altar and spending the rest of the day concentrating on it, with respect, with acknowledgement of the importance of Mice, realizing it wasn’t the stone I was focusing on but the protecting spirit of Mice, the mice did not come back, didn’t come back the whole time I was there except for a few minutes on one single night sometime after. Are you hearing this?

“In eating they not only feel Miss Kyoto but a stake in the lives of all animals” [vision of a man and a woman eating an animal they had named Miss Kyoto, a line that came at Irmgard’s] “Perhaps the squirrel has as much to say about being human,” (a line came that came in the cabin, and it’s interesting that for some years in India, which was in the future here, I’d be quite involved with squirrels, raising them, rescuing them). “As you killed it even then the gecko got big. It didn’t want to die,” (the muse commenting after I’d stepped on a gecko in the cabin on accident and felt terrible as I watched it die). “Each time it has to be a manifestation of God you are eating and not just a couple of eggs,” (it answering the question I’d asked it of eating eggs). “Transform their natures into helpful creatures. Flies fly much faster when I let them go,” (my muse at Irmgard’s about the swatting of flies in my apartment). Notice I’m not being given a rule. My conscience is engaged. In the cabin I was a vegetarian but not a vegan, although my muse frowned on things like butter because it disturbed the body more to process it than olive oil, which it liked very much, the same reason it was not too fond of sugary things. It liked whole grains, oatmeal, whole wheat bread, those sorts of things: “Mistaken white bread.” Cheese and milk, these things my muse didn’t object to, but it doesn’t make hard and fast rules for all time on eating, on anything. Where I was, what was available, what I could afford, those factors my muse factored in with my body’s needs, and it made its suggestions and recommendations accordingly. Just stop a moment and consider the intimate detail in which the divine knows us. Would there not be a personal, innate divine in all of us? It’d happened in Argentina and other places, it didn’t object to eating non-veg. When I was hitching in Argentina, there was a brief international ban on it selling its beef, and so people were giving it away, and vagabonding, with all the meals missed that entailed, a being a vegetarian, with the need of making sure you got enough protein that entails, and here I wasn’t getting a lot of it, I gladly ate the beef. It’s the damndest thing coming to India after being a vegetarian for so many years and eating non-veg, but what can I tell you? I don’t always listen to my muse? Harmlessness, however, is on our calendar, and in that evolving journey, considering what you eat God, well then, whatever you eat, you at least eat consciously. I think the mice story sends the message it needs to: of men and mice, okay then, they’re important too.

End violence—
knowledge will feel dominated by a higher power.
That’s the story she wrote.
We join hands.
Can I kill this bug?
Bitten by some knowledge this bug’s dangerous.
You wouldn’t go farther than that,
unless you have to eat.
I wouldn’t kill bears,
execute prisoners.
You gotta gun pointed at you?
Shoot back.
A soldier is a good person to have around.
It’s their performance as people that counts.
We need them in dire moments.
Are there spurs on this moment?
How many humans did that bear eat?
I don’t know, kill it.

Do we just stand here and counts sins?
Let’s rejoice we’re alive
and be a friend of all creatures.
What about vegetarian?
Preferences can’t always be eliminated.
We’re gettin’ there.

No one wanted the atom.
They laughed at its Sophocles.
It’s mountain high, you know?
Alright unwrap this business.
You hear that?
Punctuate humanity.

Each afternoon I left the cabin and went walking, long walks of several kilometers, looking especially for what my muse called an “old nook joy.” “Is still found the waterfall,” the muse using waterfalls to represent more than just waterfalls on Crete. Most times Jan followed me, but she didn’t ease my loneliness, the hole in my vital I wasn’t filling with anything, not knowing that Jan was there to help with that or even that she really could. Lisa Rottweiler would teach me that, but now, years away from her nearness, I was terribly homesick. I walked and I walked. The homesickness had reached a peak right before Christmas, while I was still at Irmgard’s, when I spontaneously left my body and went and visited my mom’s living room that was decorated for Christmas, the food on all tabletops and countertops, covered, waiting for the coming Christmas party, the lights of the Christmas tree illuminating the scene like a small, colorful sun. Just a moment there on the physical plane out of my body, and then I slipped into a lucid dream (still in the inner vicinity I might add), where I saw my mom and Bucky (my step-father) in the kitchen talking, as though from a great distance, not so much of miles, but a distance of hearts. They did not have the same feelings for me at that Christmas, or any thereafter. Although I was the same Donny I had always been, society’s view of me had become worse and worse, had reached that pitch that your family would disown you if you were me.

Home for the holidays, and all the warmth and mirth that suggested, had gotten out of the army and the university and become a vagabonding, longhaired, spiritual, social drop out, worse, the worst thing he could be in society. I called a couple of times before and during the holidays, collect of course, and I so wanted to ask them to fly me home and fly me back again, and it wasn’t like they couldn’t afford it, but I didn’t ask. Unprecedented in my adventure travel I know, but I had the feeling it was my last chance to see them again. Turned out I was right, because soon after that I became a lost cause in their eyes, one of those people, the kind you didn’t want to see. I can’t tell you what it’s like to lose your family, and you love them so very much, and it’s not from death or any separating thing in this world; it’s from their rejection of you. Right on you say, righteous people? I really think we need a new definition of what it means to be good: you are bad to no one. How else will we get rid of bad?

“These tombs were in oil,” [dream-experience where it seems I was lucid and inside a toilet, looking at the hole in the basin, which was white and very clean, with jets of water flowing down as in a flush. I was afraid of shit appearing in it, but none did. I know it seems odd, but I do believe it was at this point that the consciousness went up over the head, and I experienced it as the eyes going too. It had that definite buoying up, flowing, current feeling. I was surprised it went up all the way to a large, white light bulb and even higher. I consciously relaxed into it so it could last as long as possible, and I thought for a second maybe I could stay up there, but then I began to fly, and the raised consciousness feeling abated. I found myself at night in my mom’s living room, which was all decorated for Christmas. For a second or so I was there on the physical plane in the subtle body [the dreambody], but then with the emotions bubbling up, I went into a subtle physical plane. I went into the kitchen and went to my knees on the floor, just crying my eyes out because I could be there for Christmas and probably never again. I could feel angels hearing me and drawing nigh to my pain, but I knew the [crying] was only a vital indulgence on my part. Even as I cried I asked the Lord to show me how to lose this attachment. Then something shifted and lucidity wavered, and mom and Bucky were in the living room. She took me to my room to give me $20 and a note, which I wasn’t able to read. The another shift to full lucidity, and I was in a huge, old, dim house, searching for how to lose the attachment. I asked the Lord many times. I was on the phone trying to hear the answer when the line came]

The oil refers to the vital longing to be there for Christmas, which made me not only emotionally wet but sticky and stained, damn near in despair. It lingered on me the whole time I had left on Crete and made me walk to try to get it off. It grew into more than mere homesickness; it became the hole of the whole wide world, what we usually use some substance, comfort food included, people, media, or activity, especially sex, to immerse ourselves in so to try and fill, what we are basically doing all the time so as not to feel that void inside, but what I was here only throwing walks into to appease, in a not so natural nature, which didn’t work. Can I say here that normal waking consciousness sucks? But I’m sorry folks, you have to spend most of your time in it to get out of it for good, or at least that’s what I’ve been learning. It’s the hardest part of the spiritual path, empting yourself of the world slap, dab in the middle of it, but not having anything to fill yourself with except faith, and anybody can tell you that’s not adequate. You need the real thing, what the faith is for. Nothing else fills that void. Is it the bottom line of the human condition to suffer, to never be satisfied? Would we want to surpass ourselves if it weren’t?

“Do you know where anyone could get something vegetarian around here?” A line that came at the end of a dream that’s talking about the ancient church I’d visited during the day, meaning the place was not a good place to eat a meditation at. About a month after the mice episode, on a long walk over hill and dale, I found a very old, Christian baptistery, dated the 5th century. I went inside, nothing preventing anyone, to the inner chamber and to the altar and did a meditation there. The walls of the inner chamber were full of human bones, crammed full, skulls, rib cages, hands and feet, all hanging out the spaces in the walls made for them. Eerie it was, dark to the sunlight that hardly lit the room. It wasn’t that it had the feel of history, although history was present. It had the feel of death. I paid little attention to that and tried to concentrate, hoping I might hear some muse about the place or the people that worshipped there so very long ago. Nothing. It was too uncomfortable to sit right, too dark feeling to meditate there on light. When I returned to the cabin I had an odd sense, like the cabin had new shadows or something. I shrugged it off.

The next day I heard: “I picked up three ghosts there” [sense-vision of there being two signs of that, as I went in and as I left, which I missed at the time]. I felt stupid I’d done a meditation there and pondered over what to do. The muse was strangely silent on this regard. I had to get out of it on my own. Get out of what? Three ghosts with me there in the cabin. You don’t believe me I know. But you know, I’d bet that within this past week, there was a dead person looking over your shoulder, trying to get something of your life, some taste they’ve lost. One could be there right now. You never know, unless you can see. You wouldn’t have a cow over one’s there or not. It’s a part of the normal, everyday, unseen, as paranormal as we make it. Be that as it may, the spirit of Mice had taught me something significant: pay something spirit its due, and it’ll leave you alone, unless it’s a demon of course. I bought three long, blue candles, as that color just seemed to fit, and maybe it didn’t, but it worked anyway. I put them on the ship of my altar and set each to sail by lighting them with both the element of fire and the flame of my tapas, my spiritual energy, spending the time of their burning talking to the dead people, not continuously, just every few minutes or so, asking them to leave, not like they were monsters or anything, with respect, like they just needed to move on, at least out of my living room. Afterwards, the shadows of the cabin, that kind that weren’t cast by anything under the sun, left. I felt that, like some old hunger new to the room had gone, like an ancient foreboding recently arrived had vanished. You want to count my chickens? Why they’ve hatched.

Sittin’ by the kitchen fire.
What is his line of glory?
Oh my God I’m
the hero of this story.
You are the 100th monkey.
Even the 100th
you have to fix.

The story’s got some outline,
and it’s better than observable genius in the world.
Their random pickup
will show you a spectacle.
I’m hungry I’ll take
the slice of it I want.

The seeing with divine eyes on the subject
will grasp nature at its load,
see everything in the round of itself,
helicopter
image
so you see its purpose in time,
how it relates to the whole,
what it does there
and your relation to it.

Read a book
and that book revealed.
Tell a story
and have time surrender its secrets,
a lot of symbolic
of God that is the story.
Will you dance with me?
I’m a bus driver,
and I’ll take you home.
I’ve got you by the hand.

(today’s muse)

From my notebook I can see I had two jobs while in the cabin: painting hotel rooms, whitewashing them really, for an old woman named Kathrina, a job it seems I returned to right before I left, and a day job picking oranges for an old women near Mires. At the first job I found a book to read, which, after I returned home, my muse said right on about, and the second I had prevision about, which also added to the mounting evidence that I needed to cut my hair. The visions are separated by days or weeks:

Vision of a basket of old novels and 88 being on the binding of one like a library number. In the day I had found an old shelf of old novels at the hotel I’m working at. Only one was in English, Arthur C. Clark’s Rama Revealed. I’m reading it, and it’s very appropriate and fits very well now.

Vision of there being a cold water fountain next to kind, sitting old ladies saying, “Good, good.” Bent down to drink but the hair got caught in the branches of a tree. After this vision, during the day, I picked oranges for a very sweet old lady, and my hair kept getting caught in the trees.

You’d want to know about the book. At the time the muse only made some comments about the octospiders in the novel, how their aggression is understandable because they’d lost their world (they a stand in for me—multi-representational the muse), but today’s muse sums up the book and critiques its major flaw in idea:

My God the Gods in space,
there’s Rama Revealed.
Vision of a book,
I mean creation’s scheme.
They all put together
the experimental planet PlayStation
to bring the God in space.

Arthur C. Clark,
he’s missin’ the point.
Outside of space
the creators stand with their notebooks
to bring themselves here.
We see Earth the rose of this endeavor,
and saw off time
the figures in a notebook,
the figures in a universe.

It’s a whole vision for a whole planet:
and God dresses himself in the hours
and ramps up the whole creation
to variable God.
It’s on the table now
so’s you can see it.
Have yourself a merry little Christmas. [heard sung]

And they allowed me in to chat with the prisoners.
Well this ain’t right
the opposition of Earth said.
Who’s gonna win?
Would you like the divine forces?
Gird up your loins.
All hell’s gonna break loose.
We’re in the way now.

You look very serious and stern.
I’m about to lose my dog, my boy,
just so you can read some papers.
I don’t think that’s the meat.
You’re safe sweetheart—
the Mother on business.
Type your paper.
Put it out for the public to see.
You’re good.
You’re supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.

You see this as a primitive station of Earth?
All day we’ve looked at him.
Tryin’ to get away from it.
He just writes it all down,
and just I can’t look myself in the eye
I’ve been so wrong about life.

A new reform
has given such fervent base loss.
That’s the nature of reality:
you’re not small enough yet
to be believed by God,
in any field that you study,
in any road that you look at.
They like to be the center of attention.
Invisible from God’s totality is resting in that individual. [this and above line came on Crete]

To found the sea.
Sense vision the police were on the way.
I did not come out of my room.
Boy did they try.
You mean it’s over?
That’s the end of the story.
It’s not an arrest warrant.

Use the calculations she gave you.
Our dogs similar down this path.
We see them in the morning.
Is it me you’re lookin’ for? [heard sung by Lionel Richie]
They’re ahead of us
on love.
They’re our peers
in barking at neighbors.
We find them behind us
on the evolutionary play-scale.
We are their masters,
how they come
to become men and women.
It’s their evolutionary purpose,
where they meet the stars.
A good cat came in too.
You ever heard of this before?

They fulfill a hole in evolution.
It didn’t seem like us.
It has no hands and feet,
no brain to share with
humanoid.
It’s got the ticket to ride.
They study us become us,
all over the place.
We invite them into our homes,
have them child with us.

The complexities of soul I cannot expound here,
but a monkey is not our next of kin
in the evolution of soul on Earth.
Where evolution meets the planet,
the ape and man are kin.
Now I’ve given you your daily bread.
You see the importance of Dog.
They’re our fellows
in our evolutionary rise.
Don’t fuck around.
Be kind to Dog.

They’ve got the whole world in their hands. [heard sung]
First we’ve got this:
meet you in our evolutionary purpose.
Would not worry.
It’s God’s purpose,
a sunflower.
What is a good dog is his earned purpose?
Evolutionary sweepstakes.

Hear the society of Dog.
I’m French to that responsibility,
a cultural high note.
Dogs spend time cats.
Who’s dog is it supposed to be?
Every human being on the planet.

Will you give me a mask,
okay gloves?
I need to put something in perspective.
I murdered a dog in cold blood
at 13 for the thrill of the kill,
the dog you know.
Who said I felt anything?
No, no I didn’t cry.

Awful the things you hear about online.
You see what that is.
Put them on the runway with me it’s fine.
Fellow backpackers,
talking of Jewish as I walk upon it,
oh my goodness not Jewish, Israel.
It’s a soon hour and a half.
I need to lay or giving the least sense of it.
Now biting heads,
it’ll give you the worst:
the revenge has been gotten.
My God,
we just let God take care of it.
On with the show.
Oh, don’t jump up.
Continuance.

Let the eyes pop out of your head.
We’re lookin’ at reality.
We only see salt.
Reality is behind us.
Or you can say it’s over our heads.
Whatever you say I’m here—
the nature of God speaks.
Football drill
you’ve arranged your hat.
You have a warrant for your arrest.
You will meet God
in the ways
slowly,
like a rising sea.
You will be overcome with God.
There’s no gettin’ around it.
It’s the nature of reality,
whether you deny it or not.
Okay a wake soul shows you
God just comes upon you.
Jingle bell, jingle bell, jingle bell rock. [heard sung by Bobby Helms]

I am mountain in springtime,
all over everywhere,
even in your right to be,
every place on Earth.
You hear God,
today, tomorrow,
and yesterday.
Yesterday and tomorrow,
they’ve got the hat on.
Today is a mounting tide.
You hear the music?

Boy it’s all over the place.
I’m tellin’.
Well congratulations,
you’ve got your social stick out.
Boy it’s everywhere let me tell you.
I don’t know how to integrate it with this.
You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. [heard sung]
Wow, we’ve realized God.

I don’t see any reason why we can’t bring him in from the cold.
Let him in, let him in,
acceptance in society,
a human being with worth.
Can’t yah see he’s tryin’?
‘Cause I’m
really a person, you know?
So just let me in.
I’ve got the most legitimate complaint:
I don’t even have status as a human being.
You won’t talk to me, look at me,
other than to file hatred my way.
There I’ve said it:
I need your help.
Will you just let me in?

What we have here,
oh my God,
he’s bringing it up to shape;
he’s bringing it over:
God is the star of everyone, ain’t he?
You don’t put anybody out in the street, do you?
He’s bringing it in,
a symphony orchestra
to include everyone
to be together.
To include everybody even me,
that’s the music.

Be honest
when you attack my philosophy online,
when you count my sins,
when you talk about the pedophile reeks,
tell the number:
oh reader, watcher, listener,
keep him out of your midst.
Don’t give him the time of day
and give ‘im
pain folks.
Make him suffer
for the problems he’s caused society.
Ill will folks, ill will,
you give him that, you hear?
The amount of ill will we rely on to say it’s not true.

Your room’s hanging out.
I don’t know how to show people this
and they listen.
Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow. [heard sung]
Peace on Earth goodwill towards men,
that’s the bottom line, isn’t it?
You’re up to somethin’.
Congratulations,
you hear my speech.

Now analyze it,
tear it apart,
and get it out of the ballpark.
Will bring it back
the truth of the matter is.

Now Heaven
he’s gonna send me,
old Festos.
My job is to introduce you to my clothes,
whether you like them or not,
even an umbrella
I can show you they are
for everybody everywhere,
even Pegasus.

A Pokémon
I’m not tryin’ to trash reality with,
augment junk.
The lengths we go to be stupid.
I’m giving you ears on reality.
You don’t need glasses for those.
I don’t want anything to do with you.
It’s not like you have a choice.
I’m here anyway.
If you care about them,
give this picture to your mind:
wings on the horse.

In that room
he’s winning a capture too.
Come here babies,
my dogs, my boy.
I’ll be down to the Lake
to take a swim.
I’ll be here with yah
not the most animated campfire in the world.
Lick me that’s fine,
sit next to me.
I’m not gonna be the loudspeaker.
My love will be all over yah,
in warm, tingly glows,
even without petting you,
though that will come in time.
I live here,
and enlightenment
is not me leavin’.
Oh my sweet darlins,
we’re all together you see.

You got things to look at.
You can measure it out.
It’s there for you
to roll it out.
In just a moment
the bulletin board.
Be kind to rewind.
Use your depth perception.
I’m really in harmony.
The front door to somethin’:
you would believe
a laundromat,
a clean toilet?

In the last chapter the claim was made that on Crete a seer in a hut made the first contact with the Greek Gods. That hut was where Festos was built I believe. I was not far from there and in a seer hut myself. You can put the two and two together. “She ravaging Festos, a tough guy, (my muse while still at Irmgard’s, it obviously talking about my feminine side). Soon after going to stay in the cabin this came, “Perhaps just winged the horse” [vision of rising sun appearing from behind the corner or edge of something like a card of sorts], and I had no idea what this referred to or what the universal symbol of winging the horse means. The first concrete indication that I’d be going to the heaven of the Greek Gods were the lines below (the man in the muse is Festos). I only know this in hindsight; at the time I didn’t know what they were talking about.

The Olympia is seen.
Doors open when seen,
a stern and wise man.
He was looking at him as he sat in that navel place.

If someone tells you a story of visiting a heaven world, chances are they didn’t go to one but to some dream simulation of a heaven. It takes not only a purity we can rarely gather and need divine help to obtain, but it also takes a depth and force of contemplation hardly possible unless you’re a hermit socially. Below are a couple of significant dreams that purified me, but again, I didn’t realize I was being readied for anything.

First dream and subsequent muse: I woke up realizing I had been on the verge of lucidity at the end of the preceding dreams, so I merely closed my eyes and opened them on a dream scene. I opened to the force, and it lifted me higher and higher, then took me in a straight line. It turned my body around, and there was a shift in the dream scenery as though I’d crossed a  border. Things were more beautiful and ideal. I lowered and went through a pretty wooded scene, then into a breathtaking place so beautiful I cried. It was a small crystal clear lake created by a stream. On the stony shore was a pyramid naturally shaped by three long stones laying upright, supporting each other. As I began to pass the place, I saw in the distance a fantastically futuristic city of silver, solid steel sky scrappers, but only for a second or two. Then I was returned, flying, to the place I knew to be a healing place. I dove into a deep pool under a large, shady tree, so to cleanse myself from the vital desire. I came up out of the water flying and turned to look at the pyramid so to remember the place, but as I looked it changed and became an obviously purposeful construction, with steps carved into it on the stones, though it was only three meters or so tall. The scene kept shifting as I looked. Then I awoke.

I have the power to do something I didn’t have last night.
Wounded in its own personal opinion.
It’s mutable reach. [vision of the back license plate of a car with the single word DON]

Second dream and subsequent muse, which ended upon hearing these lines sung by Johnny Cash:

When will the soul bear its branding?
When kindness from the rebels of my soul. [Lines heard sung by Johnny Cash and came at the end of a dream where I was a football player at a high school and went to practice, but no one was there because of rain. I’d written a poem to put in the poem exchange, which turned into the book The Prophet. Dream ended looking at the running track, which also was the cover of the book, a horse’s shape suggested in eerie billowy clouds, sounds impossible, but it was both]

I have to be allowed in.
The dream twilight of the idea. [similar to a canto heading in Savitri]
The horses into panic themselves.
The birthplace of God. [vision of finding a large, intricate, gold amulet shaped like a harp, with the name Moses across the strings in silver]
I’m opposed to this my ignorance.
You must have a chance.

There is a lot going on in those lines, not the least of which I’m shedding my cultural religion, Christianity, more specifically the Judeo-Christian-Moslem image of God, but not, I might add, those divine beings as they are to themselves, as their agency appears often in lines of my muse. “It’s still becoming a Christian theater of the Moslem order. Get past Overmind,” the muse had told me earlier, while still at Irmgard’s. That surpassing is a whole other subject, but obviously to even glimpse a heaven of Gods, plural, the go to hell if you don’t believe in one God and one God only had to go. Volumes could be written about the differences between the word of a prophet of a religion and the divine ideal(s) in their purity the religion is trying to embody and the prophet is trying to bring down.

“Put it on the house and threaten Islam when it’s out,” which means blaming the divine house of Islam for Moslem extremism, terrorism, suicide bombing, the narrow-mindedness and bigotry of the Taliban, the wonton cruelty of Islamic State, and even the requirement for women to wear veils, is to blame Islam for what it’s not responsible for; interpretation is, and the prophet is. The wearing of veils is an interpretation of Mohammed’s muse and clearly demonstrates our tendency to take a rule and run with it, get as strict as possible in regards to it, just to be on the safe side we figure, not understanding we are leaving the ideal behind when we do. I’d refer you to a poem I wrote about this very subject, “Very Slow You Write It Down”, which could also be called “Mohmmed, Is He the Ideal?”, but Facebook deleted it when it took down my educational page Harm’s End. As for the song the voice of Johnny Cash sings that ends the dream, I won’t interpret it other than quoting a couple of lines of muse that came sometime before, “With the reluctant, fiery seal of a prophet. Sort of humbles you, don’t it?” [dream-vision of riding at night down an old dirt road with my dad and Uncle Jerry and suddenly coming over a hill and realizing if another car had been there we’d all be dead] And I’d really stress the word reluctant. I call myself a seer poet, only called myself a prophet in the deleted poem, as it’s only another prophet that can correct the word of a prophet.

“Boy do we cut hair,” a line that came after I cut the hair and shaved the beard, which I did somewhere around here, before the Heaven trip. I really didn’t want to. I saw that things that we did, like combing the hair, taking a bath, brushing the teeth, did more than clean the body. The unseen is all around us, and it’s not only spirits. It’s all over us in the form of vibrations and things, and I’m just using a known word to describe the unknown, bits from the world of course, other people, but more importantly from ourselves. It’s like we create a sort of field around our heads with our constant thinking, around our mouth and chin with our constant chatter, chaotic fields I might add, and we need to wash and comb long hair and beards when we have them, often, cut them short if we’re having problems with acting out in word or deed. In other words, if you are having trouble controlling yourself, long hair is not the ticket, see? Have you ever known someone with dreadlocks that got angry easily or often? Now you know why. That’s really concentrated vib funk on your head. If you are in self-mastery or an evenly keeled-person well in control of yourself, and of course if you’re enlightened, you have no problem, and so, you can just be your uncut, natural self, what I wanted and I think most men want that grow the hair out, that and be ourselves unto God, but most of us can’t handle our uncut self because it’s often a beast. Now you know something of the wonton devilry the men of Islamic State wear on their sleeves, the Taliban.

I, however, did cut my hair, and it didn’t help with the coming fall, but I’m sure it did with the purification for the trip to Heaven. “This is to falling in the sun downstairs to capture me,” a line of song my muse sung to me in the voices of Simon & Garfunkel on Crete, which I made into a whole song on the guitar in Auroville, one of my first muse songs, which I composed before that “movie the Earth needs,” or at least my muse thinks so, referring to running from the police as they were about to apprehend me and getting beaten up when they caught me. Luckily, they let me go.

Move along folks. Nothing to see here.

Although the muse had suggested the horse had already been winged, I had a series of dreams in that cabin where wings grew on a horse, or I was getting off the ground on one, and dreams of the forging of a sword. Both went together, the winging and the forging, the Pegasus and the Excalibur. The horse is the symbol of the ability to leave the normal human life sphere of the inner world and enter Heaven, and the sword what can kill the hostile being, demon if you care to call it that, that’s attached to you from birth, attached like a parasite, and it goes back generations in your family, what in ancient Greece was called a family daimon, and what we call the family curse, but what I can just briefly mention here. You use the sword to cut its head off, and, once the sword was made in dream, I was only able to cut it almost off, but not all the way, in a highly symbolic, lucid dream. I don’t know this for sure, but it seems to me the symbol of killing a demon is cutting its head plum off, and I don’t know if it actually takes a divine being to do that or not, or what exactly it has to do with going to Heaven, but I did come very close to killing one of those monsters, didn’t kill it and still went to Heaven, it trying to prevent me, scare me out of the chute.

From my dream notebook, the going to Heaven dream:

Feb. 2003 The cabin on the hill opposite Festos

It started with a lucid dream I’ve lost, one where I addressed the Mother to guide me. Upon awakening I remembered but neglected to write it down due to being especially groggy. The first waking of the night I was even more so. Then later, as I lay in bed, I began to go into trance, but a samadhi trance, as the feeling was ecstasy. I was turned around in my bed from head to foot, not physically, but in the trance bed. The bed began to shake, and earlier I’d had the fear of an earthquake, and so I thought one might be occurring so, fooled, I came out the trance to see. Everything normal. Then I went back into trance but no tinge of samadhi, a semi-cataleptic trance, where I was fooled into thinking I was in a house on the beach of Cumaná [a town in Venezuela where I earned the money to go to Europe]. I realized that I had nothing to fear in that town though. Coming out of it and waking up in bed, I felt the demon presence. I was still in twilight and actually heard a cough just outside the cabin. I got scared, but as I looked on the wall I saw 8.8.8 practice, and I knew I was safe. Very soon after, I left the body and went to the door to close it, as it was squeaking open. Then I realized I’d gone out of the body. I couldn’t make real contact with the door, but the room was not exact, larger, and the light was twilight light. I went to the window, and there was no desk in front of it, and it had a curtain. which I opened and saw a dream scene. There was a little boy, whom I knew was there to capture my attention. I closed the curtain and wondered how I could leave the room and not go into a dream scene but be outside of the room, something I worked on quite a bit in years past. I opened the window and again a dream scene.

I don’t know where this goes, but at one point I was confronting a devilish something and saying, “By the Mother’s force!” Results came, but not immediately.

I’m not sure how it happened, but I was again in a beach house but not lucid, and waking up in that house I found a friend had come and brought his friend, and they were going to stay there. I thought about telling them to leave, but he was my friend and all. I think I should’ve ordered them out. Things happened I don’t remember.

Next I’m in a dream on the roof of Johnny Coughlin’s house [my best friend as a pre-teen]. He and his brother Gregory are helping their step-father, Bud, repair the cement pilings, huge blocks, from rain damage. Somehow rain had gotten into the cement. One of the boys did something, and the blocks closed on Bud, trapping him inside. All looked lost, but I suddenly came to myself and willed the blocks apart. Instantly they parted, and Bud came out with long, grey hair and a grey beard. Then he was below, walking up, and he had a donkey head, and I told the boys he was going to be an ass about the accident. He changed back into Bud. Then I fixed the roof with my will, and it changed to a large, flat roof with many pots of flowers and such, very nice. I saw the change and realized it was much better than the old roof.

I flew off and down the street, and a large stately stallion [with wings] appeared and another horse beside him. I knew I could mount them if I wanted to, and perhaps should have, but I was into flying up and began to will myself up. It wasn’t easy, and on my left I suddenly saw a very high cyclone fence level with me. I began to ask the Mother to please show me what I’m doing wrong, what the problem was, meaning not about being able to fly higher but what not being able to represented in my life. I began to cry, very sincere tears. I was going up to what in the dream was the high mountains in front of the cabin, but here a town went up the sides, and the area was greatly compressed. A father holding his son by the hand told his little boy not to look at me as I flew by so to give me privacy, as I was crying. Then in front of the mountains, where the slopes usually appear, was a rainbow, and I hastened to fly into it, filling with the joy of an answered prayer. As I got there, the rainbow was gone, but rays of brilliant, white light were coming from the top right corner, where in the physical there is a road going up the escarpment. People were pointing and oohing and aahing. I looked and saw a perfectly round hole, like a small tunnel, where the light was coming from. There was a roof to our sky and a wall, and the opening was right at the top, right corner.

I flew through the opening, and my body was actually bigger than the hole, but I squeezed through with no slow down. I came out into a huge box canyon [that opened on the other side to a wide, deep valley], but I knew I was in Heaven. The form of everything was perfect. A couple of hundred feet below I could see pools of water [almost like puddles], and the pools had concentric rings, as if the water was mineral water. I realized it was a place to purify before going into Heaven, but I was flying to the opening of the canyon. Then I was flying close to [one of the] the sheer, vertical walls of the canyon, and something happened, and for a moment I stood on the wall. There was no gravity. I realized that in Heaven up and down had a very different meaning than on Earth, almost like it didn’t matter. Nonetheless, I got vertigo and flew off, but quickly realized as well you couldn’t get hurt in Heaven. [For brief couple of seconds I looked past the walls and saw far down below a valley with a dwellings there. It was too short a glimpse to give any kind of description other than to say it was a heavenly place.]

Then another force flew me, and I went down to the pools far below [not only 200 feet as I wrote above, but a 1000 or so], hearing now an incredibly sweet song of instruction about how to use the water: “You can splash it on your (some body part like the back). You can splash it on your (again a body part).” The song listed other parts of the body to splash it on, and finished with: “It’s safe and warm.” It was a male voice but very high pitched and very familiar. It was sung slow like a lullaby, but the song had an element to it I can’t describe, something lullabies merely try unsuccessfully to imitate. It was so patient, so safe, so conscious, so loving, so sweet. As I descended I thought the water would become deeper, as I could see the pools were very shallow, only inches deep. I was laid face down into a pool, but the water only came up to my sides, about halfway. I was so busy expecting the water to suddenly become deeper, like things shift in dreams, that I didn’t follow the instructions to splash. The scene didn’t shift, as this wasn’t the usual dream local. This was Heaven. I then woke up in bed.

Now what exactly happened between Heaven and I? “This was only a lamp to test you to see,” and “Glad was his first peer into Heaven, wide, deep murmuring heart,” muse after the event. Olympia was seen, as my muse foretold me it would be. I went to the gates of Heaven, which are quite different than they are envisioned in folklore, at least those of Olympus are, and I saw its heaven, or a heaven world, a divine house, as there are countless of them, representing all the divine ideals, separate or in combo. I didn’t meet a divine being, unless you count the song sung to me, no angel or God, but my eyes beheld the valley of the blessed, and there are scenes that immortalize the sight, and the scene I saw, whatever it worked in me, worked seeing magic.

There are houses scattered arriba,
wells of worlds we have not yet conceived.
The acute aware of the Ideal and its voice.
An overmental thought,
and overmental thought helps.
To have the sun in your eyes when you’re a middle truth door.
We finally grew the school that looked outside infinity
and the learning things that cannot teach a rule.

Dream-like, he saw no end to the pattern commerced by miracles.
Finite in stone it is in its largeness bigger than infinity,
a settled from which joy took but various beyond the stars.
It contains will and God.
Wide open
it would just be ole Luna. [this and preceding line came today]
Desire to see the Self.
Enough wisdom gives.
How wisdom to be cultivated said forever.
It expresses itself in poetry.

(from Civilization and the Art of Terror)

The material in brackets is what I remember of the dream-experience but didn’t write down at the time. Another item worthy of note that I didn’t adequately describe in my notebook is the top of what I call the human life sphere of dream, but you could also call it the top of our inner world, a lid actually. The small tunnel-like hole I went through was in the right corner of the top. As I approached the top, everything slowed down and was sort of floating, like the Pegasus, seeming to go into a very slow whirl at the top, and it was as though reality had gotten quite thin, not like it was almost space, like the world of representation was about exhausted. There is no mistaking that you are at the limits of our world. To go to the other side, the afterlife, there is also an unmistakable boundary to cross, but it’s different than this kind at the top, as there’s usually a long journey at the back of things through a kind of tunnel-like darkness, although the undersize hole you go through without any difficulty can be a feature of going there too. You have to go through something, as it’s a definite boundary once you arrive, which can even be a mirror, what I recently went through to get to Lisa on the other side, after a long travel through dark scenes that were compressed and tunnel-like. I was unsuccessful in retrieving her and sending her on her way I am so very sorry to say. I’m waiting for another chance. In vision she is now right up to me in her true form, with her long, happy tongue hanging out, her eyes bright with love, after months of her keeping her distance in vision, both in physical distance and in the distance of different dog forms, why I failed the first time up at bat: things were too complicated between us for there to be the trust. But now she knows I didn’t destroy her, and that’s all that counts. I’ll be up at bat again soon.

It’s also not spelled out in the notebook the level of lucidity I experienced to go to Heaven, and it bears mentioning. Anyone who lucid dreams regularly knows there are tiers of lucidity, many actually, the most common seeming to be knowing your dreaming but still involved in the dream, not completely lost in it, but it’s your primary reality, although you can fly and do magical things. The top tier of lucidity, what I experienced in the final dream, can be likened to the final awakening of Neo in The Matrix. You have all power, perfect power, instant power, but the dream is no longer your primary reality and easily fades, or you go to another level, out of our sphere and into the unknown. Although for some reason I don’t say it in my notebook, the cement pilings on the roof were for a bathroom, and what I did right before the roof changed form was instantly put the bathroom together with my will, also not mentioned in the notebook. A bathroom is symbolic in dream not exactly for sex, but for your control over your sexual impulse, or lack of. It can also represent the type of sex you’re having. For example, a clean and shiny bathroom would represent not being dominated by your sexual desire and not being harmful with your sexual expression, which in most cases is not having sex at all. Adult-child sex is often represented by a toilet full of shit. I’d imagine most harmful sex is. There’s even a level of lucidity where it’s not your mind that’s awake but your vital, the life-body, and you act out your desires, all the while knowing it’s a dream and using that knowledge to really eat what you’re into.

“I gotta go dog,” a line that came a couple of weeks before I actually left, giving importance to leaving Jan, which I didn’t give enough to, but it wasn’t like I was ignorant of her pain; she just didn’t register as a person that feels as deeply as we do, a common mistake we make, “fooled by mass and shape.” (from my muse poem “God Dog on My Door” on Twitter) On the appointed day I left the cabin. I slide the keys to it under the door of the big house, Thomas’, per instructions. Then, pack on my back, I walked to the main road to hitch to Heraklion. There must’ve been something in the air signaling the end of winter, because the homeless man that used Thomas’ outdoor shower, a mainland Greek, and I never bothered him about taking a shower there, was leaving Kamilari and hitching to Heraklion too to take the ferry back to the mainland. We crossed paths a couple of times, in sight of one another more times. I do not actually remember my goodbye with Jan I am ashamed to say. I do remember considering taking her with me, but the impracticalities of that pushed the thought away, the first being just her getting into, and being allowed into, the car or truck that stopped to pick me up hitching to Heraklion. And the ferry? It’s impossible to say what would’ve happened, but maybe a way would’ve been cleared if I’d at least have tried, or maybe the attempt would’ve found her a permanent home.

How it must’ve played out, she greeted me as I opened the door, from which she did not move from the time I closed that door for the night to the time I opened it in the morning, with the exception of her period in heat, and I petted her as I always did, the first thing I did every morning after doing my meditation, Savitri reading, and getting out of bed. The presence of my pack made her feel uneasy, and she became afraid I was leaving. Dogs just know when we’re leaving, like cats, and she’d probably dreamed about it. She followed me to the main road, the unease in her stomach spreading to her heart. I was acting funny. This was not a he leaves but comes back. Waiting with me for my ride, the way I looked at her, told her her fears. The petting I gave her as I gathered my pack to get into my ride, she relished it, wanting it to last forever, and then I was gone.

I can interpret now what happened at the train station in Athens after arriving there. The dog of the place, a stray who had that doggy ease like he’d been made king of the place, a very big dog, gave me a hard time, barked and barked at me, and that made me so angry I had a public outburst. He was saying, “Bye bye Miss American Pie,” err, I mean, “What about Jan? What about Jan?” and my angry outburst, the first since that directed at Irmgard, was really my sadness at leaving Jan turned into anger so as not to feel, what we use anger for, so to protect ourselves from pain. Is it out of line to tell you that I’m crying over her now?

Get with pale tortillas in her eyes.
Oh no, ground choices.
Oh no, whatta we gotta improve?
She’s a better dog than that,
independent, clean
and solitary-minded.
She was top of her kind,
and this was evident in her eyes:
recognition there.
She was a cross of her kind,
a hurt dog
but sweetness just to look at.
You’ve had this buried.
Remember her.
You’re forgettin’ somethin’,
her way with you.
It was sympathetic.

(today’s muse)

Hey Boo Boo,
I’m fixin’ to leave,
and I just wanted to know how you felt about it. [vision of saying this to a young boy, also the sense of how he felt about some coming war]
A traveler is on the flag.

(came days before I left, alerting me to leaving and more)

I did see Irmgard one more time, at a Cretan cultural festival in Kamilari. She was sitting off to herself, obviously feeling out of place. When she saw me, her face lit up for a second, not like seeing an old friend, like seeing someone you thought too proud had been sheared, and she commented on the cut hair. The O her mouth made in its surprise at my new look said so many things. There was, however, something there that said, “Let’s let bygones be bygones, shall we?” I don’t know what made me do it, but I’ve regretted it all these years hence. I gave her the most expressive ‘don’t talk to me my vital’s still offended’ look that I could muster, and the way she immediately straightened up and stared straight ahead, closing herself off to the world, well, all’s I can say is that all that sadhana, all the spiritual vision, did not come to bear in that moment she most needed me I am so very sorry to say, sorry for so many things, but there it is.

The couple from Germany, Mechthild and Wolfram, sent me the cash I needed to get to Sicily and a line on a place to stay in Palermo, with a performer named Piaggio, who gave people a place to stay. I envisioned some place like the Paris bookstore Shakespeare and Company, which, as George the owner called it, was a flophouse for writers. There, I worked in the bookshop and talked shop with the other writers staying there. Here, l licked my chops, since I loved doing theater. If I’d had known it was a Catholic mission for homeless people, I might not have been so keen on staying there, as I avoided homeless shelters, but my muse had confirmed going there, and so I went, even though the name was a mistake: “A teacher would read you a part, how much you had marked off. Piaggio.” [vision of a writing explaining that the teacher reads a book to the children] In other words, I could stay however long I wanted to stay. The name was actually Biagio Conte, not Piaggio (Mechthild apologized for the mistake), and it took a whole day to sort that out. Not a whole lot of English in Palermo. I used Spanish a lot. They could understand Spanish better than I could Italian however. Their ears were more accustomed to the romance.

I spent the first night above the city in a goat grotto halfway up the mountain, and by the time I left, about two months later, I was in and out of the mayor’s office and that of the whole city government, as Biagio had given me the job of picking up paper for recycle all over official Palermo, or riding shotgun for the man in charge of that. It was a two-man gig, like the army escort wagon I served on both as the swamper and muleskinner. Here I was the swamper. When I went to leave, Biagio, through his managing priest, the man with the keys, had offered me a more permanent job, organizing a library for his Mission of Hope and Charity, where I stayed, but I was on my way to the Camino de Santiago in Spain, where my muse was pointing me next, also via the Mediterranean Sea. I didn’t interpret that above vision properly though. I could’ve stayed awhile longer and organized their library if I wanted to. Sometimes you just got the itching to go, well, a lot of times.

My first meeting with Biago, however, was a battle between worlds. He came out of his one-room trailer that he lived in in the middle of a parking lot. He walked the talk would be a good way to describe him. I was still in hippy clothes but had, as I said, cut the hair and shaved the beard, but not having shaved or gotten a haircut since, I was looking a bit wild. He asked a translator to ask if I were Catholic. I answered no, and that I practiced yoga. He positioned himself right in front of me and right in my face. We had a staring down contest that changed into a mutual understanding, a real intense eye to eye, lasting longer than was comfortable, for both of us, and then he told the translator I could stay in the mission. I could hear everyone present breathe a sigh of relief, and I don’t know if it was because he let me stay, or because he didn’t denounce me as a devil. Uh, well, how about you?

Stairway to Heaven
had been tapasya.
Something his nerves just can’t get over:
we will still treat you like a puppy.
Holds still the branding.
Douglas!
the branding sucks.

You see my guitar?
It’s time for me to leave,
no letter, no fun, no hun.
The Atlantic letter crashed,
saving the dream for another night.
You’ve got that song now,
and an epic poem does it right.

We landed in Turkey.
If you’ll excuse me some confusion.
I think we went to Guanajuato.
You mean Dr. Spock?
Tony Warrant aren’t and
I gave them a gift,
possibly on the table here.

Oh you puppy dog.
Luna has been in a life and death struggle.
Look,
divine work is a costly enterprise.
Your dog dies.
Nobody believes you.
Annihilate you,
even the Darkness tries.
It’s a constant battle, struggle.
Things go wrong
all over the place.
Everything is attacked,
even your blue suede shoes.

Let’s get on with this show.
Go with me
to national examine our heart.
You know the U.S. needs to/tries. [words spoken simultaneously]
Come on baby light my fire. [heard sung by The Doors]
I’m gonna go out and burn the school out,
confront
the science that runs our show.
We’re gonna get out of here,
slow,
like people realizin’ they’re wrong,
like people realizin’ life has to change.
Spiritual reality becomes reality
for our face, hands, and feet.
We see the larger in the smaller.
We come to terms with ourselves,
like people know they’re missin’ out on reality.

Shotgun!
That’s what you call it,
riding shotgun
this little swamper passing and review.
I’m bringin’ in the change,
symbolically,
and it has a top of its own
I just talk about.

Take control
society in your arms,
without killin’ anybody
or causin’ chaos in the streets.
You just take on sadhana yourself.
You just change what points you can
as you meet the whole.
No rambunctious change.
The kind that sees reality
and doesn’t spit on those who don’t,
or even grabs them by the hair,
or preaches to them till they’re blue in the face.

I feel a hand in my dreams.
Let Captain Underpants alone.
Where’d they go? [vision sequence of a group of British or New York upper crust-type people chasing me into the subway and then coming out of a subway entrance and onto the sidewalk marked on their faces and clothes, all in a tight group, looking for me but having lost the trail]
You will want:
listen Alex, do tell me…—
an interviewer speaks.
No but tah, you can read my writings.
We are killing each other softer than good and evil.
All the interviewer wants is his hillbilly fare.
Get out of here.

Now let’s transpose goodbye
where Luna’s concerned.
Oh Luna, [heard sung by the Archies to the tune of and followed by the music from the song “Sugar, Sugar” that du du dunt tu dunt tu that comes after “Sugar” and “Ah honey, honey,”]
oh Luna,
you’re back breathin’ sunlight.
Your illness put you in touch with God.
We’ve earned being together,
and here we are.

Core values
I considered a long, long time.
A family count.
All kinds of field play
that meet them in the world,
as long as they got the airport.
Douglas and I have a family.
We don’t meet each other gay.
We sit together in soul.

Estación Catorce, Mexico, 1999
Douglas and I, Jeff’s bedroom, a mutual friend, Houston, Texas, 1999
The family we stayed with in Lima, Peru after a Vipassana there, 2000
About to enter the Bolivian Amazon by boat with our Chilean friends, 2001
Today, our dream group and sadhana circle. That’s Mithun on the left, Nitish center. Photo by Jana

I think we’re gonna turn upside down being human.
You got that racecar?
It’s beyond reach.
We have to be together first.
I’ve art Auroville
to spinach this along with them.
They kicked me out you know.
That was a delivery problem.
I didn’t know what I was deliverin’.
You can’t do that,
harm people.
I just left that place.
Auroville just keeps that in its craw.

Inmates of national kill zone
the whole damn country.
It’s comin’ to a theater near you.
Well y’all,
what happened?
He’s got a gun!
And you think this is city hall?
Damage control
Steven.
I wouldn’t
just hate yah.
I can get away with it,
usin’ you as my scapegoat,
being unkind to you.
I don’t ever have to speak to you again.
You’re a pedophile.

And he’s liberal,
a gay man.
Someone dropped the gun.
I can’t tell you how glad I am.
I’ve got my brother back.
Would that were true.
I love you Steven.

You see the problem.
Hatred, you know?
You’d link the pedophile as the common denominator.
The Capitol riots,
well low and behold,
those were pedophiles
in the center of their conspiracy.
How many pedophiles?
They’re too disgusting to know.
At least as many as homosexuals.
That means?
That’s millions.
You’re not an isolated incident.
Now put that hatred in the population.
Every ground zero goes there.

Come on people,
open your eyes on reality.
How many people hate the pedophile?
You mean somebody don’t?
We’ve done this before,
centered on a scapegoat in society,
but I can’t reference history.
It’s overused.
Why did the Nazis center on Jews?
Stop them.
Nobody wants to say stop myself.
How many people hate each other,
or hate skinheads,
the Republican Party,
Jews,
liberal Democrats,
gun totters,
the Moslem immigrant,
the person that honks their horn?
Dad, can you lose out on games too?
Hate everybody in it
against you.

Hatred is our first response team.
Makes you wanna go along with it
that pedophile hate in your craw.
Oh my God,
shows us us.
Makes you want to hate everybody that in your craw
so important,
so main flavor.
You know what to do.
Take the hatred out of the picture.
I think you’ve met her.
You just let her get her better.
I won’t have a way
to spit till this afternoon.
Well honey,
lighten up.
I go to the doctor.
The biscuits are almost gone, you know?

Everybody has a soul,
that one common thing
that makes us not lose God’s grace.
You’ll get used to it
if you turn off some of those programs,
take off those headphones,
get out of your cell phone,
and actually meet it.
You’re not gonna do it
until you have to. [vision of a man standing in a playground and a piece of play equipment like a seesaw or something suddenly hitting him in the rear end without warning, twice]
You alright?
The whole thing was swampted by
the end of the line.
It’s just a specter,
but what the hell.
Hello?

Thunder
crashes
as you read it.
There’s no goin’ back.
Extraordinary they fired eternity.
You played me down—
Steven’s outburst.
It was mad,
the whole book,
and we’ll see about getting bones
for dogs of the future.
They also need work weeks.

They’re fearful.
We have a big carwash.
Would you mind me using my shorts?
Skinny dipping?
With a light on.
It went to the top of the town.
It was prancing into town
brain swipes.
Frank
you have filters.
You’re gonna run,
you’re gonna show,
‘cause I can’t use the green
to explain depth to you.
I have a whole lot to say.
Yeah I can believe that.

Time to go.
Grab those hills under the sun now.
It was such a bad company.
You putted
winter of truth.
And I’m learning,
and I’m taking it in
in my notebook
how it reach the sky
the pedophile paper.
Talk about journaling,
scrapping around sir.

You running?
Lisa.
I’m gettin’ there baby.
Don’t go to the wild
from that darkness.
I’m on my way baby.

That explains it.
I’m gettin’ to you, aren’t I?
I’ll be there in the morning.
For now pop gun.
How it turns out:
this is the scoop on humanity.
It’s all I can do to write it down.
Baby don’t hurt me. [heard sung by Haddaway]
This is the rhythm of the night. [heard sung by Corona]
You wish.
Get up,
come to the door,
and let me in. [vision of a photo of Luna on the bed belly up]
Baby it’s cold outside. [heard sung, female voice]
You groovin’?
Let me in.

Luna, 7 months

I’m out here holdin’ oranges,
one solitary man facin’ the country.
This is askew.
One person in their underwear facing the country.
Well at least I’m there.
Hear me town.
I’ve seen you warthog.
Tapasya,
you dig?
I’m in the same delivery of the soul as you,
the count,
India speaks.

I’m a believer if I tried. [heard sung by the Monkees]
I need you to open the door.
I need you to return the key—
you’re not listenin’ to me—,
the key to the holy door:
there’s a person
asking entrance.

Put ‘im on the ground.
The higher parts with my child is my body.
Why to understand:
daddy? [Nitish’s voice]
Miss Ran So, Miss Ran So, [vision of a man in cowboy hat giving a piano lesson to a little boy, they sitting side by side on the piano bench]
you’re a cradle of civilization.

The crime below the city,
you can’t take it out.
It has to be addressed
we don’t get there from here:
the punishment of society.
You can’t conquer people.
They destroy.
I don’t think we get here this century.
We can’t even see this.
Every BBC will have a cow.
It’s not branded yet:
hey, we evolve.
Examine the moment and spit it out.
Ain’t no higher now. [heard sung by Marvin Gaye & Tammi Terrell]

Put the trailer.
I don’t know what you’re talking about.
We have an inner healing process that takes over.
You see mine.
It’s so expensive.
At this point in the narrative Luna kissed me.
Lick, lick, lick, lick,
wild-eyed and forceful.
Kiss me quick my lips are hot.
No Luna, no.
Puppies.
We would look at tomorrow.

Take him home,
everyone will have his daemon home,
the talking muse.
Where do you take this?
Open the inner consciousness.
That means muse
not where you meet the world.
It’s means opening the inner consciousness.

Take reality to that location:
everybody’s in there with you;
you’re in the consciousness of others.
They share that with you
where you dream.
I am gettin’ this across?

We effect each other’s consciousness
with our thoughts and feelings.
Go deeper,
the consciousness is ours.
We are each one of us us.
I don’t expect you to see this.
This takes experiential seeing.

It’s all over the place.
It’s in school shootings.
He’s got a gun because you do.
It’s the will of everybody,
the hatred that makes him does it.

Maybe I’m wrong.
Did I get something wrong?
The bear eats people.
That has to be stopped.
Arrest the individual and put him in an orphanage,
a holding pattern,
to come to grips with themselves.
Your ill will will not put them there.
Focus
all your energy into getting this out of the population:
the hatred for anybody,
no matter what you are.
We climb back to the parents:
a whole nation of inner consciousness
reading the riot act to one another.
Impact, see?

Now the smorgasbord:
open the awareness of yourself
in inner consciousness studies.
Can you see that road?
Bye, bye, drove my Chevy to the levee. [heard sung, voice of Don McLean]
Keep goin’.
You’ll get there.
Take off of my blue suede shoes. [Heard sung, voice of Elvis Presley]
Just be lined up to be stepped on.
Inner work is excruciating,
and no one wants you to do it,
and it’s not familiar to anyone.
You have a lifelong.
Get after it.

Goofy was Robbie prefer,
show what you think your lines are.
We need introspection
gets it done.
Could you crowd out attention?

A military play-paper,
we gorgeous this out drives,
and I’m showin’ yah one.
It’s embarrassing, isn’t it?
Domestic dog,
you hear their parade?
They lick the world right where it counts,
and they are unfathomably world.

Now you see we are the untold truth behind,
leavin’ more room for that puppy.
Sometimes it
(There are Steves around you.
Cleaves just called.)
inspires a puppy universe
yah hear me tell it,
like doctors and stuff.
Now don’t
stumble
in their blue brown eyes.
You wouldn’t give the them God’s place.
They’re not the center of the universe.

People’s feelings may change,
but the basic feeling
is the puppy.
Gonna make a new toy.
Push the psychic being to the front.
You’ve met the personality of the soul,
the sweetness of a puppy.
It heals all deranged.
It comes to the surface
who you are in soul.
It’s the leader of the life.
It’s got puppy eyes
and smells you like a puppy,
to put the world in place.
Not there over here
it will tell you.
It knows the true path,
the right movement.
A small child
you’d find it in your dreams.
Now it grows up,
figures in your dreams a counselor,
if you’ve established a pattern of contact.
Hear it speak?

It’s broad and arm,
never anger, never impatient,
only healing,
condemns not, judges not.
You can see that Jesus wore this on his sleeve.
I’m sorry if that’s obscured
by the Bible.
How do we take this to Earth?
In a puppy dog smile,
so warm to a little boy.
She’s hardcore on her task,
is around a grand movement like child’s play.
She practices God in her courts.
This is her realm,
the knowing of God.
It’s all around her,
her big wide look upon the world.
You’re seein’ it now.

Great, isn’t it,
amazingly kind,
although you deal with me better than I deal with you.
I don’t always listen to my psychic.
Everyone out of those. [vision of a little boy, not Nitish, covering Luna’s snout with dish soap bubbles as she’s sitting on the bed on her haunches, and then I see he’s covered also her back legs up to her hocks]
That’s a wrong movement.
This is the delivery of the soul.
It’s how we get to time.
It’s how we get to where existence is [vision of two half-grown Rottweiler puppies, Luna’s size, sitting on their haunches looking at me, one on top of the cabinet for the inverter in my room and the other in front of it on the floor]
the right can of beans.

Back to work.
Get some sleep.
Sat by the great Earth
and just lollygagging. [vision of looking through the muse notebook from the cabin to find lines that told me to get out of bed in the mornings, which came often, to use as examples here]
Sometimes I think you are Venom.
Up all night with a diarrhea dog
and muse,
what is a body to do?
Great Luna said,
now I’ll get some sleep.
Go Lucy.
There’s too many dogs in this bed.
What house is that?
The engine room
of let’s make room for Earth.
Get maybe and three over it.
Now get to work.
Aum, silence [vision of the word AUM all in caps]
in your head, in your head. [heard sung by the Cranberries]

How did dream shift occur?
You wrote them down.
Hear that Nikos Kazantzakis?
You’d really try
to go over every detail,
involved all night long.
That’s how you held your hand up
to give your dream to the dream group.
Expensive, ain’t it?
You just have so much to show.
Embarrassing, isn’t it?
Great dream, huh?
Let us have the ring.
A large donut owner stumble in the breakfast.
We followed their moves.
What it is?
Why sex with candy of course.
It was so comfortable,
your hand involved in your daughter’s vagina.
Can add that to the work I’m looking at with you guys.
Tired of this job?
Supposed to demonize you.
That’s dream group
all looking at you
for dream content.
Watch here comes the face,
my favorite part:
a regular daddy non-pedophile mother fucker.

It’s like in the Free Fire beginning,
you’re slapping her in the face.
Is the life in the liberty’s tech?
Write the long letter.
Anything on stilts,
which one plays confidence
and makes sure it’s a lower?
That’s certainly Minecraft.
That was
an unauthorized builder.
Learnin’ how to dream,
playin’ Free Fire
stops that,
any Free Fire,
any game at all
you get addicted to online.

Vision I was in outdoor sports—
dream maker.
That’s where you volley ball,
play tennis
with your magnet,
football the hell out of the crowd,
baseball diamond.
You even swim with everybody in the world,
and you ride horses with your power,
all along the shores of time.
Well Donny you’re battin’ a hundred.
I don’t see you doin’ sports.
We interrupt this preaching program
to put Donny on the spot.
Run exercise,
you glob of belly.
I’ve just told the dream group that,
you dream group belly.

Now for some disease,
that’s Minecraft.
Nitish forgot his dreams again.
He’s in a video game bubble.
He’s in trouble.
Can you see this kids?
It’s out of order,
your imagination sequence,
for where you put your imagination
is in hell.
A vampire a video game.
I don’t understand developers.
They know
oh well it’s addicting.
How long has it been
that wasn’t a manipulating tool
to use children,
our young people?
Alright hypocrites,
charge scapegoats
with the behavior of the whole.
Hate that pedophile.
It’s simple.
What’s the first thing that pops into your head?
Take a look at yourself.
Examine your own lives.

You generally lead questions.
I’ve forgotten the Earth’s center.
It’s a being unto itself.
We 𝝅 its program.
Our thoughts make up its work.
It wants to achieve stardom.
It’s always lonely out in space.
Planetary eyes that see the whole
are at a loss for its purpose.
It’s an adolescent M.A.S.H.
You see the disease?

Every animal on the planet
adolescence its way along.
No one knows its purpose.
We are the thoughts of man,
and finally it’s put on eyes that can see itself.
What comes next, the chicken and the egg?
It puts on thoughts that can see itself,
obviously a rolling splendor.
Touch that down,
and you will come to regret it.
Every agent of chaos has a grace period
they mistake for license,
and you see Putin ignoring his.
What are you talking about stupid?
Just watch him fall.

The engines of the Earth
are not in harmony.
This is the great world being’s task:
hum the world along its course smoothly.
We figure in that
the Captain Kirk of the program,
the engine room.
This is all out of whack,
and if you’re a whacker,
business to shut you down.

Okay a person abusing a child
is a whacker.
Are you sure you know Heaven?
There are ovens that work
right on the edge of the moon.
You last alone in there
an understanding made Earth.
You’ve been picked up and healed
as the very thing that heals you touches you:
you’ve got this disease.
I’m talking about a behavioral program.
You’re taken by degrees.
The healing is a wide, harmonious moon
made real by the Earth.
Therapy in the very center of the Earth
put you there.
That’s the salt of the Earth.

Anyway,
we’re family.
The Earth being
is where we dwell,
the principle of its thoughts.
Terrible Satan at his task,
but he can’t stop magnificent Earth.
Is that our task?
You know exactly what it is:
help her goin’.

Not wondering over Dante’s own doubts and fears that I am he. [line came on Crete]
Let’s look through the gloom.
It’s an idea.
How skinny.
Aren’t you human?
Get past the noise.
That’s why people are gonna rise up.
Everybody needs to be recognized as being human.
It’s Donny.
It’s the Moslem immigrant.
It’s even ISIS and all the Putins in the world.
It’s the human being.
How sinister is that?
It’s even Donald Trump.

Get out of it
impossible.
The spaces between our lives
made wonderfully whole,
space this apart
a world union,
a food bank
we’ve finally found.
Look on your troubles.
Get this choice.
We are human beings,
every last one of us.
That’s the family we are
before any other.
There will be another:
oneness reach.

But for now,
let’s take it noble.
Let’s start with the human being
and his dog,
an addition noble,
the price of a dog.
Donny you artfink.
You give us ideas to register in our minds.
I certainly
capture one.
And then I just hope he messes up.
Not if humanity was your keeper.

A child
I thought he was after.
Look, you don’t have to be so defensive or whatever.
I’m after every human being,
that direction.
Can you look please
from the field?
Clothes, their clothes—
fortunately
you have your clothes on.
It’s a vehicle for your day;
it’s a metaphor being called out:
image is given our shape
all over the world.
That’s not to be famous
or on the fucking news.
We are the world you see.
Now hurry up and get there
skinny human being.

Dante looks up from his paper and smiles—
we’re gonna get there, we’re gonna get there.
Now we’re gonna find somethin’.
We’re gonna find out.
We are people properly tuned.
You hear that cat and dog?
They’re our love bucket.
What’s with this jaw jackin’ thing?
It’s got time on it.
Hearin’ it over and over see.

At this point in the narrative
the biscuits stop.
The personal growth process towards wholeness and healing,
it’s there in a neighborhood near you.
What’s you gotta do to get there:
be sincere,
and you’ll find a way.
Then why did you fail?
Oh my God my stuckness.
We can only see through his darkness.
We can’t change it.
Okay then why even go to school?
It’s a representative change,
it’s gonna take a long time.
You have the world to put together.

Study your dreams.
Everybody begins there.
You need to see interpretation.
The dream show host
our dream group.
We’ll be giving a podcast to the public
along about now.
Wait and see.
It’s comin’
you just leave us alone.
Bye, bye Miss American pie. [heard sung by Don McLean]
And you think I’m singin’?
What would you do if everybody wanted to shoot you?

Well that’s the story.
You’ve heard it straight from the horse’s mouth.
Goodnight kids.
We’ll see yah in the mornin’.
She was singin’ bye, bye Miss American pie. [heard sung ibid]
Am I dead?

The world is on opening for Jan.
We see her there in smiles
comin’ up.
Damn,
I missed it.
I think our servant noticed.
Among kings
that’s the level I’m at.
Finally
I finished this model.

Surprise!
One bomb with a mission.
You can refuse from the book.
It’s here in text.
I think that’s it.
Forgot on thing.
We’re gonna give you that name:
get down to business.
Well don’t get socked it knocks.
Open the door.
There must be giants,
not a harm but change the world.
All around the world
they need this gas in their car.
I wanna say thanks to the people who enjoyed it.
Okay, it’s finished.

On the Camino in Spain, between Santiago and Negreira, on the way to Finisterre, July 1, 2003

The End

© 2021 (although I’d probably give permission for you to use the material on your site if you just ask, but please ask)

Calling All Cars Just to Say Hello, Part 4

(You’d Have to Let Me In)

Okay Festos Here’s a Rehab

The sleep of humanity,
that’s what we are now,
and I show you again.
This next part’s from the hill
we wake ourselves by.
It’s a long ways off,
our awakening.

You’re not gonna do it in a day.
Take an idea meet ‘im at the door.
It just grows and grows.
Pretty soon you can see it for yourself.
It’s all about reality,
and I share this one with you.

We do not come
from common ground
in our emotions and thoughts,
in our bodily sensations.
They arise differently for each of us,
and the wearer determines their use.
Cultures collide
along these lines.

We just know in our core we are one.
That’s the matrix reality,
our hanger by the sea.
Come on people now smile on your brother, [heard sung, voice of The Youngbloods]
and he’s a little boy tailspin.
My God he’s a pedophile.

Get your goat?
I don’t think you know how to deal with this.
You’re just programmed to.
A beautiful little boy in my lap,
you’re encouraged to scream.
Would if that little boy’s safe?
Oh my God the lessons in humanity.
Let’s go.

I will hunt you down and kill you.
You don’t have time for that.
Let me,
let me show you the whole aim of life, will yah?
Do you think it’s to drink that beer?
We have to be masters of our circle.
I’m not talkin’ other people.
We have to be masters of ourselves.

That’s in the living room
when oneness,
its spears and aims,
has idea’d to ourself.
You think I’m the Joker.
I overhaul your reason
with specific examples of magic in this text.
You game?

Can I show you Rumi the distraction?
Where did he take your circle?
Fords fullness in life.
Is an example of God.
We don’t get farther than this.
Does it transform your personality,
shake the world out from under your feet?
It’s movement is slow and nice.
I’m on the edge of the world.
Can you sit there?

Control man,
that’s right there the hidden king.
I exceed boundaries,
take you on a journey towards yourself.
Will you rule me out?
I exceed man.
Have you seen the system rise?
Is that the only cover of yourself,
a person behind a name?
Can I talk about tomorrow?
We’re gonna rise beyond this ship.
We’re going to jump out the moon,
in every way exceed the Gods.

This can be seen.
This can be rained on.
Let’s just have some tea.
I can’t make it clear yet.
I can only say what I saw.
I’m here to tell yah
I’m here to transform the world.
Let’s start with the joy of sex.
Turning our head clear on sex,
that’s the inward movement.
Why don’t you give thanks?
It’s the dangerous animal.

I’ve given you topics to look at.
I’ve never said it was going to be easy.
The hardest hit surprises,
example the Earth.
Everybody hear that?

Sufi mystic poetry—
there’s this facility in Oklahoma I had to admit to.
It’s got grand designs on poetry.
Who had the orange?
Is that most poets?
Inner hearing was a factor in some.
Get my lawyer.
I may have a suggestion:
don’t kill people;
children,
I think they’re in its very bottom—
the cover letter was just awful.
It didn’t ride the tide.
We broke out in a sweat doing it.
Congratulations,
the archeological findings survey,
one of the guys have attacked this date,
one of the guys who make rules.

You line a life story,
you always said no
for reading to begin.
What is it?
They’re there in waste in there.
She’s taken out.
Nice lady,
these bags are delicious.
I’ll ask for something yesterday.
I go there.
Let me take you,
it’s my surprise.

Have that dress on?
Ancient city Festos, [vision of an old man’s wet, soapy head coming up out of a wooden barrel full of water, the kind from days of old, as though he’d been taking a bath in it]
get at it with a thought of ‘em pie,
mic thoughts on towards spiritual origins.
Who ate the elevator up?
The people the Earth forgot.
These were Minoans
in their swaddling clothes.
Wow, we’re almost to the birth of the clan.

Mt. Olympus,
they were here before there,
the Gods whose names you know.
They came from a seer’s hut
bringing down the golden people.
There was no timelessness there.
No one watched it survive,
the effort he brought down.
No one even knows his name.
The Gods made contact with Earth here,
the Zeus Parthenon.

Do we have ‘em?
The spiritual origins of Greek in Hellas
started on Crete.
We’re begged to be tied.
You sure touch in funny places.
That’s the mild roof,
the right family:
we were one.
It didn’t last.
The Minoans brought it to a standstill.
They lost it,
and we have Minoans today.
We see them Cretans today.

The years of the bathroom
contradicts God’s singing, doesn’t it?
And we’re all nice and warm.
Can you see yourself in the mirror?
Contradicts God’s ice cream, doesn’t it?
Now emerge on faith.
Become God’s right hand man or woman.
Become a receiver of the items of God.
Can you do it?
A secret oneness
would make this accessible to everyone.
Why can’t you pull it out?

Alright I’m faulty.
An excessive monarch of issues
has branded my fault the worst among my kind,
but in reality,
among the throes of my kind,
not being an open receptacle
of the availability of God in man
might be the greater fault among us.
A social construct or reality?
I’m for a big one.
Ta-da!

And they gonna miss ‘im
when he walks the streets no more.
Baiting reality.
Like in town,
you don’t know the submarine.
He’s there all around you
in his broad-fingered humanity.
Are you helpin’?

Let’s see his seasons in the sun.
Two more witnesses please.
Poems dying at your feet,
essential dying,
what makes his name loud enough to pronounce.
I saw a bomb.
It’s only words that explode you
meaningfully.

Still empty and could be dead
where he meets you public face.
What can I do but draw lines?
And here we have them on Crete.
He surpassed the Earth.
He went all the way to Heaven.
That’s the line of this Crete.

He’s sadder feelings.
No more stops.
I throw him to you worth.
Well, swing it.
I’m gonna make this dream come true:
that I’m every bit as worth as you.
Even success is part of the dog’s story.
Here’s where I feel oneness too:
in the heart that beats oneness.

(today’s muse)

The stories we tell, do they make us real? I am one in a huge crowd, and just about everything I tell people about myself is to make me sound different, stand out, be this thing apart I want you to see, but the thing is: you’re doing the same thing. It’s all over the net. The net, see human? The spiritual origins of this letter, as I am writing this to you, bid me to continue, but I’d rather just play with my puppy. (You, sir, have a dirty mind.) I can’t tell you what I want to tell you, and I’m sorry. It’s not for lack of trying. To capture your attention see me, to entertain you via me, to teach you hear me, to say fuck you by me, I would not want those things to be what I’m doing.

What else is there? Can I reach you? Look we got this world, and it’s not the ticket, is it? My God the feelings, sometimes I think the world will end, and in a big crash in my life, sometimes I think it already has. And sometimes I doubt God will help me. I know it’s the same with you. Is there a place in it we can meet and not value our opinions and beliefs more than we value one another? That’s where I want to take you. Can I?

It is unsettling that I cannot even tell this story as it happened, unsettling because you just can’t do it, whoever you are, even a science-minded historian, and that’s say blow by blow what exactly has happened with us here on this planet. Our memories cannot do it. In any story you’re just getting a close relation, sometimes awfully damn close, but not the story itself. Reading my notebooks more thoroughly, I saw that I’d begun reading a book, The 5th Child by Doris Lessing, before I decided to be Irmgard’s handyman, which meant that I visited her house as part of the decision making process, because I know that book was in her library. Oh the facts are still straight: I met her at the bar Kreta in Matala, the village I lived above on a mountain outside a cave, and she took me home, and I didn’t look behind me as we drove away, unlike foolish Orpheus, but look at what I forgot, a whole episode: going to visit her house before going to live there so we could feel each other out. I remember it now, and it’s almost scary how easily it got forgotten, and the story got recorded as though it happened this way, but in fact it happened that way. A small thing you say, just a little incident, but that’s human history. One would ask, of course, am I being Orpheus now?

I was dying in a war no problem—
because that was the way they grew up.
For the baby I feel the murderer too.
Why do you genes my suffering?
When in your grandfather your genes were abused.
Dream of being at nature-bottom’s secret:
gene mother’s a baby.
For the murderer I feel her violence too. [a line today added]

(from Civilization and the Art of Terror)

“Had no beauty,” and “There was no love. That was the problem,” my muse in reference to Lessing’s book, the commentary it gave on it, although the above formation of lines came partly in answer to the a major theme in the book, and that is a very cruel and violent boy being born that way. The book is very convincing, like the 50’s film The Bad Seed, where the ‘monster’ is a little girl, although not an ugly goblin-like creature Lessing describes in her book. Both are works of fiction I must emphasize. I don’t dispute that a child can be a throwback, have some Neanderthal features and characteristics, and I myself have taken care of one such man, in Garberville, Nurchia Silencio’s (my mentor there) 40 some odd year old son, but he wasn’t mean and violent, as he’d been raised with a lot of love and attention. He was, however, sexually attracted to children, and you wonder if that was because of his very low intelligence and maturity level of a five-year-old or because someone played with his penis as an infant or toddler, not something we are able to answer, but the whole thing made me wonder at the time, as well as with things my muse has said over the years, in that aforementioned epic The Literary Eye for example, that maybe in Neanderthals (and in cavemen too) pedophilia was the norm. At any rate, we are a long way from understanding the nature/nurture debate in regards to where someone’s violence comes from, or their social deviancy, but my muse gives a bright hint.

These thoughts highlighted my move and mood from cave-side to modern day apartment, my change of venue from sea-side Maltala to a whole E-span away, into the countryside of the village of Kamilari (10 kilometers in distance). I didn’t cry. I was on a roll. I was used to such thoughts highlighting my life. It’s the background, as I’ve said, of my muse, of this adventure traveling too, and that’s processing pedophilia, or, how it manifests in me, as pederasty, boy love. It wasn’t spiritual achievement I was after on the spiritual path, although of course I want that. This whole thing started on an acid trip on the aforementioned Spyrock Mountain in 1988, when I embarked upon what I then called the personal growth process towards wholeness and healing, in other words, being healed of pedophilia. The healing effects of LSD on such unwieldy social disorders, I don’t think they’ve been adequately explored. That back story I tell in The Literary Eye. Now on with this story.

As I was being kicked out of Forte Prenestino in Rome, how I started this story remember, the following muse came:

Challenged in the mighty laughter of its laugh.
When the mean beer drinks philosophy qué pasó?
You can leave here and have an apartment to stay.
Eagles broke the hours on golden wings.
As creatures have their key
whether a Nazi guru needs to meet more.

If you hope to surrender to My entrega.
Living presence of a deity,
their particular God.
The change near him.
One will come eventually.
Music of rebellion:
do you 51? [if you remember , 51’s the fine you paid in Rome for riding free on the city bus, and you’d also think about an off limits area too; it’s an odd number for a fine, like I said]

Among other things, it’s prevision about the apartment I will be moving into here on Crete, where I’m at now in the story, but, typical of muse and dream, it’s showing the inner state of the thing, the psychological perspective. On the surface I’m being reassured that I can leave the Forte and have an apartment, how I interpreted it at the time, and with a sigh of relief, but, although it was often obvious the lines of muse in a formation (one listening) were connected, and that that connection sometimes extended to subsequent formations, i.e., the next time I lay down into the muse, as do these lines above, I hadn’t yet realized the way it worked, how it was trying to write poems and give me status (of my present situation), two different things, but which sometimes do overlap. I thought it was mostly just random lines that I could try and put together and make something out of, like I did with the dual titled The Inspired Word or Civilization and the Art of Terror, but the majority of lines were just gist for the mill (not), things for my information and enlightenment but nothing more.

The lines above are for you too, came to include in this story, back 20 years ago, or that’s how I interpret what just happened. Here at my desk writing now, I had my notebook open at a certain spot, the muse I was going to begin this part with, right on Irmgard’s spot to be specific, and you’ll understand presently, but I spilled coffee on my notebook and had to rush to Douglas to copy the page before I lost it to the seeping wet, as has happened in the past. When I returned and read the page I happened to have it opened to, which obviously wasn’t Irmgard’s spot, it had those above lines on it. You can see a random pattern here if you want, as it’s not convincing to a skeptic that my muse intended this 20 years ago, and all the impossible math that entails, that coffee spill included, but you’ll still find the interpretation of the lines not only interesting but also pertinent to the conversation, at the very least.

If you remember, it’s my year of 41, and I’m not manifesting my desire for boys, not even fantasizing about it, although in time it was longer than being at that age. With the hubris of the often talked to by the Gods, well, if not by their very mouths then by their agency, I thought it was finished, and I’d go from here to eternity a cured man. It bothered me that my muse continued to suggest it might not be over, as it does here (and in many other places, for example: “Is it we are camped to prepare us for black sheep?”), and that not only might it not be over, but the worst could come again, the anal rape of a little boy. Interpreting my muse here and in other places on this theme throughout my notebooks, a Nazi guru is a man who anally raped a little boy before the rise of Nazism, what helped to give rise to it to begin with, and the mean beer is boy rape specifically, meanness to little children in general, and it’s a theme in my muse, as I’ve said, a running thread, which is that Nazi cruelty came from, at bottom, the anal rape of boys in German speaking society, not all boys or even most, but just enough boys to be seeds of the whole cruel thing, and when you meet that with philosophy you can see what happened.

There are other things that it met it with, mean things also, but there is one thing that’s not mentioned in the muse above (but is elsewhere), and which isn’t mean in itself but that previews the shock of water, opens a child to more than the material and not only to angels, opens one to demons primarily, and that’s infant orgasm, Hitler’s ticket to ride, and I imagine other key players. (It’s a double-edged sword extraordinarily difficult to use the right side of, but you see me doing it.) This isn’t in the history books yet, but I do have the burning butt hurt cause of Nazis cruelty on one of my blogs in a short story (The Capture of a Killer) and the ‘mommy-person are you eating me alive?’ (infant orgasm) in a poem Facebook deleted my whole education page because of (because of the photo of Hitler—I don’t think Facebook reads poetry). There is, of course, no way to prove that sodomizing young boys was prevalent in pre-Nazi German speaking society, or that Hitler and other Nazis suffered the pleasure of infant orgasm, but you are hearing it was and seeing they did by the all-seeing divine eye, the sight of my muse (this salt and pepper is sprinkled throughout my notebooks), and you can take that divine sight and multiply it with the seer poet and see if you have some eye on the truth of things, on what’s going on. Do I show and tell well? What is my agenda? Is this the help of humanity?

So, I could leave the behind of boys behind, and we can assume their frontal parts too, and stay in an apartment, something smaller and a bit more temporary to live in than a house, where I would need to surrender to the delivery of my particular God, and where the change was near, something I only understood at the time as a cure, not an integration and harmonization, a taking out of the harm, what the whole apartment 41 was about. Undergoing that moratorium, there was hope that I wouldn’t fall again. The key to that was these eagle-seeings, my muse. An eagle sees all down below from a great height you know. It’s all in the book. At any rate, the change would one day come, despite the rebellion, even if I did fall. At the very least, the stay in the apartment challenged the horrible, ugly thing, in the very bowels of its laughter at us, and please know that we are the entertainment of monsters, who goad us to do evil so they can laugh at us and punish us so to laugh at us more. They eat our suffering. I am sorry for dragging you through all this material and non, but if we don’t talk about it frank and forthright, we’ll never get to the bottom of it so to integrate and harmonize it, so to heal it.

Dark closet interests me only.
What was in your mouth?
You did it, telescope 488. [vision of being in a wheelchair and forcing myself to focus and concentrate. As I heard and felt a big release of air I was successful. Someone was encouraging me]
Drawn on me and all these people drawn on me. [vision of many people with their six shooters drawn on me because of sex with children]
The best spring of sprouting,
helplessly their lives a heart-wooden pain.
One minute I’m discouraged and the next minute I am.
Excuse me [a name I lost], I’ve got a date on my writings. [vision of removing a large dog’s paw off of the bag that contained my writings]
And a date should be right over our dimensions right about now. [vision of UFO in the form of a lone, curving line of white billowous clouds high in the daytime sky, not directly overhead but seemingly conscious of us on the ground looking at it]

(a muse formation that came upon my arrival in Paris, where I was before Rome, another random opening of my notebook)

Now onto Irmgard’s spot. The first line of muse I got regarding her was, “On the spot, which is her spot denied,” and that refers to spirituality; she was scientific materialist. The line, which is prevision, showed me I would rub her the wrong way from the very first, by reminding her of the very thing she was in the most denial of. Here are the lines, scattered among many formations of muse (individual listenings), that talk about Irmgard, not all of them, but enough to get a picture of her and our relationship:

And good gardening is simply just knowing that you are here.

Her indomitable spirit and self-love.

She’s very conscientious about herself,
and if people want to share her soul…
I find when I much look at myself,
it preserved a stage in the evolution. [as though she’s talking to herself]
Notable voice that I know little of.

He came near her like this:
as soon as I go down
I murder, [voice of Irmgard this line]
I disdain.

It would take her a little while to cause harm.

That’s the woman I was telling you about. [vision of scrubbing a shit stain out of Irmgard’s panties]
That’s so speaking disgusting.

It’s too much for her.
She was emotionally ordering him to reprive the piano.
Head setting syndrome.

I brought the world to you,
and you didn’t like it.
A ruler in your handyman.
I belong to her.
I’m free,
so is Supermind,
a dual harbor.
The arm fades.
A clarn in suicide’s book.

A memory. [vision of giving Irmgard a copy of the Atlantic letter, as if to say, see I was writing something important, and you wanted me to wait on you]

Do all this. [Irmgard telling me this]
Okay, I’ll work on it.
And make you work out of some hidden thing.

Can you work five hours? [vision of Irmgard working hard in the garden with an urgent sense things must be done now, not because she wanted to do them, but because she had to, but she had no strength to do them herself. This shows me she doesn’t ask me to do things just to be absurd; she really thinks it’s a great need]

Thank you for living here. [vision of Irmgard standing in her front door and telling me this]

She had been a scientist in London and also an East German spy, and if you lived with her, you wouldn’t doubt her story, but of course I can’t prove it. We did have some interesting conversations. And we fought. I didn’t fully realize that, after months of living outside of human circles, suddenly being thrust into a circle of two, and the one on one that entails, would be more than I could handle. There ensued what occurs between two people who are both strong characters, and they are working or living together: a battle over who’s the bigger who. I saw this inevitability and really tried just to be her handyman, do her bidding, but she alternated between being the kind of older person you listened to, because they were both interesting and conscious of you, and a sophisticated version of my step-mother, and ain’t it funny how we keep coming back to those people, and she would sometimes taunt me and rub my nose in my servitude to her, and ain’t it just like us that’s what I remember more, almost the exact words: “You’re nothing but a robot, can’t do this, can’t do that, not even have a glass of wine, and you think you’re being spiritual. Go get the rake. The yard looks terrible,” Irmgard sitting at her table sipping wine and smoking cigarettes and talking to me standing in the doorway of her house awaiting my next task. Not yet a spiritually enlightened being, I just couldn’t take it.

As I explained when I began this story, I was on a purity kick, and not only wasn’t having sex or eating any kind of meat, including eggs, but I wasn’t drinking, smoking, or taking anything either, that got me drunk or high that is, and that I wasn’t on it to be a good person but to keep my consciousness as pure as possible, not waste any subtle life force, what you spill in vital indulgences (indulging the emotions and life desires), what you need to have spiral dreams and overhead experience, things I’ve not expounded upon in this story, not yet, but things more important to me than the muse. We can argue about the drawbacks/benefits of the hallucinogens on such, but an avid pot smoker, it was time for me to face the spiritual path without the crutch and false sense of spiritual feeling grass gives. Ganja also opens the door for the Hostile Powers to come in, and when you’re trying keep from doing what they want you to do, you need to keep that door shut. The purity kick was a experiment, not the lines my nature drew, but to all that met me then, it was a holier than thou. I should have had a glass of wine with Irmgard, had that sip of wine Mechthild tested me with, why she and Wolfram turned on me later, when I was in Palermo, Sicily; I was nothing more than a fanatic, who couldn’t even write poetry, to hear her tell it. That drink of wine she tried to convince me to have, “just one little drink”, was the test. I remember trying to explain to her that with even a little sip the consciousness would fall. I now feel other people are more important than a little slip in your consciousness, and I also like to get slightly drunk sometimes and feel my consciousness explore the world that way. Pot however, one single hit, sends me into the pit of the Void, and I’m hanging onto the world with all my fingers and toes, trying to tell myself it’s just an experience of infinity in the finite. Sometimes I believe it and calm down; others no, and so pot and me have mostly parted ways. Sex? “My teacher said no sex, and I’m interested in no sex,” (my muse on Crete). Meat? Why don’t you just mind your own business?

Pulling out all the stops
of old emerald to be like deity.
And I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your house down,
and I’m a diamond in the rough.
Can you argue with this?
Wow, I’m high—
and fish drink water.
They lost their cookies in the sink.
I wouldn’t detail them.
Stop tryin’.

We would shove them under the sink and start over.
She was a beautiful seamstress.
She did not ignition right.
We let her down.
She noticed us.
It didn’t come to fruition,
the tank in the courtyard.
I lost my temper,
screamed and shouted and winced at her.
We can’t keep players.
I tried,
and that’s the baseball game.

I understand your arm’s on the table.
It won’t be long now.
What’s it worth?
Every bug on the planet fixes yah.
The whole night sky
listens ears.
You come to a round table,
and you show Earth your wares.

That’s expensive.
Do I dynamite?
You come together in the right place
exploding your wares.
He’s thrown Minecraft at yah,
all of your soliloquies on the net.
He’s done so many things with your time
you understand the nature of it.
You won’t understand him
the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald,
the sewer system.
You’d have to stay with him awhile,
listening to his heart breathe.
I’ve said enough.
He’ll be on your corner soon.

I don’t know whistle blows,
but it’s where we’re at, you know?
On the breezeway
so naked it’s a story in the air,
but I don’t know
if I get put in an elevator or not
so you can see me.
Maybe this whistle is for your kids,
or theirs,
or some other department
in time.

Let’s roll up our sleeves, shall we?
and perpetrate the world.
Goodnight Luna.
I’ll get past your puppy ears.
Come on let’s dance
and spend the night a whole generation away.
Come on Luna,
understand our position together:
you’re not my dog,
and I know you wanna be.
You gotta sleep downstairs.
Well that’s not finished.
She’s on her way to you.
Don’t rob yourself of sleep.
This is hard on both of us.
We just don’t understand.

Can see a new place in vision.
If that’s a targeted ship.
Visions come and go.
That’s what he’s working,
to be not a denier of divine deity.
Alright, all these firecrackers
over the puppy,
over a load of house issues,
over just destiny you and me,
over the world as it sucks,
over especially the news media.
Can we go?
Can we make our house a run?
Can we get better at this
and fire up those engines
and go to the place we all shine in the sun?
Is that even possible?

To shine in the sun,
that is so cool.
Well, the youth dropped it.
I think I’m getting
too old for my britches.
My tax return
is enough to pay you off,
you unconvinced people yet out there,
and you just put me down and see yourself.
Let’s blow this up.
I’m a memory in my room.
I’ll just keep tellin’ it.
Calm yourself down
and bring us the world again.

And I was hoping
that puppy dog don’t have to be sent outta here.
My large pumpkin shadow
just gets cut off,
and it’s no secret where she wants to be.
Give us
the destiny in our room.
It was Kentucky Fried Chicken,
her sleepin’ beside me showin’ belly,
comfortable like the world is safe,
and I reach over
and give that belly a rub.
That’s baby
where bright and shiny lives.
I think we’ve just pat the world you know,
and ain’t it nice and warm?
You’re touchin’ friendship
in its startup in man.
Good God that’s good.

New interpreters,
we’re just putting a face on God.
Ending after some time
with the hardest part of life.
Good cop, bad cop,
we met in that line Data.
A bridge told me Savitri was fallin’ asleep.
This world’s crucible,
how many say God is mean?
How many say this world is mean?
Let’s understand evolutionary science.
In that box we don’t make one to pet.
We’re off in the place screaming.
I’ve seen Luna;
I feel better.
A big boost,
that’s how you handle puppies.
And those your kids
derive the sweetness of your day.
Some future guy on the phone.
Oh my God the air tell.
They’re combat engineers.
The truth will ever sometimes get a mask.
I am wild about this on YouTube.
I can completely
copy down you know.
You have a mind.

Highlights,
all you could say at me in one day.
I came in that I’m sorry,
just that I’m on the spiritual path.
The blistered paragraph
Mexico writes,
like I said,
there is no true seeing
or spell it out for you.
I’m not askin’ for everything,
just the sky of God.
It’s in the history books.

These is photos of my inner workings.
Hut two three four,
how do we spell relief?
Donny 661.
The front door,
oh I locked it
to come on alive in the book.
Are you gonna liberal democrat?
Neither breadcrumbs
nor dire straits,
we’re gonna get into the way of the world.
It’s so much bigger than tall robots,
than a guru,
than mixing with your kind.
It’s a 30 linebacker
gone to work with his momma and coming back to take you down.
That’s frozen,
but it’s on the telephone line you see.

I’m just tryin’ to be my brother’s keeper—
that was the recognition-fish of thousands,
but what is it behind this screen?
Hello I’m Donny how are you?
I was wonderin’ how to be sincere,
put you in touch with my sincerity.
Is it on the table?
It’s just starin’ down the crowd.
Well at least it’s in school.

Whether India had its first world crisis.
You know I was right there in the ballgame.
We looked up Covid
next door to a crematorium.
No busy port that was,
not even wayfarers.
Oh we had the disease.
It just wasn’t a world on fire
all over India.
Why was it reported that way?

Somethin’s going on we can’t slip.
I kid you not there’s a grocery list.
Now go back to sleep.
I’m just warnin’ yah about future comings
the state perpetrates,
the powers that be.
Look out.
We’ll do anything to stay safe.
They’ve got us by the fear of death.
Who is this big conspiracy?
Bibliography asura.
It’s not a failed state.
They control us through our dreams.
Gotcha!

When you buy those things,
don’t just go meal pay.
They’re in your room right now,
travelin’ down the rollercoaster of your thoughts
to jump in there and start somethin’
sinister to the Earth.
Can’t get rid of.
Have to evolve out of, [this and above line came on Crete]
and that’s what we’re doin’.
You will hear towards these creatures
doesn’t work.
It’s got $600.

What was spiritual feelin’?
Do you bite I suppose really spiritual?
Wow head,
really crucial.
Where are yah?
Oh of a cry,
can you hear that lowdown?

(today’s muse)

The cat of the matter is she was a ghost, for 20 years. Where is your kitty cat? She wants to be near you, even in death, and so it really matters how she dies, and how you take it. Kittypuss was a purely white cat my sister found on the street, a little kitten, when I was seven, during those city mooned for times I’ve life-listed earlier. I was allergic to cats, but not Kittypuss. She was my non-human sibling. She was my mom’s pumpkin shadow. I was in the army when she died, glad I wasn’t there to see my mom’s grief. I didn’t understand then it’s like the loss of a child, but I certainly do now.

That grief got the better of her, as it wasn’t on Kittypuss’ behalf but hers. Isn’t that the way it often is with us when a loved one dies? The tie that binds you know. You see, my mom had this problem with goodbye. She always made a big deal of it when saying goodbye, saying it might be the last time we saw each other—“you never know”—, and she’d shower us with hugs and kisses, the number of them depending on the length of time we’d be away. The bitch of it was, when it was the final goodbye, she dropped it, and not just dropped it, but really messed it up.

It’s disgusting,” and my mom said it really drawing the word out and saying it like you do when you want the word itself to sound disgusting, it being sex with children. You’d agree with her, but that’s a point for later on. I’ll just say that was new attitude for her; heretofore I was her son and not a child molester, and she’d felt sadness for me over the latter, not her disgust. I took the cell phone from my ear and looked at it, wanting to tell her that if she hadn’t given me orgasm with that kissing mouth of hers when I was a baby and toddler, I would have been sexually normal, but I held my tongue, knowing it might the last time I talked to her, because she was 70 and on once a week dialysis, and it turned out it was our goodbye, our last conversation. The you in the you just never know was she.

But we’re here for the cat. “This is like a cat’s drum, the end of a cat drama,” my muse as I moved into the apartment near Kamilari, which is prevision of the dream experience I’m about to describe, a foretelling of the future. The lines sum up the experience, give it its meaning. First though, the back story. I heard how she died from my mother in a phone call I made from my army barracks, soon after Kittypuss died, about 40 years ago. Please listen; it’s not really the end like we think; it’s leaving the body. Kittypuss could no longer walk, my mom said, was going to the bathroom all over herself and in pain, and so she took her to the vet to be put to sleep. Can I just interject here and ask would you take your grandmother to the doctor to be killed if that were the case, or would you put a diaper on her, give her pain meds, and love her till death, unbidden, came to take her, unless it was a clear case death was the more merciful one? Anyway, with the cat on the table and the syringe in the doctor’s hand, my mom got a sudden case of the coward and ran out of the office and into her car to cry. Meanwhile, a confused and now abandoned Kittypuss was killed by the vet, her sovereign nowhere in sight. She just left her body and went to her momma. What else is a cat to do?

I first saw Kittypuss a ghost when I had a near death experience I relate here , not realizing what I was seeing, and that was several years after her death. It took awhile to dawn on me after the experience that she was still around in my mom’s house. I saw her in at least one other dream after that, but I don’t remember the details, only that it seemed to confirm she was indeed a ghost in the house. I resolved to use my dreaming ability to see if that were indeed the case, and try and help her if it was, but there hadn’t been a clear breathing space in my life I could explore that, until now, in the apartment Irmgard let me live in, but it wasn’t me that decided now was the time. It was the Mother. This is taken from my dream notebook 9 November 2020, which describes the last part of a lucid, spiral dream:

Then I began to very slowly be pulled and taken into a spiral around the room, and as I did I asked the Mother (I don’t remember if with words or silently) who was the person I needed to see, and just then Kittypuss, the white cat my family had when I was a child, appeared in the center of the circle, laying with her head on her front paws, as though she were not only sad but in despair. I said her name, surprised, and this seemed to connect to my body in bed, as though I had spoken her name with my body’s mouth, and quickly the dream scene faded. I was trying to say “Go to the other side,” but these words were weak and spoken on the way back to my body. She didn’t even respond, like she were dead, but her eyes were open. She had just given up hope. She is a ghost in my mom’s house, due to an improper death, and I’ve seen her there in the subtle physical or on the vital plane at times, two or three, in dreams there. Was just my intention and the force of calling her name, after such a powerful experience, enough to help her pass? [the experience in the first part of the dream was of being taken by the spiral with the loud accompanying sound of an airplane propeller, herald of going up out the top of the head, which didn’t happen, although the opening to towards it was very powerful]

_____________________________________________________________________________________________

There ensued 18 days where I concentrated on Kittypuss, shocked to know how long she had suffered as a ghost, shocked to know that such things happen to innocent little kitty cats. I said her name aloud and thought about her throughout the day, asking the Mother to help. None of this is in my muse notebook. I’m only able to capture a small portion of what I receive, although here on Crete that portion was larger, as the muse and dream were in many ways, the main events, although, like I said, not the most important ones. The instructions I remember getting in regards to her, I didn’t write down, but I do remember getting them, such as, when I asked how to find her, I was told that she would be at her food bowl in the kitchen of my mom’s house. I was also told, as though by her, that, since my sister had left the house, no one ‘petted’ her anymore, meaning of course in dream (my sister also is very open in dream. My mom’s dreaming had gone to sleep). I was told she was suffering greatly, and that there was no time to spare to rescue her. She had sunk down almost to the Void.

Dream notebook 27 November 2002

I was in my mother’s house and lucid and looked around for Kittypuss and called her name, and almost instantly she came from where her food bowl is, or I went to her, I don’t remember. I petted her and spoke her name, wondering how to tell her to move on. Something happened that I don’t remember, and I began to lose the dream, but I concentrated and the house came back, only it was normal daylight. I looked around for her, calling her name, saying kitty kitty and such, looking under things, but no cat, just a hint of her presence there. Then I realized she was there but on another level, in the darkness where I found her in the first part of the dream [unrecorded]. I was very clear and focused. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever been so, perhaps the word is powerful, in a dream, or able to just do things, what needed to be done, without any effort once I know what to do. So I concentrated, and almost instantly I was in the darkness. This darkness is not like regular darkness. Things in it aren’t wholly there, like only their sketch or outline is, but I did not feel all oppressed by or afraid of the darkness. I went into the kitchen and saw Kittypuss moving near her food bowl, and I could see her white, like she was the only real thing there. I went to her and picked her up in my arms, and holding her tightly (I could feel her fear and despair), I went out the backdoor and into the backyard. There was a hint of dawn, and I saw up in the sky the orb, or partial orb, of the sun, but not at all bright. I began to will the force to take me up, or opened myself to it, which I did, and we slowly began to rise. Then I saw the sun. At a height just above the house or so I put, hurled, no word describes the action, Kittypuss into the sun, and there was a tremendous explosion of bright light, perhaps all of the colors, but I’m not sure, and she was gone, and I felt very good but very centered and steady.

Then I was in the house where my mother and sister were and still lucid, I decided to tell them of the process of Kittypuss, tell their subtle selves that is, so they’d by better prepared when I told their waking selves. Gwen took off not wanting to hear it, and my mother said she had heard scratching a time or two, but she wasn’t really taking it all in, 20 years a ghost until now. A line of muse came after the dream that I lost, but it seems Kittypuss did not go where she would return to these lives. There was the word either stuffed or displayed in the presence of God, but there was a great sweetness in the line that suggested some kind of nirvana, one that well makes up for her 20 years suffering as a ghost and her journey long through these lives. This experience has greatly strengthened me and is making me trust God all the more. Even little kitty cats are cared for, their little souls blessed. Wow.

____________________________________________________________________________________________

Life is a restless activity grounded in God.
Just call me wisdom.
I threw her in the crack where the clock strikes about.

(my muse immediately after the Kittypuss dream)

Kittypuss will not be in my life again.
Thank you. [she saying this]
The gist of a man,
inspired by a vision,
moves the first place of humanity.
I will floor myself in such a flower car,
pound myself upon it.
It’s very good for you.
I went to the mouth of darkness and half opened its gangala,
and it’s no question as flame we can walk upon it.
Ronnie’s gonna give me a ride listening,
ear open in the back of its eye. [Ronnie the donkey]
Full of the 10 natures. [vision of a colorful rectangular drawing of several creatures all mixed together into one but each a distinct color, one a blue dragon]
Leaving dogs as slaves,
I must act the body while it can decide.

(muse that same night, after the dream)

I no longer wow that whole thing since, in the present of my life now, the dog of my life, Lisa, and the little puppy Rascal, died, both horribly, the latter screaming like I never heard a dog scream before, the former’s life ending prematurely by an incompetent vet (whose gross neglect goes beyond the wrong tablets he proscribed for her), and now she’s trapped on the other side right where death meets life because of her love for me, her loyalty, the very quality divinity gave dogs so to be our best friend, unable to pass too because of her doubt of me, as it was I that gave her the fatal tablets, and she has come to think I poisoned her, and in a horrifying, unintended way I did, a god-awful, complicated passing that hasn’t made her a ghost, but has put her in a bad place, unable to go where she needs to go, and so far, although I’m doing the same intense concentration I did for Kittypuss, focusing on her and calling her name throughout the day, which means the grief is right there, each lucid dream rescue attempt, where I have to try to travel to the other side, no small feat in itself, has failed. The line about dogs in the formation above is prevision about her predicament (as well about the emancipation of dog itself, what I might just have something to do with), and I’m being given advice about it way back then. As I’ve said, it’s ability to foretell the future is a feature of muse that makes it so mysterious and, I’ll add now, gives you a hand to hold when you realize it took hold of your present hand 20 years ago.

Still though, that hand can only ease, can’t erase the cruel twist on it that she’s now afraid of me and thinks I killed her, when she was my baby, the beloved of my life: “You destroyed me,” my muse putting words on her thoughts soon after she died. This bitter experience has shaken my faith, and it’s not that I doubt whether it’s all true, God, soul, and the whole nine yards, but I now know that life, the universe, and everything isn’t God’s plan but God’s experiment, and what a difference a word makes, and the conditions of the experiment are such that the conditions of the cosmos bind even the divine powers, the delegated hand of God, and sometimes, maybe even often, the cosmic Gods lose to the Hostile Powers, the unembodied fiends that dog our every step and hover around even our dogs and cats trying to turn their lives and deaths too into the living hell humans can have. It’s all a bit much, and it’s opened a gulf in me that I’m just having to put my faith in to fill, but when it’s shaking and flickering in my hands, what’s a body to do but just cry out loud?

There is a gap between love and death my muse says, and boy is there ever. I’ve learned there are places where the world just doesn’t work well, zones not yet fully filled with existence, places where the Void rears up its head to devour life, and the space between life and death is one of these. Many pass unmolested by the powers that oppose life, but some people get trapped, and not just humans. The Mother and others have said that a principle function of religion is to aide our passage to the other side, since even a little faith in it will give you the buoyancy you need to make it past the unconstructed zones (my understanding, not theirs), and that today, with the rise of skepticism and atheism, a lot more people than in times past find themselves dead without a clue of where to go or what to do, find themselves open to attack, of the bottom feeders, find themselves in terrible in-between places trapped (like Lisa) or a ghost unable to touch the living or life under the sun but tantalizingly surrounded by them. Knowledge is not always your friend, and there is knowledge that you don’t want to know but must know, at some point at least, and if you don’t think that point’s here for you, then what can we do? Well here it is. I’m sorry. What more can I say?

Yes He’s got the whole world in his hands, but he drops us sometimes, or drops our kids, into the fire, you know? The secret of why only he knows. You can read a poem of mine about Rascal that asks God to grow. Of course, that’s only a point of view, and one that comes from a heart being torn out, not actually how it is, and we can look at it in an infinite number of ways to try and see how it is, but we’ll always come up short. God is just too big to figure, but maybe he’s not responsible for every leaf that falls. Maybe he just knows every leaf that does and gets it the help it needs to wither into other life without burning in the fire too terribly long, in the long way God helps us, and our dogs and cats, everybody, which is to send us someone to help us, however long that might take, someone that can, and maybe there aren’t too terribly many that can do that, and with Kittypuss, that someone was me. I can only ask him to hurry up with Lisa. What more can I ask?

To stand erect,
without which the creature had not the will of the creator.
God’s hands are in God’s hands on that endeavor.
During the transformation from ego to divine consciousness,
one must return the slain of a suffered past.
The Light evolves its irregularities,
but the Light is patient and can wait its due.
To establish a new theme takes time.
Conscious of the good means waiting through the bad.
All will happen in its good time.
What is life really?
A growth of the soul.
What are years to the life of the soul?
Not even time can measure things you know.
The things change in spiritual seconds.

(from The Inspired Word)

And see what we’ve added is reliable.
I need a horse.
He writes it about now.
I see longer than you do.
What is your stomachache over?
We tore a hole in our heart.
Just inside her throat.
I will be revealed,
but I don’t deserve it.
Crazy.
See how that goes.

You’re the person stuffed in a tree.
You’ve got the stuff.
Give up everything he had,
they just wanna shoot ‘im.
Get out of here,
that’s a mix of how it’s done,
where I’m the enlightened disciple.
Oh wow railroad cars.
Oh I’m so sorry—
when they take my name.

Think that world will be overlap.
The future of man,
don’t you worry,
a hitter,
suddenly a hitter.
Come right here boy,
maybe at some point
we’ll be beyond the game.
We didn’t expect Susan to arrive.

A problem with the luminated glass:
I thought I needed a special kind of mask.
In their scientist,
in pre-Socratic math,
a little puppy
uncut to fulfill itself.
I’m not tryin’ to bring surprises.
I’m tryin’ to give you the straight scoop
in all our flavors.
Can you melt with me?
This is where we stand.

It’s horrible, ain’t it,
the way we die
and just have to suffer that.
It doesn’t bring us peace,
when it takes from us the world,
no matter how many near-death experiences you’ve had.
How many loved ones say cheese?
Where do we go with it?

A station in life has this all mapped out,
what you have to do,
unhinge yourself from the world.
It’s a state I’ve seen,
briefly.
I’ve snuck up on enlightenment.
I’ve pulled up on the scene.
There’s no comparing it with here.
It’s amazingly centered
on not having a center at all.
No thing touches you
in all the world of things.
Scary to look at.
The place to be to be in.
You hear this whistle?

It’s impossible.
Some many techniques to get there
and not a one work.
It’s uploaded
from a higher source,
how it really gets in yah.
This become an arrow
when you don’t need any more strife.
It’s a great way to leave the world
and be wonderfully alive in it.
Up next.
Such a nice man,
gunna what man?
You’re just hearin’ my muse.
I laugh at it too,
prepare for impact.

Now let’s be sailors
and skim over the waters.
Up you go,
all up there to Supermind,
the destination of the Earth.
It’s something that I’m qualified for
on my computer,
giving you the lowdown.
There would be a violence,
the agency who knows who dreams.
You’re guidance councilor would advise against it.
This is your own divinity.

On after death
you might see this is you.
I’ve sat in the sun
here on earth
while I’m alive.
Sum into the ascended nature of Supermind,
giving the lowest record. [this and above line came on Crete]
I can’t tell you any differently;
that’s what happened.
See all these stars?

A rainstorm
has drawn the lines for me.
Not too long ago
I really hurt the Earth.
Yeah, I’ve struggled with it too.
Can I just stand here and bark?
No, let’s put trainin’ on it,
and let’s show you the windows.
That’s about the Earth,
and I’m ridin’ it now.
There is just so much food to give.
You hungry?

I’ve got a question:
what the heck?
It’s in the night you understand,
and I can’t show you the sun.
There you are up there
a few meters over your head
the Supermind,
and you just sit there
an outside the universe entity.
Bigger than the universe,
it’s your reality.
Makes sense
to science’s laboratory origins hypotheses.
Dumbass,
they put it in terms of here,
but I think
they’ve got a spatula
to flip it
when it’s cooked long enough,
and that the truth.

You can check very quickly
you speak something not of like us to the government.
You will have trouble.
And I’m gonna bring that bear in
and try to get yah off your feet.
Just because you’re door there doesn’t mean you’re right;
I’ll be here folks if you need me.

Words have chosen.
It’s a change of consciousness.
Now I’m all set.
More than God possessing oneness,
his deep largeness infinity he also understands. [this and above line came in 2002]
On the higher mountain
it’s ours.
Hey, wash my hands right.
Put your father’s voice/glasses [words spoken simultaneously]
on the matter of this meaning,
why don’t we stop doing that?
If you haven’t noticed,
mother you raise the kids,
and when you’re a father,
you mother too.
You’re welcome.

Come on, put that mother.
Before a big change,
generally there’s a blackout,
so it assimilates.
I had to express it
with an opening
to all we hate about us,
and it mobilize it
and give us all the change we need.
That’s how you bring change:
it’s you you change.
Victims,
bring ‘em where the child will heal:
I’ve seen my abuser change.
Precisely.

Look I’m a capital of this issue.
Let us be willing,
anymore vehicles
not yet in our use,
something terrible has happened,
we put them on the road.
You’ll just have to take your tie off and sit down.
You’ll just have to remove your social constraints,
and heal the human race.
The right minute,
time is now.

Oh my dog,
found her fronting artillery
with a stunning
defiance.
Jeff you get that?
Carry on.
Her root tail,
she’s found us.
Come,
let’s think this through.
You come to me when I call.
Oh Luna?
I know you see her Lisa,
and know she’s not you.
Crow, crow, over wind and bed-graves,
I’ve got you now girl.
Try to do it on the tournament.
Move over,
that was bedtime.
Be comin’ right now.

(today’s muse)

Dream Notebook December 5, 2002 [his death-day, what I didn’t consciously know then]

I was in the car with Sri Aurobindo, and I think he was driving. It was so comfortable to be in his presence, so relaxed, so incredibly human and more normal that normal. I can go on and on about his presence, nothing like you’d expect, not one pretention, no airs at all, and there was no hint of him not wanting to be bothered, or talked to, but it made me respect his space all the more, and I don’t think we talked as we drove. The silence was so full. We got to a shopping strip, and there was a woman there whose friend, a slightly older woman, had a Bible store, and she had just closed up. I looked in the window and saw she was very much a fundamentalist. She wanted to talk to Sri Aurobindo but didn’t know my thing about him at all. She was just in distress and needed to talk to somebody. She didn’t want to open back her shop to talk there, but Sri Aurobindo went to the door and opened the lock without a key. I knew he was using his will to put the talk where it needed to be, in her shop. He didn’t say anything, just opened the door, and she accepted it easily.

He and I went in, and the woman’s children came, and I spoke to one in Spanish because there were books about missionaries in Latin America and some hint that children were going there, or being sent there by their parents or something. The boy wasn’t one of these and didn’t understand. Sri Aurobindo was sitting down, and all the children were gathered around him and playing with his beard and such, which had become long and like a handle. I wasn’t jealous that he was the center of attention with the children. In fact, I wasn’t jealous that he was Sri Aurobindo and I just a disciple. How can I describe his presence? You just don’t know—so down to earth. Then I was on the floor with a small boy playing with him, and Sri Aurobindo was sitting across the room, not to watch me but to teach me how to play with kids in the right way, but there was not a trace of fear I’d molest him, or judgment, or condemnation, or anything remotely similar. Then he left the room into the interior of the shop to talk to the woman. Just like that. What trust I thought. He’s not even worried about what I might do to the kid.

Then I went outside after a bit, and the woman was sitting with her friend, and she was glowing she was so happy. I explained, excited myself, that that was Sri Aurobindo, and he’d died in 1950! As I was explaining that that was the first time he’d done that with me, bodily materialized, I stopped and asked her was he really there, and she assured me he really had been. I was about to tell her she probably wouldn’t be a fundamentalist anymore after this, but I decided to let her figure that out for herself.

The it was night, and the women were down in the car, and I was with the little boy, 4 0r 5, up like an open bar or restaurant raised above the parking lot. I was giving him affection, very close, touching his face and head, but it was he actually the one wanting me to and not me pulling me to him as usual, and there was no sexual desire. Then his older brother came up, 9 or 10, to show me his report card. I had a strong pull to pull him close, but I felt he didn’t want that, but his hand was on my arm, so I knew he did need some physical contact, just more from a distance. I went against my pull and put him on the table to sit as we talked about his grades, and he kept his arm on my arm. I saw that he had okay grades but had a ‘spastic’ in gym, and I knew he had some inner problems between the body and his emotions, but I didn’t word it to myself that way at the time. When I looked at his face it was a map, and I drew a route on his cheek, a square in a town, and what I was really doing was redrawing my map of how to be around and relate to children.

____________________________________________________________________________________________

A couple of days later, a young Austrian woman and her two little boys, Phillip, four and a half, and John, two and a half, came to stay in the empty apartment below mine. The apartment served as a safe house for woman who’d been abused by their husbands, something I only learned when they showed up. As I understood it, the boys had been beaten also. The family were on their way somewhere else, and they were only staying a few days. I hadn’t been around children in months, and things had just worked out that way; I wasn’t trying to stay away from kids. Phillip looked like the little boy in the dream, the younger brother I gave close affection to. He was right on the border of my attraction range, this side of the border.

There ensued some days of checks and balances, desire entering and being thrown out. It’s all in the book, but I can’t copy it all down for you here. The gist of it, like I’ve been talking to you about, is being around them and not harming them, not staying away from them so you don’t. It took me awhile to come to the dream, as at first I felt it wrong to even be playing with them, what my muse refers to as sports, a personal symbol, not a universal one I might add. Although the whole night before they came was full of prevision of their coming—“That snake with horns looks like something”—, this one means a lot to show you:

There’ll be a sports pin in your rises and re-rises. [vision of a ski lift that was a bit unusual. At first it gave you a cup of hot chocolate as you came up from the bottom, the lift being like a Ferris wheel that went below the Earth]

Phillip was spastic like the older boy in the dream and really wanting close affection like the younger one, and the muse can describe our ensuing intimacy better than I can:

This is a memory stick. [vision of an American Indian spear, feathers and such that represented events]
A room called clarity the base.
In control of inner judge.
By a perverse gate sat.
Mastery quit of their own world adventure?
They’ll be one on one in nature without touching themselves with syringes.
Don Don. [My sister’s affectionate name for me when we were little. Vision of Phillip whispering to me not to tell what we were doing, which was exploring around a neighbor’s house, and we had to be quiet so as not to be heard, obviously though, something was stirring in him under the water]

Too many details spoil the soup, but Phillip had had sexual contact, of the fondling kind, and, in front of his mother, he laid down on the bed in their apartment and made it clear he wanted me to do it, and the way she corrected him, it appeared to me she knew he had, but that’s just speculation. That he’d had it though, was obvious in the way he asked for it with his body. The things that pass in families, so many things do so underground. What would I have done if she hadn’t had been there? I was not in a position to molest him. “It was Lion’s Gate,” (my muse today). You have no idea the healing power of a situation where a child who’s been molested wants to do it with an adult who wants to too, but the adult doesn’t, nor won’t. When it’s the adult who molested them in the first place, you have precisely what’s needed, but you’re just not going to understand that until you have to.

Thinking is a world body process.
I was walking everyday animated by wood.
In a life by Thee lived.
I am so powerful because it’s under the heal of feelings.

(the muse that came immediately after the sports pin line)

Although I barely had enough to feed myself, the mother had no money, and so I shared my food with them, not every meal while they were there, but enough to feel it. I cooked for them too, as that’s one of my jobs (I’m a feeder), and so the family got a lot of sacrifice from me, and they needed it from a man. I realized at the time I was a healing help for them. Irmgard did not involve herself with them much, and I saw her a time or two watching me from her windows playing with the boys with a look on her face that said, “That’s what he likes.” To her credit she never threw it in my face. She was obviously the neighbor in the vision with Phillip. She, like you, wouldn’t understand playing with kids isn’t having sex with them if you like them. It’s not eating the apple. “Yesterday around the apple I was a golden time,” my muse giving a report card during the those days.

What, however, just blew me away about the whole thing was that dream telling me not only what was about to happen, but also how to handle it. “Is printed here the light of circumstance,” (my muse at that time). You can sit there and say all day it’s a coincidence. Do you really believe that, or are you just counting sheep?

The catch-22 of it is, to get the kind of help I described in that dream, or give the help I described (involving Kittypuss and Lisa), you have to be open to it or to doing it, and that means not be clouded with anything, desire, anger, hatred, jealousy, fear, grief, and I can continue, which means you have to be pure, clean, clear, and it has nothing to do with moral reasons; you have to be clear to get the clear signal, and the purer you are the purer the signal, and it’s as simple as that, and that just sucks because when we most need help we usually aren’t, far from it, why we’re asking for help to begin with. It’s another one of those things that seem to stack the deck in the favor of the Hostile Powers. Be that as it may, here I got what I needed. An opening came, and my teacher taught me a fountain of lessons intricate as the day is long and meaningful as the night is deep, because at that moment in my purity he could, and so, other than applying them to the boys that were to come the next day, why did they have to be all learned right then and there? My muse was doing the same thing, if you haven’t noticed, taking advantage of 41 to get the message across, which, if you’ve been listening, is more for me than the world, and that message is very simple: don’t abuse children, and here’s why you do and how to stop. Society only tells you the don’t, doesn’t understand the why and doesn’t know the how, because we are still very much the animal when it comes to dealing with wrongdoing, not yet human beings here, and so, representative creatures that we are, here I am with my muse: “You know what? You’re first fix, (my muse on Crete). Wow, “I’m being looked at by who cares, first my soul,” (ditto).

If we couldn’t get help in those eat up with it times, all would be lost. The help in a fallen state takes on another character, though, more like a rescue or one attempted. It was in the late ‘90’s, Mexico, and I was lost in it, that being what we talk about. I had a dream of being in a university math class and taking an exam I could not make heads nor tails of, way beyond my math level. I did what I could and turned it in and left the classroom, turning as I walked out the door, which was to the outside and into the night, and seeing a line of students in front of the professor’s podium seeking help. Standing behind the podium was Sri Aurobindo, and I was so surprised to see him, but I hung my head because I thought he wouldn’t want to have anything to do with me, not lucid in the dream and so not realizing he was there for me to begin with, and as I looked at him he looked at me and told me inside my head, “You can come to me and ask for help.” Upon awakening, I asked for his help, and in the next few days was able to rather easily make a beachhead towards the dry land of sadhana. I wasn’t clear enough to get anything more from him than that, in his presence that is, but that was no small thing in itself.

No with an august son too old.
That’s today ridin’.
You need to meet the world in its panties.
I’ve said a revolution
in all the externals
of taking that child out of sexual harm.
And we’re finished.

Oh my God the parade,
it’s the moment of death.
That’s hell,
although her Mother
takes her out of the passage
and holds her from harm.
A Zen master has slapped him over the head—
instant enlightenment.
You’ve seen the catalyst,
every face in the crowd.

Bob Fisher,
are you only up there in your circle?
It’s everything they got.
Another mind comin’.
Where is the mountain Earth presides?
He’s on that farm,
whatever you say
Spyrock Mountain.

Toughest scenes of America,
in the oil to fix it right.
You don’t know how to stop this.
You don’t even know how to pray.
I have the whole nine yards
so you can see it.
Don’t even pick up a pencil
to have me join you.
How can you stay intact?
Oh my God the muse.
My Mother can’t swift past these places.
That’s the freeway.
Are you there?

(today’s muse)

You wonder where the Mother is in this narrative, or in my dreams. My muse keeps talking about her. Although it deserves a story in itself, a paragraph is all I can give it now, and that is that I lived in Montreal for five months in 1999, and during that time I spent a wet summer sneak camping high on the mountain the city’s named after in a little hidden crevice not big enough to stay dry in. I felt so forlorn, really suffered from the elements there, from society’s cold. One night I dreamed that I lived in a small close-knit Quebecois community in the countryside, one of those strange kind of dreams that seem to last for days or weeks but that only last a few minutes as you lie there sleeping. We all lived in a very large, old fashioned, country house that had a wide wooden, roofed porch running around all four sides of it. I began to have feelings for a young woman there, and, although nothing was said, everyone was very glad to see me attracted to a woman, as they knew I liked little boys, although I wasn’t involved with any there. We were together around the house, and as the time went by my feelings grew, until I’d fallen in love and wanted to make love with her. She had the same feelings. This was okay with everybody. One evening we were on the porch, at the back of the house, just the two of us, and I knew it was time. I took her in my arms and kissed her, and when we pulled away she turned into the Mother, who, I realized, becoming lucid, she’d been all along. She smiled at me so sweetly, and there was nothing uncomfortable about being in her arms or having been about to have sex with her. Just off the top of my head I began to ask her about Heaven, but then I began to tell her about it, as though I were remembering being there, how in Heaven there was no danger, but you could still have adventures, the kind that could get you killed here, like freezing to death out unprotected in the snow and ice of winter. It wasn’t at all like we thought I told her; the people of Heaven were adventurers that needed not to hug the limits to feel safe. They tested everything except wrong, which doesn’t exist there.

You would wonder whether in that dream the Mother was exploring a possibility, conducting an experiment, and that was to surface my attraction to women, which comes up in dream sometimes, and so I know it’s there. After the dream I half expected there to be a woman show up in my life, one that I could become attracted to, but that didn’t happen. I realized that it was right on the brink of having sex she revealed herself, and so I don’t think she was trying to get me to have sex with women. (Our yoga calls for being brahmachari.) She was moving me towards normal, whatever else she may have been doing, and the whole time in Montreal my sadhana was unclouded by boys, thanks partly to this dream. It was a high time. It was a real time. And it bore fruit, but unfortunately I’ve lost the five songs I wrote on the guitar with a talented Quebecois boy (18), which we sung on the streets and for our dinner in places here and there. Interestingly enough, the person checking people at the door of the dining hall of the Sri Aurobindo Center would not let us sing there, would not even let us sing a song to him to show him it had our yoga written all over it. Ain’t that the way it always is with officialdom? Here’s a snatch of one: “Do you remember Heaven? I remember Heaven, and I remember you. We were there together, everyone there is…” That dream triggered memories. Well, do you remember?

A couple of days after Christmas Irmgard kicked me out, by telling me I needed to find another place to stay, not rudely showing me the door. I was not prepared for that event, as I had no place to go but back to Matala, but I knew she was about to because I’d gotten in her face and just yelled my damn fool head some days before, over some of her bullshit, and so I showed her mine. I’d also had a prevision of her telling me to go, very different than it actually happened, her in her doorway thanking me for living there, as I’ve shown earlier. The muse does not show the surface of things and their appearance but what’s actually going on on the inside. We’d had the argument before Christmas, and she waited until after to ask me to leave, and I say this to show she was more conscientious than the picture I’m painting of her. It seems also that she allowed me to stay until I had another place to stay, which, if I’m interpreting my muse notebook properly, was over two weeks from the time she asked me to leave, although, as I remember it, she asked me to go pronto. Either way, I really tried not to react and thought I hadn’t very much, but my muse corrected my vision: “Water inside, pools as well,” a line that came soon after getting the news. In any event, what else could I do but girded up my loins and go look for a new place to stay. I didn’t see it at the time, but this was a test, as my muse had warned me that an exam was coming. A test of what? Oh world touch do you sting? If ouch is the answer, you didn’t exactly pass.

Do you know what a world wave is? ? It usually doesn’t have a stinger, unless you’ve been fooled. When you’re adventure traveling you learn to recognize and to ride things in motion that take you where you need to go, although it can also be a stationary sign that has your sequent numbers on it or some event you witness that casts its sign spell on you. I can’t really describe one, because each one is unique and different from every other one, but they do have common characteristics: look for something in movement that does not belong there, that stands out, that’s strange, or, as I’ve said, look for your numbers or a sign. It’s more than these things, different actually than I can describe it, but you know one when you see it if you’ve got the eye for it. They often come by very fast though, and so you don’t usually have time to ponder. You have to jump on and ride, and if it doesn’t take you to shore, peters out after only a little ways, then you just have to go out again where the waves are and wait for another one, like you do surfing.

I believe it was this hill I followed her up, but I’m not sure Image credit: https://www.we-love-crete.com/kamilari.htmlhttps://www.we-love-crete.com/kamilari.html

Kamilari was where I knew the waves were, just instinctively, or intuitively I’d be better saying, and so I walked to the village, and when I got to the edge of it, which was the bottom of a steep hill, I saw a young woman with dreadlocks walking up into town. She wasn’t from there, did not belong. She was definitely different and in motion. I hopped on that wave and followed her up the winding way to top and to the general store that catered to off islanders, where she turned around and asked me if I were following her. “Pardon me,” I told her, “but I saw you and followed you because I’d just lost my place to stay,” and then I explained briefly my strategy of following something or someone different so to get where I need to go, which in this case was a new place to stay. She just looked at me a moment without speaking, a big surprised look in her eyes. Then she told me it just so happened that her and her friend had been cabin sitting not far out of town, but they had to leave on the 15th (of January 2003), two months early (two weeks from now in the story), and so could not fulfill their commitment, which entailed watering the garden and hillside full of saplings of an Austrian man named Thomas, and there was no reason why it couldn’t be me living there, if I’d take care of the garden and trees. Amazing really, the whole thing she said.

Well folks, here we are again with a magic show, and there is nothing up my sleeve, no tricks I’m playing. In other words, I’m not lying. The island made that magic happen. If you remember, “was chosen Don.” You can attribute it to other agency if you want, but to attribute it to random chance, you’re not facing reality. “Everybody tells me the same thing: there’s a knowledge we call the unknown. Are you looking at it?” (my muse today)

The cabin was on the ridge that had its back to the village and it outskirts, a klick or so from Irmgard’s place, with no other significant buildings in sight except for the ruins of Festos on the next ridge over. It was just perfect, a single-room wooden cabin, quite small, but with a bed, that took up most of it, and a desk and chair by the only window, just right for a writer. “You’ve got some good books here,” [vision of telling this to Thomas, the owner of the cabin, whom I never saw]. There was a small table in a corner opposite the bed just big enough for an altar of things, and I would sail that ship. A car port-like porch not big enough for a car, and with a dirt floor, a bench by the door, provided a sitting spot for me in the evenings, no real view though from there with the owner’s saplings standing all around. The cabin was slightly underground, about a half meter, and the door was thick and strong, the kind that made a complete seal on closing. I didn’t understand at the time that seal wasn’t to keep people out but field mice. I would come to. Did you know that animal species have a representative, sum total spirit that helps protect them, watches out for their welfare? It’s not animism. It’s another face on reality. I’ll show you in the next chapter.

His appointment on the right side said,
“man, you look terrible.”
Vision on my right side said,
“bell recipe for bell-shaped cookies.”
Lived off the phone.
Maybe gramps would like a tablet?
Palace in bed.
It’s okay,
I would Excellency children.
Let’s get in those bed sheets.
She was just so code in line,
a local construct.
Truth conscious
make no mistake about it.
Angelo please,
pay attention.
I’ve got a family to raise.
I wouldn’t want your danger around my kids;
speak for the whole human race.
Is that your juncture?
I’m the postman.
Look on my face I’m the human race,
and I’m a moment of its desire. [this and above line came on Crete]
Just shoot ‘im.
No one would crown him king.
United States
I know that.

Is James going to sleep?
He’s just in time for Minecraft.
Vámonos,
that’s a horn baby.
You’re bein’ robbed of reality.
You think it’s benign.
You’re in the basement a lot.
A lot of things get revealed.
It’s what I tell you of,
not the good things the bad things.
Injure your life I buy you a uniform.
A vampire,
that game is not your friend.

Swallow, okay now swallow.
To rearrange the cosmic structure of the Gods,
but let’s just see
what theirs
and what belongs to a higher order.
I decided not to
shoot certain people.
At the amusement park,
I’ll be right back.

The Gods, all their costumes, only That.
Over an overmental plane to reach, [this and above line came in 2002]
to live beyond.
You want to be here for the truth or not?
Let’s shave off our heads
and operate on enlightenment.
We go there first.
It’s how we get to Supermind.
It’s our vehicle down the road.
There’s a movement in time.
That’s our bigness wheel.
Paper that please.
He used an idea swing rhythm.
Star on me later.
I’ll see jah in the mornin’.
Are you bottom toy?
That’s not here.
You’re language.
You’re sure used up.

Mithun,
a word of caution.
You look correct.
Do you have pain on one side?—
yes pain.
Today was drawing.
Put the opening there,
not on your success in sadhana.
How can I show you its face?
I don’t think you understand the implications of love.
I’ve gotta go feed Luna.

Look, the Gods actually exist,
whom Sandia says are nothing.
I’ve had years of continual, actual experience with.
I’m a pro player.
I don’t want to throw them out,
but we’re getting bigger than them.
They tell us how to do things,
just show us.
They can’t actually do it.
Did you know we are the Gods on Earth?
We have things to do they don’t.
We’re getting beyond civilization.
They were a beginning book.
I can’t stress this enough.

We’re gonna rise to Supermind
in the long road that times lays,
and so it’s under its light we will grow,
and I think the Gods help us,
but they aren’t our worship magnets.
We don’t cling to them.
We continue with civilization
on up the ladder.
Can I blow you away?

Are you gonna come and persecute me?
Are you just gonna sit there and laugh?
This is in the works.
It will get into our picture books.
I’m just tellin’ you about it now.
You think I’m crazy,
or what the Devil told me to say.
Okay we got gardener here,
and why not start with unwieldy disease?
You can’t heal it.
You have punishment to servitude.

You don’t know the system.
It’s horrible,
punishment to human beings.
Let’s get out of it shall we,
and start a new race,
one not founded on time.
It could only be done one step at a time,
over long, slow years.
I’m the first cut,
in that I reach you in practical terms.
I’m not theory device.
Can we go to truth with this?
Not as a guru as a science.
I’m not a name for you to use
to call God.
I’m an example of holding change.
I doubt you’d love me,
but here I am
all over you.
What’s the word?
Incredible
that you’d kill it.

It will flower
in the future.
You just can’t run from it.
I’m a new theme takes time.
I’m also a disciple not a railroad.
You think this is my word?
You’ve seen my paper.
The Mother and Sri Aurobindo are my teachers.
I would not worship God them,
but they are the light of my eyes.
I’m learning obedience not stardom.

Mugu and Romiya
can’t lift their finger.
You ever see them work?
And we’re still standing here
wonderin’ what all the principle’s about.
I am not a holiday season.
I work like my teacher says to.
This is just awful
sometimes,
cookin’, cleanin’, managin’ a house
and writing to you.
Ever I’ve got irons on the fire.
You hear this muse?
Excruciating concentration.
I lose sleep over it.
Will you just leave me alone?
My teacher says no.
This is heavy business
and still livin’ all normal-like.
What can you do?

Meet me on the stairs.
I may have something for you
in its practical arm.
Now I’m on the road for sure
to your coffee table.
Don’t ignore me.
I’m really there with you don’t you see?

It’s really easy.
Do you think there might be a difference
between reality as it is and reality as we study it?
The social construct
eliminates errors.
Social reality
won’t let us see the truth.
I think you see the choices.
How do we get to reality as it is?
I’ve found a way.
I’m showin’ it to yah now.
Wow, would you look at that?

To Be Continued

© 2021 (although I’d probably give permission for you to use the material on your site if you just ask, but please ask)

Calling All Cars Just to Say Hello, Part 3

(You’d Have to Let Me In)

The Lines on Crete

I had a dream
I was travelin’ in Auroville,
the cultural exchange
a long stem.
That was the guitar.
We motivated.
You were out behind the buildings.
Did you see me?

We have such an interesting house.
Now I’m skinny dippin’.
I mean runnin’ naked through the streets.
Can I show you my narrative nonfiction?
If you touch it it will grow.
You hear me sweetheart?

I’ve choked up on words.
I’m just tryin’ to get you to see reality.
And that’s a potato.
Forgiveness on deck.
Can we study its sweetheart?

I’m miles from campus.
Could that be Crete?
I’ve got a Rembrandt to show yah,
something bigger than words.
Can we go there?
That’s the next step.

What’s wrong with being gaslit?
How functional is your insanity?
And you think you are who you are?
Is that reality you see or a social construct?
I’m all over the paper with mine.
I show you reality.

Are we just alive on dead paper?
Let’s see your configuration.
Will it change the social construct?
And here we go.

There’s a hotel
of clarity.
I’m pinchin’ for that today.

(today’s muse)

I disembarked from the ferry in Heraklion, Crete’s largest city but one I never explored or even went into very deeply, for reasons of feeling and not thought, not that it felt a bad city; the feelings were just into a country Crete. Getting off the ferry was one of the worst landings of my travels. I had enough money for one meal and that’s it. I gathered English would not be so spoken here. Sri Aurobindo’s picture of his living eyes was far from my mind; the excitement of the cash register ring and its exchange had worn off; the adventure the crashing of the waves against the ferry had promised had vanished with their splash; and I was alone with my discontent, a common state with me and would be even in paradise I imagine, if there were not also some fundamental change in consciousness and therefore character.

The Jewett woods of my later childhood I’ve introduced, briefly, a secondary growth forest, but there were old trees from the first forest standing around dream-feeling all the change. Still, it was a wonderland for a kid, with all the mystery a forest presses on the senses. The last bear had been seen, with a cub trailing behind, about ten years earlier, according to the local grapevine, and by an old woman of the so and so’s (like I say, names escape memoir writing for me), a respected family, and so the story was believed. It wasn’t old woman Conard, who stood often on her front porch cussing out the winds that drove by at the top of her lungs and waving her Bible. All the local gossip said the same thing: she should read that Bible. Funny I remember her name, and ain’t it like that? I’m just adding some local color. We were poor people you know.

To get back to the backstory, the little boy wandered those woods on foot and on his horse, a Welsh pony named Dolly, a center of discontent. I wanted to live with my mom and get my life back, the one I had in Houston, what was the dominate thought, the overriding feeling, composed of all these life colors: sitting in my mom’s lap, where I sat every moment she let me, not understanding the resentment that brewed in my sister Gwen, being alone with myself in my own room playing with my imagination, playing the moment of fun with the kids on my street, going to work with my mom at The Western Steak House and its Far East Room on Telephone Road, where she was a waitress, going home after mom’s work and listening to my go to bed song I would not go to bed without, “A Man Without Love” by Engelbert Humperdinck (“It’s true; kids have no taste. Do you know what I’m talking about? Obviously he’s a good singer” my muse), being babysat by the legal immigrants from Mexico the Marino family, who lived across the street and who my sister and I practically lived with half the time, since they could deal with me, and no other sitter could (more than one had left in tears), who took Gwen and I to Mexico when I was seven, my first trip out of the country, and not as a tourist mind you, as a small child of a Mexican family, and I can continue. The wonders of that forest, every bit as sensuous and life-populated as that city life, more so if you count the silence, weren’t appreciated until I thought and felt in its absence, and ain’t that just how it is? So you see now how I established my pattern of discontent in the middle of the world bending down and kissing me on the cheek—so art human.

There was (still is in moments), though, that world specter false reality behind all this, why discontent was my default mode. There was always this fear the world would eat me alive, what I was afraid of stepping flat broke off that ferry. “Alright you helped me out world, but only to fatten me up so to eat me up.” It’s the usual fairy tale you know. The inevitable happy ending escapes you if you’re staring at a wolf wearing your grandmother’s clothes, all those big teeth glistening hurt. I wandered those woods because I had a wicked step-mother, and two ‘yeah momma hurt that boy’ step-sisters (sound familiar?), and anytime I was in earshot of her, she would spew forth a continual tirade of emotional abuse, “I know you like a book you little son of a bitch. You’re no good, and your father’s no good…” #Me Too needs to come here too, where a woman lords it over a little boy, in homes and classrooms all over the Earth, but not as a moral crusade pointing fingers out for blood but wanting to sit in the lap of women who do that and sing “A Man Without Love” that little boy’s feeling now, sing it in the rush of the little boy’s tears. You want them to stop, not be hurt by everyone, to feel that little boy’s pain, not the pain we give them by punishing them. You think the two go together do you?

A recent boy that.
It’s protocol.
Is that paid TV?
Is that all we’re lookin’ at?
I can only guess at the conscious intent involved.

He didn’t do anything,
my little grandson Nitish.
You know what hit ‘im?
About four or five women’s blues.
He was the target their scapegoat.

Got slapped in the head,
punched in the back,
hair pulled,
humiliated in front of his class.
They said he went under the table to hide,
when telling me about his acting ability.
I told them trauma does that.
They looked at me like a foreign interference.

The extent of the breach was only known later:
unable to talk anytime he got corrected,
unable to listen to his superiors,
unable to do anything but hit when mad.
They said it was bad handwriting.

Stupid teachers,
the specter they thought was me.
I’m Tamil he’s American,
and I’ve traded places with him
to show the fault lines.
Covid saved his life.
He never had to go back there.

They think I’m the culprit,
the ashram school I tried to get him in.
Terrible inroads to China
(the party line you know)
to get a wrong picture of Earth:
only women bleed.
Structural society,
is that where the blueprints go?

(today’s muse)

Getting off the ferry, I went to the Nicolas Kazantzakis Museum, 15 kilometers from Heraklion, to try and find a place to write for the winter, hoping my emulation of him would get me in. The place I hitched to, as I remember it, was not in a town square as it is on the net but in the country, a small place that had bigger plans. I spent an hour or so looking at the few exhibits, reading what I didn’t know about the man. I told the woman who ran the place how much Kazantzakis had influenced me, and I’d traveled some in his pilgrim steps, going to St. Catherine’s Monastery at the foot of Mt. Sinai and writing there (for a couple of hours only), and now I needed a place to live and write. In the story on this blog called “A Journey of a Thousand Tongues”, which is about taping my poetry on walls, doorways and boulders and such in Israel and Egypt, I include excerpts of my own report I wrote of my poetic adventure, influenced by his Report to Greco. It’s his autobiography. I bought it at the aforementioned Half Price Books in Houston. Amazing it hadn’t been referenced to in my literature studies at the university. In it he recounts his frequent pilgrimages to the Holy Land and Mt. Athos, particularly pained by the battle between the Spirit and the flesh, a common motif of his fiction, which is further accentuated by his reluctant, noncommittal love affair with communism, an atheistic deity, if I may call it that, because, to hear him recount it, he would stand and sing with hundreds of people and thrill with tears of bhakti in front of the image of the god Hammer and Sickle.

The first time machine he’ll play Bill access.
Wonderful for your toy.
Does it feel good
Zorba the Greek?
Excuse me,
I’m a riddle.

Let’s do his overhead material.
Oh no, it’s not there.
I don’t even see an inner life
deeper than mounting TV.
I can stomach him
because his dick got in the way,
and he was all over town.

In the writing class
he got to Mt. Athos,
really invested with the game.
Monasteries appeased him.
He didn’t live there long.

He turned around The Last Temptation of Christ,
made it Hollywood,
an explosive movie.
We hear him breathe.
Christ was a character in his novels,
so taken out of room:
we go to church,
and he’s not our national anthem.
He’s explored Christ
with a beer bottle,
fleshy concerns.

You know I was disciple of Christ
and Kazantzakis.
We’ve explored terms.
Excellent reading by the way.
Now let’s get back to that alphabet,
explosive material I write.
That was the time machine.

(today’s muse)

The very kind lady at the museum said they were planning to build a room for writers in the future but could not help me now. Well, it was a long shot. I don’t remember any of the getting there, but I went next to the tourist bureau that was on the highway running parallel to the ocean not far out of Heraklion. I went there to ask about free camping, where one could do that. Did they tell me I could do that anywhere or nowhere, or only at these certain spots? I don’t remember. Whatever I was told, it must’ve been discouraging, because I just left and walked up a side road that went off up to the right of the highway and found an alone place in the olive grove that was there and sat down and felt sorry for myself. Oh poor me! that sort of thing. You see, there hadn’t been a minor miracle in the last couple of hours, and so I’d lost faith. Or you could say that, despite the blessings, I felt that underlying curse, and I was trapped in the labyrinth of the world, and the Minotaur was just around the next corner. Either way, the whole episode is embarrassing. My notebook from that day describes it thusly:

No picture of him in prevailing Athens is correct.
How many places like this are there?
What I’m going through.
A hurt of well overlooks like.
So he plunged into the dark abyss.
He knew himself keen to his central aim.
I seize out of my lover’s passionate embrace.

Next came the Palace of Knossos to go to, and I wasn’t going site seeing. I was feeling down and out on Crete and simply eating comfort food. One of my favorite Greek myths as a child was Theseus and the Minotaur, a story rich with imaginings. I’d play it out in my mind: that monster roaming the labyrinth looking for Greek youth to eat, who’d been sent to be a sacrifice for the city of Athens, their mounting terror as they were chosen, their sailing there to be eaten (what they must’ve felt), their trying to find a way out of the labyrinth, and finally, their doom coming upon them, encountering the Minotaur and being eaten alive. I would thrill with the Athenian hero Theseus as he hunted down and killed the thing.

The early adolescent Donny wanted to be an archeologist, with the same passion I would soon give to Jesus, reading account after account of the findings and excavations of lost cities and civilizations—Troy was real! Odysseus then?—, so lost in it I asked my mom to put the three pyramids of Giza and Happy Birthday Archeologist on my 12th birthday cake (the pyramids were there but not the epitaph—ridiculous my mom had said), would imagine Arthur Evans, the adventurer archeologist, coming upon that ‘virgin’ hill on Crete that had held so many secrets for so long and discovering the palace, the labyrinth, the whole Minoan civilization (what that must’ve felt like). So to Knossos I would go. I could not, however, shake the feeling that I’ve described of being some vaguely intended sacrifice, on the part of a half conscious world that let its unconscious part reign, or so it seemed to me, in the same shoes basically as those seven young Athenian men and seven young women sent to the island each year and I was disembarking from the ferry to be eaten alive (although they were wearing concrete sacrificial shoes). “Yeah you wonder when the axe is going to fall” (my muse today).

Knossos is not far from Heraklion. I managed to get there by thumb, but it wasn’t easy, despite the heavy traffic on the highway. I had to hump some. It was early evening by the time I got there, what with all the traveling I’d done that day from Athens, by boat, thumb, and feet. I decided to wait until the next morning to visit the palace, and I didn’t know how I was going to do that because I didn’t have any money. Did they have an entrance fee? I found an empty piece of property a few ‘doors’ down from the entrance to the site, went to the end of it, the property boundary, where it met a large field in which the palace sat about a football field off in the distance to the right, no buildings or anything in between, and set up my tent, what I did just to feel better, for comfort, and not the physical kind. A backpacker’s tent is such a wondrous thing. A minute or two, and viola, you have a home. It was a two-person Sierra Designs three seasons tent, as durable as your teeth, as intimate as your bedroom. I cooked something I don’t remember I got I don’t remember how and retired for the evening, hoping the morning would bring better, brighter things. It brought the palace. “Whatever site reckoned in my head the beauty to be there” (my muse today).

During my dawn meditation the next morning, I heard these lines of muse and saw these visions:

Putting windows in, fresh, fresh windows.
Putting windows in, eight, eight windows.
Was chosen Don. [vision of a large arrow coming in a long arc from the palace and landing right where my ankles were crossed in meditation. Just as the arrow landed I heard, “Was chosen!,” and at the same time I saw written on the bottom of the scene, like a subtitle, “Was chosen Don.” Then in another vision I saw the Minotaur walking towards me in the labyrinth, completely in shadow. It advanced towards me a ways, not to scare me but simply to be seen]
What about to prove?
Just to brag to people no.

I couldn’t make out any features of the Minotaur, but I could see its outline, and instead of horns it had antenna on its head a bit horn-like, and not only two. It still suggested, vaguely, a man-bull form though. “An alien!” I thought, but your guess is as good as mine. For me, the vision was showing it was real, whatever it was, and that the old story had some basis in fact. Now, as smart as I think I am or may seem, I have a case of the dumbass often enough and in important enough moments that my intelligence can be questioned, and here was a prime example. No, that’s not believing in the Minotaur for you skeptical folks. I did not realize Crete was giving me a place to stay for the winter. In my ego I am, that is, that I am important, I thought it had to do with being chosen for some great work. Here we’d say “Goddamn son,” as LBJ said to Forrest Gump, embarrassed for him and in disbelief, when he showed the president his butt.

Will the world know the business of other?
Can the world know the business of other?
It’s not up for sale.
This is Process Oriented Psychology.
And you think you’ve found a name for it.
It’s not that at all.
It won’t fit into a schoolbook.

This is so much bigger world out there
than Shakespeare let in with his pen,
than the philosophers have spoken,
than the scientists have reckoned,
than even the religions gamble.
You are not prepared for it.
You wouldn’t even know it exists.
You don’t have time for the unknown.
Do you?

World ends
where we experience reality.
Is that right?
Encounter a larger world
and think we’re just makin’ it up—
like you’re the measure of reality.

Is that often shown
a larger world?
You see it?
Alright, alright,
I’m puttin’ smoke up your ass.
I just wanted you to read my paper.
The trouble with autobiographical writing.

I’ve asked for a report card.
Have you ever
met God?
In question.
God is somebody
no one
can be showing this to you.
Look out that window.
It’s gets bigger
than anything you can see.

I don’t really want something.
I don’t really want somebody here.
And God is there.
You are scared of Him,
and you’re jealous.
Let’s find Him, shall we?
Ever increasing you.

Oh my God He’s not hungry.
That means He bruises no one.
Do you know how safe that is?
Your own identity sees itself,
and existence is its room.
That’s the model today.
Tomorrow I’ll get bigger.

A secondary source.
But you’ve spoken in primary terms.
It’s the primary that is God.
You’re a window keeper.
I’ll tell you what,
I can be a better window looker.
You’ve got clear eyes,
just what we need.

(today’s muse)

However I interpreted that “was chosen” bit, I was elated. We are funny creatures that way. Somebody praises us, and we get happy. That means also that when someone puts us down, we get depressed, or mad as hell. You know the saying: the people singing your praises today will be the people spitting on you tomorrow. or vice versa. It’s not a saying; I just made it up, but the idea comes from the Mother and Sri Aurobindo. Let’s keep going. They say, and they’re not the only ones, that your happiness needn’t depend on outer circumstances, or on tongues. Now that’s a trick. Anyway, I jumped up and packed up after the meditation, and walked to Knossos. Although there were people there that early, it didn’t open until later, and so I waited. They let me in for free, and all I had to do was ask. It was my joy that did it, my genuine smile. It’s hard to say no to the morning sun. I went in and went to every inch the public was allowed, wanting to see what we all come to ruins to see but never can: the place itself, the people themselves. You’re just left with a longing you can’t fulfill, a taste that is just enough to make you come back one day. Leaving there, I got on the road and put my thumb out, doing the hitch and walk backwards thing, quite awkward with a backpack, and a city bus stopped and opened its door. I just kept walking, not even considering the bus had stopped for me. I heard a honk and looked behind me to a smiling bus driver motioning me to come. I couldn’t believe it. I got on the bus, the driver having me put my pack right at the door at the top of the steps and me stand next to him. Riding shotgun on that bus down to Heraklion, I was walking on sunshine.

Vision of looking for a pacifier I lost while picking up the Minoans. [vision of walking around the palace ruins looking for it. I had carried a sacred object among a group of Minoans I was walking with, which was like carrying the group, and I had to put my pacifier down to do so, it suddenly having appeared in my hands]
There is a closer way I didn’t know,
through the Matrimandir. [vision of walking to a tower a long ways off]
Om carried me home.
[vision of seeing a man outside the Paris bookstore (Shakespeare and Company, where I lived awhile) reading a copy of The Atlantic Monthly, which I wanted to read, and then he was reading it upside down]
Survival travel,
do you know what survival travel is?
The Edens of the remnants of the life of the Gods,
they’re allowed to be a mother.

(muse that came a few days after the visit to the ruins)

I love you Michael,
more than anything.
Uh uh Annabelle,
don’t judge be hero.
The Palace of Knossos,
a rainbow on his feet and hurl on,
a husband for your Jan.
What more could you want?

(today’s muse)

For reasons I don’t remember but probably had to do with a strong feeling to go there, and I really paid attention to strong feelings, heeded them (don’t you?), I went back to the tourist bureau and sat down on the concrete bench nearby that was on the sidewalk that ran alongside the highway there. After some moments of looking at the world but seeing only my thoughts, I heard, directed at me, “Are you Irish?” Uh, err, what? I looked up, and there was a rather animated, middle-aged man on a scooter, who’d pulled off the road, talking to me. “No, I’m not Irish.” “You look Irish.” I took it he was Irish. His grin was irresistible. I grinned back and told him I was American Heinz 57, and there could be some Irish in me for all I knew. He said I just didn’t know my Irish roots asked what I was doing there. I explained I was looking for free camping, needing a place to stay for the winter. He told me that he’d just come from a long stay in Matala, and there were caves there you could live in. He explained more about the place, how you had to go to the caves up on the mountain and not the famous ones near the beach, and that the scene now was dominated by drinkers, and I should steer clear of them. It didn‘t escape my notice he was probably one. He told me to get on, and I did, without even thinking about it, and away we went, to the bus station, where he bought me a ticket to Matala and gave me five euro to eat lunch, as it was around noon. He left, giving me a heartfelt blessing, and I ate and got on the bus to Matala. Thank God for the Irish. If you know English poetry, the Irish strain is particularly good, as if an Irish poet is more open to inspiration from the muse of poetry, having to do with the mysteries of being Irish I’d imagine, and here, this Irish individual was answering the beck and call of Crete in helping me get to where she wanted me to go, open to that I’d guess just being Irish.

Throw it upon the fire
and let the governments melt unto me.
Have you ever heard an island speak?
It’s got some inventions of its own,
a spirit unto itself.
I tasted its clover.

Do you see the embarrassing situation?
It’s been made into a European Union tributary,
and the whole place of its land,
it’s an economic olive grove.
It still got some secrets to share.

It’s got its sweet back.
I’m at its confessional today.
It’s got its island back today.
There’s a poet in the house,
writing down of ears of old.
Did anyone just hear that?
I tell you this island speaks.
I tell you this lawyer speaks.
Now I’ll show you.

Lazarus
shaped the boat outside.
Fellowship day
with the entire clock,
I’m runnin’ guns for Crete.
Power point,
you need not get this.

I’d like to teach the world to sing. [heard sung by the voices of the 70’s Coke commercial]
Playing at a theater near you,
so many beings you can shake a smoke at,
all stacked on top of each other,
all waitin’ for you to meet ‘em.

(today’s muse)

Matala is mentioned in ancient history and in Greek myth (Zeus, disguised as a white bull, took Europa to the beach there first when he kidnapped her), but what gives the place its individuality today are its manmade, Neolithic caves that hippies lived in in the 60’s and 70’s, until they got kicked out by the church and military, something I didn’t know had happened, didn’t know any of the history of the place. I didn’t even know about the annual hippie festival held there every June to celebrate the fish were starting to stink hippies, to the local authorities that is, not to the world’s eye. Now they make money off of them, and wouldn’t you know it. I always wondered why no one even looked at me funny the whole time I was there, walking daily to the village from the caves up on top of the mountain and back again, looking every bit like a dirty hippie. They were acclimated. The drinkers the Irishman had told me about were not in the places I expected them; down and out and hanging around. The one I had the most intimate dealings with, who drank like a fish, was a retired East German spy living off her pension there on the island, but I’m getting ahead of myself. I need to first come to Matala. I rolled into town, spent some minutes looking around, and then I went up onto the mountain to find my cave for the winter; rather early manish isn’t it?

The hippie caves, made at the end of the Stone Age. Photo: Zde, CC BY-SA 4.0, via Wikimedia Commons
The hippies caves when they were occupied. Photo source unknown
Matala from the hippie caves. I lived outside of a cave on top of the mountain in the background. Wikipedia, public domain

Matala cave drink after first experience.
You think you’ve got it. [heard sung]
You don’t have a diamond.
You have the equivalent of your shoes.
They just put you in Tennyson ice.
It was all warmed up,
ready to reload.

There on that mountain
I really enjoyed it.
Oh wonderful people, [heard sung]
it wasn’t
everything you’d hoped for.
Put that down.
It was Monday.

Whatever,
the word is not lost.
What does that mean?
Okay man,
I get things from the heavens.
Now let’s start out the week.

The letter will talk to you about tomorrow.
U.S. send them.
They just ignored you.
You’d think your dad
would help:
overhead,
overhead march.

I’m not complainin’,
but Matala is not the festival of the Gods.
Let’s meet it in its rouge reports
a few pippers down.
I had the ability to travel the world,
and here I was on an island in the Mediterranean
taking my lamp out of my heart and looking at it.
No, no dissatisfaction,
the island held me.
You got me everything I grinned.

How did dog get that again Lassie?
That dog ate that,
my connection
between the dog, hay,
and all the beautiful skin rubbin’.
Ole puppy dog belly was here.
Jan was my friend.
She was the perfect dog
for a nomad,
for a writer:
she changed positions all the time.
Wonderful dog,
a street dog and smart.
She got the good hand.
This is where
I’m gonna quit.

Consciousness,
some are mastering their own.
You’re exemplary.
Stay Luna
in her big puppy dog ears,
if you can see it.

She will shake them at you
to make you pay attention to her,
to show you she showed up.
It’s Catamaran Island.
I was going to…
He does rainbow. [last word heard sung, from one of my songs, “Like a Rainbow”]

(today’s muse)

Luna, photo by Nitish
Luna again, this photo by Nitish too

I’d heard when I was living there that a Roman garrison was once stationed the top of the mountain, but it was a Roman cemetery according to the net, or I guess that’s where they’re talking about, hence the ‘caves’, which were mostly beneath the ground and served as tombs I imagine now, but they didn’t make me say tombs to myself when I was there. The way you could see the sun go to sleep every night, sink right into the ocean right before your very eyes, though, sometimes had Hades swallowing the sun written all over it. There was only one inhabitant up there at that time, someone the Irishman had told me about, a hermit who didn’t want to speak to anyone. I did try to speak to him as I walked around looking for my cave, but it wouldn’t be until later that he’d actually be friendly. The biggest and most promising cave, where the trail dipped below ground, and you could see into it, had some old furniture in it and looked like it had just recently been abandoned, but I stirred clear of it because you could see into it when you walked by. I didn’t know on that first day that no one ever came up there, just walked by on the side trail on their way to Red Beach, a nudist beach, but they didn’t wander around the mountaintop.

I chose a small cave that was in the side of the mountain, not underground, and not for the cave, which was not inhabitable, but there was a Tibetan meditating Buddha painted on the rock-face outside and an area large enough to camp in protected by walls of stacked stones, just perfect I thought, and it was. I put my gear in the cave and set my tent up, and now what? You always have so much time to kill sleeping outside of society.

My campsite. The cave has the mat over it. That’s Mechthild, her husband Wolfram taking the picture. They sponsored me to Sicily and beyond.

That mountain, not much to look at, except at the sunset from there, but to sleep on it was another story. My notebook from my time on the mountain tells often of hidden doors and secret passages, which wasn’t telling me to find those, like most might be prone to take it—just look on the Internet—but telling of the inner of the mountain, not actually the physical inside, and what it was helping to facilitate in me, inner change, like the secret passage I found on top Mt. Sinai in a lucid dream and stumbled upon a spiritual class down there in the heart of the mountain. Here’s a section (one period of hearing/seeing) from my notebook from that first night, and I’ve left out material that would be too much to introduce at this time, but at the end of the section I include it, to give a picture of that material so I can finally talk about it outright.

Out of this place of shifting silences came a drifting myth, [vision of a hidden passage, a magical looking one, beside or among normal looking doorways in a stone mountain]
a place where one couldn’t stop beauty,
a beauty that could come out of a child.
To find the name of the place. [vision of writing this down]
[vision of being in the possession of many small but very thick volumes I was removing from a small pit for safe keeping. The last one had a wooden cover and chains holding it together, a very old book]
Do you write short stories?
Yes.
I’ve over excited their tea.
What he drinks. [vision of a spike being driven in the top of my head]
Out of the creation of his hands, his feet.
To look at these books,
no one knew how you hardly have any room at all [vision of a woman crammed into the corner of my tent near my head. I was going to let another friend in, a man, when the line came, and the vision ended]
It’s too much.
So much of magic.
It had a lot of lines.
Soul touch.
And take you to die where the formulas are exposed.
I found out where the books are.
I pulled in some heavy artillery, a nice artillery.
[vision of washing out my left eye and the feeling of the need to do so]
Tales of Darkness [vision of going through a stack of books and finding one I really needed, but then the last one had this for a title, and I lost the one I needed]
Go, wouldn’t you? [vision of the bar in town called Kreta and help coming from there]
[vision of pushing a little kid on his bike, that had training wheels, around the town square]
Class clown.
I am familiar with your axing project. [vision of clearing the doorway of a heretofore hidden cave]
And not yell at my boss or anybody about bleeding parts.
There’s Bucky. [vision of being in my mom’s living room and watching TV with Bucky, my step-dad. There was a young man on TV that looked just like him. I might mention, for understanding’s sake, that he didn’t like the vagabond/hippie me one little bit]
A radiant change in reality.

My muse was also heading to a destination like my vagabonding, what keeps it grounded in reality. It’s not to make me a good poet, not to make me a spiritual teacher, not to give me “a splendid name” (from Savitri). It’s to do something that would make many if not most spit on my name, as we construe reality today that is. It’s for the future, and if it doesn’t get out, then someone else’s along the same lines will, inevitably, because it’s the way reality works, not the way we desire it works and try and make it work. As I read the mainstream thought of this day and age, and that’s what I read on the net almost exclusively, so to know what you’re reading and thinking, when we see ourselves in the future we see changes in technology, in law and order, not in the fabric of humanity. And so of course we see coming destruction, not understanding it’s not technology that will save us; it’s us. A social holism is the future of humanity, resulting from something I’ve written about at length, a revolution that occurs when enough of humanity opens the inner consciousness, where we see holism as the fabric of reality.

In practical terms, that would mean we wouldn’t veil women to keep from having sex with them, if we are men that is, how, if you really look at it, we try and stop most any wrongdoing: by removing it from our view or making it inaccessible. It’s that attitude that’s destroying us more than wrongdoing itself if you understand the ramifications of denying the workings of reality. So how do you change a bad reality? By reality changing itself when you reach down into the bowels of reality seeking change. And it’s a visceral change. My muse aimed to keep me from having sex with a prepubescent boy in any set of conditions and under any circumstances, and having sex with a boy was as natural to me as rain.

Although I’d heard it every night as an older child in a deep stage of falling asleep, what I called ‘reading the book’, and I started hearing isolated lines that I could record isolated one winter in a cabin near Ashland, Oregon, in 1997, which became a little more pronounced living for nine months in Cuzco, Peru, in 2000, it became a flood in Brazil in that little healing community off the grid called Kahil Gibran, like I told you earlier, but I didn’t tell you it was on the September 11th 2001, on 9/11.

That was the day I moved into the community and the day the muse turned on like who would’ve thought it: “Silence Indio, Introductory Chapter,” (my muse then). That’s a loaded title because the community had an elementary school for the children of the local village, Indio children not too terribly far from out of the jungle. It was an open school (no roof) and very free. Every day the kids took all their clothes off and went for a long walk, which I took them on when I was there, their English teacher, alone, basking in their brown, beautiful, naked bodies, but at a distance. And my muse was right there making sure it was at a distance, a surprise flood on the inside wetting me not with desire but with the divine word. Some of those children were having sex with an adult in their lives, or more than one, and I know that because I was propositioned, not the innocent way a kid does it if they don’t really know what they’re doing; the way a kid does it if they are having adult/child sex. It would not have been possible to refuse without the muse. But I must tell you without telling you the details, for obvious reasons, a half a year after my year of being 41 ended so did my abstinence, and all this Crete just went temporarily out the window, when a boy old enough to know what he was doing (12) propositioned me, one who had had adult/child sex and had picked up on my attraction and wanted a conquest, I kid you not, not really into having sex. Boys will be boys, and sometimes that is bad. Can we see this?

I was in the last country I vagabonded in before returning to India, and I’d seen the fall coming in my muse and had even temporarily left the living situation I was in being a handyman for a family and gone to camp alone in a forest for a few days to gird up my loins. Doing that they just go more wet. Taking it totally from view just made it more desirable, and a retreat doesn’t work if you’re running from something. I fell after I returned. The muse went into damage control, and I went downhill from there all the way to India, which was my next stop, like I said, back to Ithaca and Penelope, and it’s just like that ain’t it; you get right near the goal and wham! you fall flat on your face. You can tell me there’s no excuse all day long, but I’ll tell you our freewill isn’t absolute, and everybody has a set of circumstance in which their will is not free, and you can tell me there is not, but you lose control somewhere, if nowhere else then right here in your reaction towards me or that terrorist, white supremacist, shooter, or some wrongdoer or another. My muse was working to give me that freewill in the place my will wasn’t free, mastery over my sexual desire anytime, anywhere, and if you think it took me too long, or my muse too long to teach me that, then how long will it take you to even realize the ill will you feel towards us only adds to our own to do more wrong, and so it’s wrong, much less learn to not act upon it when it rises up from your subconscious taking over; we’re talking ages aren’t we? The muse has acted like nature when it establishes something new upon the earth, first giving a taste of what’s coming, in this case self-mastery over my sexual impulse, and then a long period of the absence of it, where, if you could see it, the foundation is being laid for it, and then the full monty.

The beauty that could sometimes come out of a child.
I didn’t expect the Spanish Inquisition.
I’m that child and here’s that beauty.
Crucify me will yah?
Take me on the long run.
Of course you could destroy my work forever.
I’ll keep croppin’ up
in the consciousness of other people,
the openings of consciousness they make.

You can’t stop me,
and I’m Franklin 41.
A question these Americans hope is
bridge
the obstintiscity.
To know I’m for real.
This is not a magician’s trick.
Okay Covid, hear me?

When the gun is right there.
That’s the ability to single you out:
the battle
for where we configure reality,
in reality as it is to itself
or in the social construct we believe in,
the battle for consensus reality.

Look at this:
they’re all grown up.
Looked in the eyes of the mind’s control,
and these were the lines on Crete.
He just ended up in Africa on a suitcase.
Look, you’re gonna have to whistle.
I would tell them you’re sexually attracted to children.
That’s what your whole muse is about.

We want to find where that stuff belongs to me.
A very deep state there was no desire there really.
The integration of desire,
I’m painting a picture of reality.
I’m not puttin’ a system on it.
How do you do that
and not harm someone?
Listen.

For a lot of their footfall found advice. [a line on Crete that came again here]
Now compare that to your schedule:
put reality out of your desire.
You’ve made reality conform to your limits.
Is reality there
or the pains you take
to construe reality?

Rewriting a paradigm.
In the Earth wrongdoing,
where does Earth go when you remove it?
It stays just where you are:
on your own, get set, go.
How could you handle desire?
Only the harm causing agent remains
unheeded,
unacted upon.

I don’t know where to begin/put. [words spoken simultaneously]
Even I myself listen marks ace a good time.
You’re comin’ in a new world honey,
for I had your hand.
I had your hand.

My mom got lucky it got the whole grocery store.
I think the air on his favor.
What’s that number there?
I got a version two,
a puppy dog version. [vision of Luna on the bed looking at me a mixture of puppy love and puppy mischief in her eyes]

(today’s muse)

This integration of boys and me in a harmony, the harm removed, goes hand in hand with many other themes my muse speaks about, the chief being at that time Islamic terrorism, as it began on 9/11 for a reason. Out of my country, I was right there with it when the shit hit the fan, the planes the towers. I am, after all, an Ex-Green Beret. But anyway, my muse back then speaks about where Islamic terrorism comes from and how to actually stop it, not just fight it, it coming from the misinterpretation of Mohammed’s muse:

I keep my hands clean to show my intentions.
For the sake of the divine being,
when I look at the Black Stone,
I had better focus.

God’s going to use just one of us to tell His culture?
Couldn’t succeed where no one else had tried.
There is always the work which goes before.

By the advent of one person,
one heavenly word?
On the surface people are not the same,
everybody’s different.

If you want to be free for a religious aim,
if you want to free people for a religious aim,
free Islam.
It can only be done one step at a time,
quickening to that which is in the Book,
in the song, in the name, in the, name.
Moved by the right set of ideas:
me and God.
Alright,
you and God.
We need to ever let go we’re strangers.
It was something we used to do when we were small,
jump over fences.
Our fences were made for us to cross.
To meet something of their stuff with our value.
Raise your hand:
everyone’s as important as everyone else.
Stand the existence each in all.
The acceptance of you is the acceptance of myself.
And what is the real reason your faith includes me?
A world soul.
You one with genuine all the creatures in the world.
By a swift, luminous point that gathers in the whole,
by a swift disinterested patience,
we were learning how to swim.
Now all of us can learn a little bit of mercy.
Moslems were on the verge.
The closer you are to stopping the more you manifest,
the more acute your problem becomes.
As it started to manifest it became more acute.

What goes into a family starts to manifest,
and that includes religious intolerism.
The soul sense is self-righteous.
The ego sense is unselfish.
This cunning belief.
I has to do with the ideas promoted during early childhood.
Take a soul,
receive him at the door:
I am one believe in me.
Memory of Mohammed saying this.
He incited beliefs.
It’s only belief that excites you.
You’re just giving them the truth,
that Moslem invented.
Ode of thus becoming a belief.

In order to build a map.
A map of what?
A map of a big black wall through the word:
my hands are clean.
Their hands are dirty.
God destroy my enemies.
They’re sin. They’re bad,
hate, hate, hate.

I mean look at us,
everyone is blind but ourselves.
You can’t use ignorance to describe us;
it’s too high a state.
I can know.
I don’t have to hate.
Peace and love know why they are.
Hatred and violence don’t know who they are.
I fly through the ripples he calls destruction.
I slay death.
I’m past revenge.
It’s better to enter paradise with a fixed hand,
the language-wide circle of one’s whole hand.

He found in products purely simple can the Extreme fill.
This is how one man Christ-like can live.
There was another group called Pantheism,
and we were going to get rid of their parallel,
but what is the hatred of corn?

If I’m not surrounded por the statues.
If I don’t have to go around them three times.
Letting a form come to see what the real eye images,
reveal the face of all the Gods.
They’re all relevant to each other, benevolent.
These are the hams of the universal wordplay.
Now I know what the alphabet belongs to.

(from a manuscript I started on that mountain above Matala)

And Islamic terrorism comes from his muse, or how he construed his muse at any rate, but it also comes from his own actions and his misconstrued interpretation of the image of God:

He’s taken the Quran to the grave with him,
and he know he dead,
but did he take a pen and write it?
I think God’s bark is an ego’s person.
In that fashion an ego’s bark is a hungry person. [a line today added]
Can you tell the lemon tree from the orange?
Very pretty.
Sour the building error’s the judge.

Dire’s love with these big religions.
The hatred has its way and comes as the crumbling faith of all our religions.
Burn with the hair of common things.
A mere self-denial and concentration in the being is not enough.
Put spiritual trip on the glory of its own path.
The mold of it will be its own.
We are each at a different development.
Most of the teaching is self-teaching.
What goes in doesn’t cause a flowering.
What will the Spirit say to him when finally he is a man?
Go on up to adult spirituality.
Higher teaching witnesses that faith.

A time for learning and a time for mastery.
You have commanded me.
Then You instruct.
Then You touch.
You hear the Godhead’s touch
where faith works out a spiral hum.
If the gates were suddenly flung open,
Heaven’s openness would confuse the Earth.
There there are no rules.

Don’t stop religion.
Don’t let it die either.
I do think we have particular faith.
It doesn’t matter if you’re for somebody.
If you’re religious you’re somewhat so.
As long as it stays just an integral movement
and doesn’t go into fascism.
We take a living image,
as most often these images are,
and enshrine it to the One.
In the end all is a sheep but God.
And speaking of sheep.
To know God is to see that knowledge as a king.
God is a knowledge and love the house.
You walk your heart to love what it glorify means.
It just so happens that that’s what we’re working on today,
the love of God.

I’m as big as God.
I’m as big as God.
I can have all power.
From her wounded task.
From his wounded innocent childhood.
The gist is right,
a half-animal.
By the half-truth of symbol us
in a half-beast saw the face of God.
To be an actual face to face deity,
of soul daylight she must take his screened divinity;
his own position,
steps out of it as it were and makes room for God,
and sat down on the right side of the world.
God looking at the world through your eyes,
then you reflect the light of His face.

Discovering what truth meant had to contour her face.
Almost like the word is luminous equipment.
Neither the Lord nor the Devil fica em palavaras.
Devil fica in words.
To teach the manifold nature of the Self
poems from the evasive answers of the Light.
On the middle room floor
I obey God.
That’s what you do in a mosque.
This is the fifth floor,
the farthest you can go
by the Quran.
Why are you reading the Quran?
A.E.R.A., for an almost overland view.

And there in that inner room of middle self
expose a body of books long adapted:
holy conscious into views,
but not that Consciousness itself.
Through the eyes of the screen,
screen of thought.
It comes in through your love of ceiling.
We can’t live in the boundless truth,
just live.

The question can the truth be changed
or cares for or develops only on its own.
The truth ever wears a mask,
windows that open the doorway to other truths.
God changes too.
A small order must never change.
Jesus of the Bible was faced with the books of the Bible,
and that would smother in:
the prisoner held infinite in a phrase.
We are also like infants.
But to be prisoners is not all our fate.
Growing,
the fundamental name of existence,
the growth of Self in things.

You need convincing.
I need convincing.
By hearing it over and over.
All shadowy doubt must turn to trust.
Doubt pretty much because I know there are frightful things.
A person can get better at faith if he longs to.
There be a time when faith is no longer a doubt but a transformation.

Vanity will be her danger always in these depths.
The sense on world famous.
Looking for greatness,
unlike universal Mike.
Um, I’m a spiritual master.
The dummies that cause this place,
the babies that same here.
He stands there and idea of himself,
the dream poet.
Humanity would most tear it apart.
I had a too high opinion of myself.
Ripped it to shreds.
You don’t have to be a star to get to God.
The clouds are the lids of God pointing the way.
I became just one in all.
Interwoven your intercourse with your temperament,
as the maker’s hand is not supposed to be cleared.
There’s a way to do it without destroying the harmony maker’s whole.
I was only special because I showed my butt in the wrong place.
What do you say when you’re the center of people’s attention?
Celebrate God and thank the moon for what he brings,
a story of how the sacred got out the secret.

Love, purity, divine action
is a result of the soul that has come to the surface.
What Mohammed wanted.
There vainly.
Seven jars of karma.
Dissatisfaction,
the bits of Mohammed did not stick together.
What he did was wrong,
the way he put it together,
when he put it together.
The text was improperly inspired,
choosing this over that.
It leads to hatred,
hatred against the Israelis,
hatred against the Americans.
His soul,
that Mohammed nailed this together
precisely for what he couldn’t say.
Yet within line.
Simply Mohammed issues.
Can issue it remote from There,
yet issues it remote from There.
Islam as it expresses the world soul,
Islam as it teaches the world soul,
in answer to the music of the love of God,
the Quran as a medium expresses that.
They don’t want to take the world away by leading ours.
Not that my soul is ever to direct Islam,
but it may heighten things.

What is difficult for a man is not to have faith in faith but in God.
It’s almost as indescribable as it is hidden.
The difference between us and structure is in it
we need to fill what structure so painstakingly lacks.
Islam tries in much order to bring down the golden people,
but all this repeating order can lead to a chaotic place,
and that’s what the Valley of…
He killed them all except one person,
just one person.
My friend asked if following were to lose control.
The result of this chaotic order has held his heart prisoner.

(from that same manuscript)

The suicide bomber poem begin in that healing community in Brazil I’ve named, when a dead suicide bomber began speaking to me from the other side, not one of 9/11, one from a much earlier suicide bombing in Israel. A 9/11 bomber wouldn’t have been possible given the time it takes someone to get to where the bomber spoke from, the Heaven of Islam, after having gone through the hell his act had opened because he’d “turned to the one evil that saw a lion like a snake” (my muse then). Just read the poem.

Can one ring the bell of afterlife
and stand at the gates of God looking in?
Overlooking death,
on death’s ridge,
saw the image of the dead or the dead that want to die.
I have secret duty.
I’ve met people in death.
I hear a dead of experience.
It’s just, you know what I mean, a different country.
The suicide bomber,
I took what didn’t sound like me,
some soul from there.
The suicide bomber begins to speak.
Some of our lines are talking death.

(from that same manuscript)

On that mountain on Crete I decided to resubmit to The Atlantic (if you remember I submitted the suicide bomber poem to them from Paris earlier in this story, not explaining then it got lost, and I had to resubmit and then was rejected), but this time I’d include a long cover letter, which turned into my submission and my major writing project on the island, one I never finished nor submitted, where I attempted to organize my muse for publication, composed by then of several notebooks, put it together like fitting scattered pieces of a jigsaw puzzle in place, which just wasn’t possible, or it was; it was just too construed. The cover letter is a mixture of verses of poetry and prose, like this writing. The muse would name it The Inspired Word, and then a little later, Civilization and the Art of Terror, as it’s about Islamic terrorism, or started out that way, but it turned out to be more about poetry and spirituality than terrorism, with a lot of me thrown in, and consequently my sexuality, the ins and outs of it. But it’s the human baby and small child that actually gets the centerfold, because that’s the handle of human change. I just kept both titles.

The Inspired Word
or
Civilization and the Art of Terror

Dear Poetry Editor,

It is not, I would imagine, in your guidelines to read a letter of such length included with a poetry submission. It seems to me also, however, that those instructions cannot cover all the possibilities of poetry and letter combinations that might come to you. The suicide bomber also follows instructions, to the letter I might add, but perhaps if he would take the time to stop and read the letter the world is writing to him in the hour before he blows a crowded corner of it up, or the tank commander or bomber pilot for that matter, he would hear his soul speaking its sorrow of what its body it about to do, and he would definitely decide now would be a good time not to carry out his instructions. Of course there is a big difference between a poetry editor and a suicide bomber, but is there a gap between them no bridge, no linking idea, can cross? Is there really underneath it all a big difference between people as like we like to think? This letter attempts to build bridges and close gaps between a poetry editor and a suicide bomber, citizens and terrorists, poetry and prose, the rational and the mystic, the secular and the religious, you and I, the good and the bad, between soul and nature. When you finish reading you may not agree with it, but like the suicide bomber who decides to disobey orders, you’ll be greatly relieved you did.

Since we have to overcome these differences,
we just couldn’t be afraid of them.
You need a short mystical breath.
Bridge the gap all life must take.
To gap it spiritual is to hurt.
See to a letter see to/too a country. [words spoken simultaneously]
Heart hearing wood,
a social adventure.
The word social trigger has come up,
a glad, long and windy adventure.

At the end of July I sent you two poems for consideration, but it seems that they were lost. In the reply to my email inquiry I was informed you had no record of them, and it was suggested I resubmit. I had originally sent the poems only with a short note saying they were unpublished and thanking you for considering them, but after dwelling a bit on the tone behind the short reply I received, which was nice enough, I feel the need to explain where the poems come from, and why, out of the enormous amount of poetry submissions you receive, you should publish mine. In doing so I feel it also necessary to examine poetic process, since my submission is part of that greater whole, and attempt to give answer to two very old questions that seem not much asked anymore by the public mind: where does poetry come from and what’s it for? And since in my view those answers are inextricably linked to world process, specifically the process whereby it solves problems, I must as well observe that process and what in the world of today stands in the way of earth’s advance.

Turning to the view which sees her world as a gloomy eye,
do you see only the fear of civilization,
even fear we’ve never been supposed to be?
Where does it all come from?
Worse, where is it all going?
We can stretch as far as history and maybe an epidemic wipe it out.
How old are we?
How long do we?
Is that what happens is just fate?
People who have no meaning in their life,
where will they find it?
To their view life doesn’t matter.
Is it matter gonna matter?
Are you conscious yet of your soul?
Are you aware of your significance in the world?
What kind of cosmic question is he asking?
Like at some critical stage in our evolution.
End of an age this crossing era.
We were at that generations place called the 11th embattlement.

Oh boy the history we could lesson.
Had a chance go at moral mercy.
The solution that God wanted,
and we cling to our small motives.
We are killing each other to destroy good and bad,
but the surrender to armed impulse,
if we continue with this world view,
where will it lead us?
Worse, where did it all return?
Whenever you get to this genocized, spiritualized, wrong view of things…
Sometimes we don’t understand tooth’s tendency.
From accumulated wrong war rises.
Acts of violence turn into the wrong war.
Only shoot if they are shooting at you.
People seem war to think he was a hero.
Each of these drives can slow these worlds down to a crawl.

Kissing Earth’s one-minded solution there is another way,
the top of the head to kingdom come,
the ultimate country,
perhaps the ultimate level of universe.
At this stage at 11 the impossible could give answers.
Let’s not eat at a crossroads.
Feel don’t make war.
Give truth a chance.
Awaken the sense of a labor within the world.
There is a labor in God’s worlds.
You can’t sink them.
We aren’t just images of the Creator.
The world is big enough to see the world.
To perceive things wrong is to suffer.
Distortion is simply seeing things in the wrong way.
There is made sunlit views from which the eyes truly take form.
New interpreters,
we’re just putting a new perspective on God,
the work of a poet.
The poet,
a civilized popular engineer,
a truth professional.
Open a crack for you.
Poetry can move many a map.
You like the sound of a poet.

It seems to me that the poet’s market has little faith in the unsolicited, unpublished poet’s ability to write real poetry. That’s okay. I have little confidence in the modern media’s capacity to recognize and appreciate genuine poetry. I tried unsuccessfully to publish a few poems ten years ago. That’s alright. They were by no means great poems. On Easter morning of 1995 I did, however, publish poems in an unorthodox manner by posting them, with the help of friends, on the fourteen Stations of the Cross in the old city of Jerusalem, and during Passover on doorsteps and around the Jewish quarter, and a few days later on the Golden Gate and around the Muslim quarter, and the following week at the Dome of the Rock or on the Temple Mount, and then continuing the poem posting on the top of Mt. Sinai and ending it inside the Great Pyramid in Cairo, poems dealing with human unity, the healing of human evil, and the misunderstanding of religious ideas.

[the prose paragraphs that go between some of these verses I’m not including]

Pen. Mountain,
a bridge twixt Heaven and Earth.
There’s a better saying than just guns.
The poetic attack,
a language action.

Strong thinkers change reality.
Passionate people alter space.
Solitary effects but nonetheless
just about made us non-different.
Passion, by a secret oneness of our world.

I heard saw unusual,
a strange thought thinking about such strangeness.
It doesn’t deal with hearing as much as it deals with deafness.
Things like this just slip into the mind.
A dime rose peddled up from within,
a dim rose of peddled strength.
Reflects the sweetness of poetry.
I want to see where it’s coming from.
I saw backlit in myself the light of infinity.
I saw backlit in myself the truth of infinity.
It’s faith that calls the line.
God’s breath opens the door.
The wise is electric charge.
To be united in the ear is to be united in electricity.
A zone I come to meet where words come.
I would stay in the heart for the word.
This is where the pinpoint of consciousness is pointing down.
This is where the jet of consciousness is pointing up,
almost vertically back to infinity.
Do you know where that place is?
It’s angels’ gate isn’t it?
A poetical inspiration,
good sometimes indicates how do we touch it.

In the fly that was buzzing around my ear when I died
can be heard such a conscious note.
Here William Blake’s Victory of the Innocents was made.
Whitman, ah, he went above the E the teacher said.
He settled down to Earth.
Shakespeare had some fear whether or not he was Shakespeare.
The life of something governs it.
Shakespeare was a slave to poetry.
Those pearls were his eyes,
are what bound his eyes.
Of the soul takes aim it’s to be a dramatic soul.

And the fruits of life?
Part of the enjoyment you seek.
The epic poet is concerned with these issues,
all of life’s trees.

I was walking down the street thinking woe is me,
when up came this from my soul.
I forgot.
Oh too bad,
it would have helped you bridge the gap between earth pain and hard fact.
You hear these things,
but not without a lot of refreshment and problems.
You always have to be on guard:
did I miss to write something down?
Poems dying at your feet.
I can’t stay here and wait;
many left.
Not such things as the shooting star of a record player?
Visions will keep going about everything.
They have something to say about what their gold intimate seeing keep.

With lines you could see for themselves.
Anyway, I am bound by choice.
Are choices of his thoughts.
We were wondering how short there is a gap
between the poet and the fired off intuition.
Listen,
I should listen.
I haven’t quite mastered the technique.
There’s babies can listen farther.

More of a time to correct it Classical Modern Poetry.
Grammar is not all set by rules.
The love gospel of a mounting thing,
it’s cosmos create it’s conscious create act.
Cosmos. Butterfly.

The star building his clothes with dark glasses and his eyes with light.
The agency of stars,
the stars illume more than they show.
The stars are observable in the daytime too.
Light rays invisible from everywhere.
Space becomes the brilliant front of the background of light.
What is the magic of a shooting star?
The miracle of a shooting star confides.

With poetry you can just wait for the truth to come.
You would not be in any rush,
and your time for reference would be less.
On the ancient wings of poetry
I didn’t do much asking,
just self-sitting absorbed in the One.
Sometimes I ask the muse if he’s wrong.
The stars illume more than they cure.

Is it necessary to have spiritual experience to see?
I would say yes.
Like I say,
you must be open to the bright order for to see.
The soul takes a station as a very high spiritual experience.
With this opening of the well of vision in the soul,
it’s not my eyes that form the most record.
It’s my ears,
but nonetheless there is an instrumentation higher than knowledge.
There are more direct ways to be told,
beyond the senses.

You get the idea. It goes on for 45 more pages. Beginning on that mountain above Matala and continuing during my five month stay on Crete, lines began to come to include in the letter, lines that came to continue ideas introduced by lines that came before I started that letter, the lines in my notebooks since the muse began, as well as suggestions on how to write the letter, and at the end I was just overwhelmed with so many lines coming to add to different places in the letter I couldn’t finish it. Adding that constant addition with trying to fit them together so they flowed like they belonged together, the whole thing just wasn’t possible. Like I said: I found myself construing it, and I didn’t want to pull a Mohammed. (I may try putting the lines together again one day into the long poem it obviously wanted to be, letting today’s more organized muse fill in the blanks and keep me from construing it.) The thing is, the muse knew that it was just a practice run the whole time it was helping me write it, what became clear when I had to leave without finishing it, and that’s just like the muse not to tell you the most important thing you think you need to know. Reading that muse of yesterday today, it’s crystal clear sometimes it was talking 20 years ago about the epic poem I recently submitted to The Atlantic (four and a half months ago), not that letter I was writing then. When it said, “You are just one Atlantic fascination out of jail,” it wasn’t talking about the magazine reacting to that cover letter that it would never read; it was talking about The Literary Eye.[i] And back then it was not only talking about that future book-length poem, but also about the writing of this story and my life as it is now, even naming names and specific incidents of my current now, and that’s the most magic thing about the muse and also the hardest to reckon into your reason, since you don’t see the future it’s talking about until it happens, but when you do it just blows your mind, each and every time. Sitting here going over my muse notebooks from Crete could be likened to that scene in the Jimmy Stewart film Harvey, when a character looks up the word pooka in the dictionary, and the book talks directly to him. I’m talking about how it hit me, like over the head. I’m not saying my notebooks came out and directly spoke to me. The question here is not, however, my notebooks speaking to me but The Atlantic. They won’t speak to me at all now, as I’ve said earlier, and we go way back, you know?

That’s just so unliterary, and that’s how it’s always been; it’s content and not quality that’s the deciding factor in getting published, for fear of messing with that sacred social construct, but in today’s don’t you dare say anything the mainstream media doesn’t agree with, media being of any public kind, literary magazines included, it’s in some ways similar to the days when you had to submit to the Church (talk about being on the wrong side of history), something I hope to make very clear with my poem and The Atlantic’s refusal to even speak to me. You see the stakes are very high. They know it’s not the news but literature that writes the soul of a culture, and that poetry is its special forces. Do you? Though not impossible, it will be hard for you to deny The Literary Eye’s not both poetry and literary, even if it makes you rend your clothes and gnash your teeth you disagree with it so much. Just read the poem. Oh, you can’t, until I post it on my own social media, but it seems it’s not to be published that way, at least not at first, interpreting a line of muse that came on that mountain, “it” being not what I thought it was but that epic: “The closer to publishing it Homeplough Publications.” I’m doing just that: getting it closer to being published by ploughing it home here on my blog, as the muse suggested I do 20 years ago.

We’re surrounded by awesome amounts of printed material.
How literature conforms you.
She turned into the waiter of the compliment’s daughter.
The tethered word,
a verse difficult brought to lip and bare.
The writers empty a front,
grounded by this type of writing,
for years after the expelling of truth and appeal.
Put milk into an atheist container and spoil it.
Dry wisdom secular wisdom.

The function of poetry has taken the wrong road.
Medicine not applied for medicine.
What is in a man may stay in his memory or not,
but poetry has first on his nature.
Poetry comes from a sky test of thinking
in reference to a strong idea,
ideas that go to the path of overlookingness.
Our poetry is to define what is to say.
What do you say about a poem?
Read it.
The poet’s the writer that shall never be in oblivion.

(from The Inspired Word)

Thank you for the scroll.
Thank you for the present.
Testimonial and the divine art human,
you own a suitcase.
You’re not going to provide a perfect example.
You’ve got something here.
Don’t pop up,
the idea of a superintelligence?
I bask in its sunshine.
I wear it on my sleeve.

What is more to being human?
Would you get out of your car and look at it?
You know it has guided us all along.
It’s in your court
if you can find it.
Oh my God the origin of the universe,
you can see it glowing now
all over this page.

Now just keep repeating your mantra
nothing is knowable
God is not.
The unknowable is here
on the Earth.

(today’s muse)

The bar Kreta my muse spoke about was near the village square, the kind that didn’t have walls, only a roof, but it had a regular restaurant-style table layout, and I got permission to sit at a table during the day and write. I was writing by hand. I was also working on a children’s short story in addition to the aforementioned piece. The story was about a fictitious little girl named Delta, who in my story was a member of the infamous Donner party, which had resorted to cannibalism snowbound one winter in the Sierra Nevada mountains. The story was never finished either, but it was also a focal point of my muse on Crete, though a smaller one. “Delta Donner screamed,” the first sentence of “The Sharp Mystery”, the muse providing both the title and sentence. The story has since been lost, but I didn’t get very far along with it. I didn’t just spend my days writing though. I went to Red Beach often for a naked swim and once a week to the market day in Mires, the larger town of the district.

I also did day labor, how I bought my food (before a large donation of 270 euro I got), doing some fruit picking and painting work for women who lived alone. The men who ran crews or needed a man never hired me. I’d stand at the day labor pickup place in the market town with other men, all Cretans, and not get picked, and everybody else would be. I felt like a nerd or sissy or something at school recess not getting picked for kickball and having to be put on a team by the P.E. teacher. Most days when I waited there I’d just walk off without a job, but a couple or three times, right there at the end of the day labor choosing spree, an older woman drove by looking for her pick, and there I’d be all by my lonesome, and I could see the doubt on her face as she looked me over—I didn’t exactly look like the hard working type—, but she’d take me home, and I’d do the work she needed, and I’d not only get some cash but also some fruit and vegetables or maybe even lunch. It wasn’t a dog’s life.

“This is the cord of Bob Fisher.” [vision of having found a cord and a man walking into Kreta’s Bar to tell the owner I had it] (my muse before help came from that bar). I was at the bar in the first place because the muse, if you remember, told me help would come from there. Well, it appears I was sitting there fishing and not only writing, unbeknownst to me, and about a week or so after this line and vision came an older German woman walked into the bar to speak to the owner. As they spoke they were looking at me. Then she walked up and introduced herself as Irmgard and asked me if I wanted to come and live in an apartment she had upstairs from hers and be her handyman. I’d get room and board. Well I’ll be. I caught a retired East German spy. You’d have to have your head in the sand to say the future was not foretold, twice, by my muse, to chalk it all up to coincidence, seeing patterns that aren’t there. If it were you, tell me you wouldn’t see a superintelligence looking out for you.

What’s with that hearing mechanism thing?
I don’t know if it means broad daylight, but… [dream vision where the crew of the Enterprise, though caricatures of them, were fitting a hearing device into Captain Kirk’s head, who only had one huge eye, which was in the center of his forehead. He was about to meet Athena, who was beaming aboard]

(my muse on the mountain)

But look at the way it was foretold, not outright but in a representative fashion. Someone needs to tell Hollywood about this. “We’re representative creatures and that’s the way our dreams represent things to us” (my muse then). Understand man. I met Irmgard there the next morning with my things, and we got in her car and drove away. An astute student of Greek myth, I didn’t look behind me as we left.

What did he mean by foreign body intelligence?
How did he write it?
He didn’t say anything about the cells.
Is that the next chapter?
He thinks we should go home tomorrow.
It was in the good of the world,
Captain Kirk.
You mean linin’ his big stomach with space?
That all-embarked journey
to something higher than reason.
It’s what we mean by going into space,
the spiritual consciousness.
No, not now.
I’m not a good storyteller.

I don’t need to Crete any love,
make Crete my spiritual paradise.
Who pays for it?
Now, the autopilot.
We have our own guest card.
We have our own place.
Hanna dog
and Luna puppy,
an introduction,
oh man Jan
top dog,
the number one puppy
in an email
to the function of dog in man,
to dogs in people’s houses too.

Makes me think
love dog,
cat.
What just happened?
Somebody brought the cat in.
They belong.
Take a look.
I rescue a cat on the other side.
I’m sorry,
and everything is expensive.
Cats get trapped too
as ghosts.
Their owner,
that’s what cats feel,
and that’s what
really scares you
about the death hunt.
I give you a horror story.

Memories apart,
the living presence of Sri Aurobindo
drives me to work
in a dream where Sri Aurobindo meets life,
and a kid and I come together
where integration meets life.
Can you count the ways?
The right one is that boy in my lap
such a good thing.

You hear the future breathing beside me?
A little boy sleeping beside me.
He’s got the whole world in his hands. [heard sung]
I put integration together
with a whole lotta love.
A sweet little puppy dog
somebody put him.
It was the Earth Mother.
Can you see this integration?
Puppy figures first.
Oh puppy I love you.

I don’t think you understand me yet.
Puppy does.
Search for it,
cat on my floor,
or dog.
Hey work this out:
molest them no.
See that puppy?

And then we ended up here tonight:
everybody here saw puppies.
Now puppies
worlds behind our back with the roads of children.
And we have to let Luna baby up,
and she’s happy.
Off together,
better into right current technology,
multiple batteries.
Bed is just a centrifuge.
There’s a difference
between fingertips.
Oh you stroke the future,
and that’s the size of it,
their future.
How good a future do you want?

Three dogs and a boy
crowded in bed with me.
What movie now?
The babysitter.
I’m a function of society,
and I love my job.
Now move out,
get this show on the road.

Try to take the bird home then.
Who put the rose quartz?
America for the later on use.
Simple as yours.
Do I like to speak the truth?
Dogs and cats,
you don’t
think they’re children.
It’s where they are with us,
our children.

Knocked out
we were living
tense lives
all the time.
I hit the hall pass,
the breakfast area of man.
He stole around ten mil.
Luna baby,
I put it all courage to be missed to monster you know.

We think we drew Drew Binsky,
open range.
Wasn’t that over the phone?
That was funny,
you’re a paradigm.
And we argue about it.

Prosecution books,
hunter bags,
function poetry. [vision of pulling out a drawer in a file cabinet and seeing the last two lines, the last one slightly different than I heard it]
How do you handle relief?
You don’t.
And?
We live
Monopoly game
opportunist.
They gonna talk to you.
Get out of jail free card detective lunch.
That’ll just bowl them over.
You remained unprosecutedscathed.
You are so sent home,
out of their control.

Is there nothing?
To doors keep me
a violence
of emotional bad speaking
people direct towards your living room.
It’s scathing.
They can’t touch you.
Talk to them every day
when you’re online.
I get left behind.
They drive this fence around the corner.
I’m Operation Blue Book.
You know what that means?
I have so much to share.

I’m on my way home.
I’m getting my rocket into space.
And there’s where I’m headed,
spiritual enlightenment.
Can we say greenway?
I’m in that chute.
Here I come.

Come on let’s go.
You don’t like the look of it.
It’s a battering ram
to get you to see reality.
I’ve got all the principles in place,
and science just can’t stand here yet.
It wants reality to be this:
as godless as it is,
as meaninglessness show.

No I don’t see how the string gets loose,
but I will rock the boat.
I’ll do it now or I’ll do it later.
I’ve got some stuff I got to tell everybody.
A lost leak,
The Literary Eye,
gather out there.
Can you see reality from here?
Proper reality:
we do get our act together.
I do I want a strong reading,
so you don’t miss something.
I’ve got a stack of investigators [vision of several people opening the trunk of a car to see what’s in there]
goin’ through the files now.
Go after The Atlantic Monthly.

(today’s muse)

Talking to Frank, a French painter that lived near Matala, my only regular friend there. Photo by Wolfram
Mechthild and I in a hippie cave near the beach, her husband Wolfram taking the picture. They are who gave me the 270 euro
Here we are at Festos, again her husband at the camera

To Be Continued

_____________________________________________________________________________________________


[i] The poem is divided into two parts, section one, which is a short poem and conforms to current literary magazine preferences and tastes, and section two, “Thoughts on Unique”, the rest of the poem. Section one can be a standalone poem and is actually what I submitted for them to publish, asking them to provide some means for the reader to read the rest of the poem, a link to where I’ve posted it if nothing else.

© 2021 (although I’d probably give permission for you to use the material on your site if you just ask, but please ask)

Calling All Cars Just to Say Hello Part 2

(You’d Have to Let Me In)

Greece,
I Stepped on the Concrete

A bit of scattered poem
Eleni asks her picture.
You mean you go to school?
That’s the travelin’ life.
Do you think you can enjoy this?
Dumber kid world.

Getting off the ferry from Italy and hitching from Igoumenitsa, in the north near the border of Albania, to almost Athens is a blur. I do remember chief in my mind was the thought I’d been given about Greece by fellow travelers: Greece will either love you or hate you, and there is no in-between. Would I be accepted? The first test didn’t seem to say yes. A trucker gave me a ride, who was going not far from Athens. I don’t remember how far he took me, but more than the usual spurt. I got excited seeing the highway signs to Sparta and Olympia along the way, like history was jumping out at me, but to him it was just the usual route. When I explained about myself, how I was a vagabond spiritual pilgrim (adventure traveler to you guys), making sure to tell him I needed a place to stay that night, without outright asking him to take me home, he told me about an artist’s commune not far out of Athens he could drop me off at, one that had occupied an abandoned governmental complex composed of several buildings. I just wanted him to take me home and spend the night proper in a house and with a family. When he dropped me off at the place, which was just off the freeway about 35 kilometers out of Athens, I was so let down, and he could see that, and we had, or had had that whole ride he gave me, one of those underwater conversations that deal with the real issues between us, us being you and I, the person and their society. “I don’t want to take the risk. You type of people are weird.” “Do I look like a thief, a murderer?” “My wife would get mad. My dog might bite you. Hell I don’t know, I’m just not taking you home.” “One day you’ll be in my shoes, and you’ll remember this.” The last bit isn’t so noble, but don’t we all say it under our breath in such situations of genuine need not met by someone who readily can, no skin off their nose? That the place looked now abandoned put extra underwater words in my eyes. I slowly got out of the cab and made my way down from the truck to the street, it being not a semi rig exactly but one of those big trucks that looked like it had had its sleeper cut off, their only being a cab for the driver and one person to ride shotgun. It was already nightfall. Oh woe is me.

That night was horrible. I had to sleep where people walk their dogs to go two toilet. All the buildings, that I went I could see at least, were not in use, except the one I slept in front of, but it was all locked up. They were mostly one-story, government-style buildings, and they were all decorated in that ‘tribe of’ painting so characteristic of post-hippie communes and collectives, like Forte Prenestino, a combination of graffiti and art, fuck you and butterflies (you’re hearing 2002). Yeah, they’d been here, and left. Still, they’d left a strong impression of the presence of social revolt, of the anarchist kind, on the Greek scene that I was seeing. I anticipated this to be more pronounced in Athens than I would find it, but I’m getting ahead of myself. Not having the inclination to explore the place more fully for a better place to sleep, I chose the large yard of the building still being used, where the Saint Augustine grass was high enough I wouldn’t be readily seen, which was, like I said, peppered with dog shit. I had only some pasta I was saving for Athens, which I’d determined to cook and eat in the agora, the market area of ancient Greece, and so I went to bed hungry, something you get used to adventure traveling. I have no memory at all of getting up and out of there and on the road again, but I know I arrived in Athens early in the morning. The agora wasn’t so easy to identify. Although I’ve made reference to it in this story, I didn’t carry The Lonely Planet, didn’t carry any guidebook. What was the point? I had no money, and I didn’t want a wish book. I asked around. Almost anywhere I’ve found, you can easily find people who speak at least a little English. In a large European city like Athens, English abounds.

Where I ended up I don’t know, but it wasn’t far from where I’d gotten dropped off, thankfully, as I had not one red cent to my name, and I didn’t want to risk trying to ride free on the bus, if that were even possible; I didn’t know. The place I’d been directed to hadn’t looked right, and so I’d walked to a very large open space behind what I guessed was the modern market, and I could see some ancient whatnots sticking up in the distance, but I didn’t venture into the area, just set up on the side of a concrete street behind the buildings, one that, except for some trees, had nothing on it, no buildings at all. I pulled out my gear and started cooking, and I got looks from the people walking by, and I got that familiar feeling of being seen in my underwear, like in a dream, what I’d feel when doing something nobody else was doing in the middle of everybody doing normal things, a feeling really hard to shake no matter how many times I did such doings. I ate. Now what? You ever land in a city flat broke with no place to stay and no lead as to where to find one? I did, however, have an idea. Go walking until I began to see the anarchy A on walls, and then I’d know I’d be in an area where squatters were.

Photo by Ricky Ikhtifar Prihantono on Unsplash

I must tell you that just because I used the anarchist symbol to find squats doesn’t mean I was an anarchist, just like it won’t mean I was a communist because (later in the story) I admire someone who was. Do I show you mine? Politically, if anything, I’m an American Democrat (looking forward to something better), have been since my university days, but I’ve never voted Democrat, only voted one time in my whole life, in the 1980 presidential race, and I voted Republican. Okay I messed up, but how many people can say they passed in review in front of a new president as an active duty army muleskinner behind a team of mules pulling an army escort wagon, saluted the president with a 45/70 black powder rifle, and then attended his inaugural ball dressed in old cavalry blues, spurs that went jingle jangle jingle, and wearing a sword? That’s what I thought.

It’s hard to fit all I did that day into one, single day, but I know I only spent one night in Athens, and so it all must fit. Although the Acropolis was chief in my mind to go and see and quite visible from most anywhere in the city that looked up, I didn’t go there, do any site seeing. I was on a mission to find a place to write for the winter, and I had, or so it seemed, come to the end of my rope; Athens was my last hope. I found an A before too long and set down my pack and looked for someone appropriate to ask about where to sleep. I mean I looked for a person who looked not only different but defiant, if I can use that word, it being too strong for what I was actually looking for but which gives you the picture that I was looking for someone rather ‘alternative’.

Presently a sort of weathered young woman appeared, and I asked her. While talking to her a couple more people came up, each with a look that said something other than 9 to 5. They told me the scene in Athens was not safe—too many heroin addicts. It did not escape my notice I was talking to addicts right then. They warned me my backpack would get stolen lickety-split, and I could get hurt. It was dangerous. What could I do I asked. What can you do I was asked. Could I teach English? They all thought that was a lovely idea; yeah, teach English. They directed me to a square not too far from there, where there were a couple of English schools, the kind that taught adults for the most part, the business kind that doesn’t look like a school at all. The two I went to were up on the second floor of the business block on that square, and I had to leave my pack outside the door. I’d tried to freshen up in some bathroom I’d found on the way, change clothes, wash my face, but with my long hair and beard and travel-worn clothes, it didn’t matter what I did, other than completely changing my appearance; I didn’t stand a chance. “Excuse me, can I help you?” “You want to what?” “Here?” I’ve reported what was going on under the conversation, the real, standby communication.

Greek authority,
needed insistence to say hello.
Essential bottom,
your stuff with essential bottom aren’t yah?
Yes,
so Greek in it
I recognized.

My mother’s different.
She didn’t scholar me right.
Everywhere I looked Greek,
trapped in here:
Oedipus Rex king.

It was all I could do to stand up.
When I was four
the whole thing liberated.
Control your consciousness, will yah?
That became my ground plan.
I was plagued by an imaginary playmate.
Demons are real you understand.

Essential textbook Greek
for my nose in books,
to help me get my head around the game,
for my hero’s story.
I languished in Greek things
for my understand.
That’s how I survived.
A survivor Greek tale
that little boy wore.
Essential characteristics
do you understand?

Wow that was a brave mile.
Get that one,
you have this textbook and that.
Now I’m sellin’ my story down the street
survivor’s guilt.
See someone.
I’m a pomegranate.
It was out of control
the seed production rebellion.
Can you hear control
as my room sits to itself in the world,
in the reason of my daily life?
Now where do you think this journey was taking me?

You’ve got a longshoreman.
It’s incredible ways control,
even in mice feet.
Now I’ve placed a hardball in your hands.
Tube tumbler,
I’ve got that essential storybook.
I can control myself.

Give it to me;
I’m riding December.
Like a spiritual sun,
my great and wonderful world,
I give you my notebooks
in your arms now.
A long anchor I lay down.
What I aim for:
the renewal of man.

Feel life abroad,
up here,
because our choices are there.
Let’s start with consciousness.
Where should I put
brain matters?
That’s the deadline.
What do you know,
consciousness rises between us.
You and I share it,
as between us there builds one mind.
We put them things aloud.
This is the tall story.

Have you lost your mind?
You just forgot
we are all of us we are one.
That’s why in the mornings
dig in that vinegar.
Round the birth of nation
you dig.
The true stories I have written
penned revolution.
Good morning.

I’m understanding slow now.
When it touches both hands,
like a pattern I have drawn for that day,
a secret oneness of our world
and particular natures,
the whole thing,
it’s at the healing,
and we share together base diamonds.
And you’re hearin’ our revolution.

And he was sleeping on the floor.
We’re intah base.
Read on story.
The next street,
that took us back
to hello Greece.

But despite not getting a job teaching English in Athens, as the country had other plans for me, Island Penelopes, Greece did love me; boy did it ever. And I loved it, or things Greek I should say, always had, and I suspect that in many Western childhoods ancient Greece has a gripping hand rocking the cradle. That culture is still very much alive in the maintenance of our own. When I was around four, I saw the Kirk Douglas movie Ulysses on TV, and from then on, my mind and dreams were populated by Greek heroes and monsters, not the least of which was Hercules, hero of song and story (italicized words sung), that song from the 1960’s cartoon, and especially the image of him running back up Mount Olympus often dragging the bad guy, daily morning features of my early childhood. Greek mythology became a thought about ingredient in the makeup of my growing up, and I’d check out books about it from the school library once I got big enough to read. I studied Classical Greek in university, after the army, becoming a competent translator of both Attic and Homeric Greek, even translated two books of The Odyssey and the first part of Euripides’ Hercules, the latter into rhyming English verse, the translation of Greek poetry putting a cornerstone into the foundation of my own poetry, indeed, into thought.

So I had put a lot of will and wonder into my visit to Greece, all of my life, and I hadn’t for either France or Italy anywhere near that degree, although I must say they were two countries on my mind’s friend list growing up, not so much the countries but their major cities, Paris and Rome. So it was natural that Greece welcomed me with open arms, but still, it was a struggle to find those arms. After the English teaching school rejection, I just walked about the streets, wondering where I’d spend the night, what I’d eat, those sorts of things, nothing deep mind you; I was hungry and tired. Presently I passed by a spiritual bookshop, and low and behold, in the shop’s window was a book by Sri Aurobindo, with his luminous picture on the cover, to my eyes at least—he is simply a heartthrob. The shop was closed, as it was by this time late evening, and so I determined to be there when it opened the next morning. Where else would I go, to the Greek Orthodox theater?

Some streets away, I passed by a building under construction, six stories tall. If you’re in a city survival situation, and you don’t know the city from Adam, the thing to do is find such a building, if the barricades keeping people out don’t, and go to the very top floor and sleep, but it needs to be a rather tall building, like the one I was standing before. The rational is this: people use empty buildings to sin in so to speak, especially at night, but they stay around the lower floors, scared to venture up usually, scared of the unknown, but mostly it’s an innate fear of ghosts, ghouls, and demons, not lions and tigers and bears. It was dusk by the time I got up to the top floor, the building just the skeleton of one, the concrete and rebar, nothing else, no doors, windows, railings, or what have you. I laid out my sleeping bag, cooked something quite simple I had left in my pack, what that was I don’t remember now, ate and went to sleep, the night taking possession of the building like a demon does an imagination, a grab you ghoul and then total darkness.

I felt fear grip me as the light went completely out, what just came up out of no choice, something about a skeleton building like that, something sinister when darkness falls, and fear let go, and sleep took me. Sometime in the night I awoke to people in the building carrying the torch of chaos, as the noise they made did not drum up images of order, and I lay there and counted the floors they came up, slow-like, their drunken scene spilling out to what more floors there may be, all the way to the 5th floor, one floor below mine, and I was surprised at their boldness. Although I couldn’t understand their language, I could hear the fear in their voices as they looked up at the top floor, deciding not to venture up any higher. Oh boy was I relived. The lion, the tiger, and the bear often possess us when we’re drunk or whatnot and come upon a hapless person all alone by themselves somewhere no one else can see what we do to them, those animals apt to represent the mal spirits behind such maulings and murders among us, when those aforementioned animals have gone mad with bloodlust. It’s a taken world.

I don’t want it devil in the morning.
Feel the nature of the world.
Do you see it there,
just a destroyed circle?
It’s an accident
the world is Belarus.

The world will write itself tomorrow
the world bigger than your fingertips,
a larger house than ours.
There it is again on the streets
war craft.
Are you just belly up?
Images further than ghosts,
can I show you the world cares?

A world being,
imagine that.
Look to later on.
I’m hanging on philosophy.
No I’m dippin’ into my world.

Does it have your cooperation?
That’s so theory maxed.
Hey fella,
are you scared of yourself?

A more balanced diet
would cover the story very well
Luna baby.
You’re sleeping there in your sleep
my proposal,
even the puppy.

It’s ole Bruno,
tryin’ to get him to see past himself.
Can you see this big chair?
How big is it?
It’s bigger than doors.
Looking forward
number one.

She has all that divided.
Let’s see if she eats that.
She sank to ground zero.
An artist too conception of the world.
I’ll tell you what,
eating in here she eats here.
Smell?
Ooh child things are gonna get easier—
ingredients.

The first window can be human.
Can we check her own full members of the family?
Walkin’ up the stairs,
we’re a family.
Want some unlikely brotherhood?
Come and take it.

Unless you’re doin’ somethin’ about it
you aren’t in progress anymore.
You name it progress
everybody gets included in the family,
even me.

If you sneak sleep in buildings under construction you have to be out early, before the first workers arrive, and so at first light I left. On the bottom floor I could see the remnants of the party the night before that had spilled upwards, beer bottles mostly, and wrappers of various sorts. Coming out of the building into the growing sunlight was such a relief. Going through the hole in the cyclone fence and leaving the property felt like a liberation. Hope is native to the start of a new day, really hard to kill even when things seem hopeless, but here I had reason to hope. I had faith in Sri Aurobindo, and I’d seen his picture in an unlikely place, in the middle of Athens, and so I had the expectation of good things on the way. Seems silly to say that about a dead guru, but presently you’ll see the way he teaches, as a living presence, “and now what am I to believe, the reasoning of others or my own experience?” (Sri Aurobindo, a partial quote from Thoughts and Aphorisms)

What else was there to do except go to that bookstore and wait until it opened? I sat there, doing my morning meditation, then reading Savitri, and then just sitting. It was a very long sitting, probably around three hours. Did I tell you that I didn’t carry a timepiece? Didn’t even before I left for the open road. I’d tell people I didn’t wear a watch because I didn’t want to be a slave to time, but I was always careful to check the time so I wouldn’t be late somewhere, punctuality being a very American thing, and there are clocks everywhere basically, and the irony wasn’t lost on me that I still lived my life around time, but I argued, to anyone that pointed that out, that I didn’t have to have it wound around my wrist at least. Now, on the open road, however, I no longer lived my life to a schedule imposed by all-demanding time, but here, waiting on an hour of business, the time of day became all-important again, and so quickly. The shop opened around nine I believe, and I was checking the time every so often by looking through the window of the shop next door at a clock upon the wall, which was difficult to see because of the angle of the clock in relation to the street. I had to bend down low to see it. Finally, two people came to open the door to the bookstore, a man and woman, both about the same age, middle aged, and by the way both moved in relation to one another, I gathered they were married. When they noticed me waiting there they were quite surprised. I stood up to greet them, smiling that smile you give, like the handshake, when you want to show people you have no weapons and want also to disarm them.

With an intense appearance as I had, there was always a second or two when meeting ‘normal’ people for the first time of “just hold on there wild man, do you bite?” It’s just a flicker in the eyes that quickly gets replaced by social niceties, and you just smile and pretend you didn’t see it, and they pretend they didn’t show it. With these two, however, that second or two was more of surprise in the eyes than doubt, and they quickly let that go and gave me a warm greeting and invited me inside, as I was explaining why I was there, because of the picture of Sri Aurobindo. It turned out they were disciples of the Mother and Sri Aurobindo, as I was, and every year they spent a few months in Auroville, India, an international township founded by the Mother, she being his spiritual partner and collaborator. Auroville is an intentional community inaugurated in 1968 that was created to achieve human unity and a transformation of consciousness that would help usher in the new human being. It was also the destination of my traveling. I was headed there, not just vagabonding just to vagabond. I’d visited there in 1995, going there from a six month stay in Israel, which I’ve spoken about in the beginning of this story. I subsequently spent six months in Auroville, where I became a disciple of the Integral Yoga. It had been my intention upon leaving Auroville to return to the States only to earn money to go back to India to become a member of Auroville, but it hadn’t worked out that way, and here I was seven years later still on my way to Auroville. Somewhere around here, either in Italy or in Greece I mean, I had a lucid dream about Auroville, where at the end I met the spirit of Auroville, a beautiful young woman, who asked me when I was coming, so we had a thing going on, only it was an inner thing, and on the outside to all Aurovillians and New Comers I was just a visiting guest. To say it in a metaphor: Penelope didn’t recognize me upon my return to Ithaca, but I could also say I didn’t honor her I am so very sorry to say, but I tried. How else can I say it?

Now, living just a few kilometers from the township these many years, Auroville has become the city of my dreams, literally, as I dream about it more than any other location on Earth. A minor miracle made it that, which happened in Jerusalem, but the story of our relationship began upon my arrival in Garberville, California. I’d left Laytonville and had enough cash for one night in a hotel, as this was just at the beginning of my homeless days, and I wasn’t yet used to sleeping out in the middle of society, and so I wasted the last bit of money I had for one more night under a roof. I awoke at 3:30 (by the clock in the room) and smoked some skunk I’d gotten on Spyrock Mountain, did that to purposefully go back to sleep conscious, or without losing continuity of being conscious I should say, what I believe is nowadays called WILD, a wake induced lucid dream. When you’re stoned and lucid dreaming, much more is possible. I didn’t, however, go into a dream but went into twilight, a place between waking and sleeping where you’re aware you’re in bed but not ‘awake’ in bed but still in a dream state, although often you can see the room you’re in, even if your eyes are closed. Usually the room is either slightly or quite different from the physical one you’re sleeping in, and often you’re hearing unusual or even frightening noises, the latter to scare you back into the corral of cramped experience if you want to know the truth, because you are in a place of great power. In some ancient literature I’d read it was called the crack between the worlds, as it’s a place of event where you can do multiple things, go into a lucid dream, lie there and experience whatever, which is often inner voice and vision, or induce a cataleptic trance, nowadays called sleep paralysis, and go out of the body.

As I lay there I could hear the OM being sung from every direction, booming more like it, although it had no unpleasantness to it. What I mean is it wasn’t coming from a source but from everywhere. The OM we make is only a facsimile of this one, and there was no pause for breath. A continuous stream of OM bathed me completely, rich with the tones of the universe, fulfilling as all sound. With a start I realized it was coming from my own mouth too. Then the scene changed from the place where I lay sleeping to what I would not call a dream exactly, although it was obviously a representation of something, something wonderful. I found myself in space traveling very fast through the frame of a square tunnel that was completely open and had no walls, only four stars that formed a square every few meters or so, and it dipped down and up and such, was not in a straight line. It was, I was, headed to some convergence of stars I couldn’t see but knew was there, and then I was back in the bed in the hotel room, still in twilight, very disappointed I had not arrived at the convergence.

But then I realized that I was free from my body though still inside it, and if you’ve had out of body experience you know the feel of freedom from the physical body while yet in it I’m talking about, as it’s from that place, what heretofore I had only gotten to via sleep paralysis, that you do whatever movement you’ve learned to get out of the body entirely. I willed myself out, doing a little twist of up and out of my physical body that I use. I had no problem at all leaving the hotel room and going outside, just went through the wall.

Unlike the popular conception of O.B.E., and how science seems to view it (how it seems to view anything inner, in black and white), it’s not a static, cut and dried state but one very fluid, with a mixing usually of inner and outer elements, and at any moment you are very close to your experience turning into a lucid dream, although one of travel towards wherever you’ve willed yourself to go or some representative picture of actually being there. This moving more into a dream happens especially when you cross boundaries, the first being going out of the room you are ‘sleeping’ in. Unless you are very focused and concentrated, you don’t make it beyond that threshold in the out of body state but find yourself surrounded more by inner elements of dream than outer objects on the physical plane. In other words, you’ve basically gone into a lucid dream, as many of those aren’t exactly just dreams. I tried to go to the moon once. You laugh, but if you think about it, it’s a logical place to try and go if you can get past boundaries, and I could. I went camping at a special place to do that, Enchanted Rock State Park in Texas, a place open to the spirit world if you’re open to it, but I didn’t make it out of the boundary of Earth into space, which appears to be quite the line the cross in O.B.E, naturally. You can read about it in my story online “You’re Like, Wow, That Really Was Enchanted with a Rock”.

I glided from the hotel to the street, which was Garberville’s main drag, Highway 101. It was one of only a few times I was what might be called for understanding’s sake a naked spirit on the physical plane, no dream elements present, but I’d put it that I was in my dreambody in the physical world, not in dream. Going down 101 a ways a hodgepodge of old fashioned storefronts to my right and left, I decided to stay in town for awhile. My decision was fortified the next day when I went to New and Used Books, the first place I went to after the hotel, bookstores being to me a center of any town. Someone had left a box of books that morning, and Paul Encimer, the bookstore owner, told me I could look through them and take what I wanted. I found a small booklet with a title something like Baptism in the Om, attributed I believe to Sri Yukteswar, Yoganada’s guru. Flipping through it I saw it described my experience the night before. Let me just pause a moment and make room for that synchronicity to sink in. It’s not one off the charts of probability, but if it happened to you, you’d see meaning in it too. Then a book by Dane Rudhyar, Planeterization of Consciousness: From the Individual to the Whole, caught my eye, and I picked it out too. Some days later I would read in that book about Auroville for the first time, and I determined to one day go there. It wasn’t just a mental note I made; it had the feel of destiny about it.

In Rudhyar’s book I heard of Sri Aurobindo for the second time, when the name finally took, although it took awhile for that to happen. In my self-teaching university days, when I’d left formal classes and studied on my own for a school year, reading around eight hours a day at that time, focusing on psychology, spiritual and metaphysical knowledge and experience, art and literature, and classic science fiction, I encountered his name for the first time, in one single book. But let me explain those circumstances a bit more. I’d left classes because I had learned how to learn, and I didn’t want to waste time on lectures, papers, and exams. My focus, if you’re interested in knowing, was where the human ego came from, both in the dawn of history and in every child born, and where we were headed next in the evolution of human identity. I had moved across the street from the Half Price Books located in the neighborhood of Montrose, Houston, so to take advantage of whole libraries being sold to the shop by the families and friends of people dying of AIDS, libraries with rare volumes on the aforementioned subjects. Montrose was the queer side of town, where many of Houston’s artists, poets, professors, and performers lived. This was in the late 80’s, at the height of the epidemic. I should add that I was a hospital volunteer in the AIDS ward at Herman Hospital in the nearby museum district, a hand holder, and not to get books.

Anyway, several times in the aforementioned bookshop in Houston I flipped through a book called Pilgrims of the Stars by Dilip Kumar Roy, but I never bought it because he seemed to me to be a light weight. A heavy person he talks about at length, Sri Aurobindo, did interest me as did a few lines of a poem I read by that heavy about dream being real that really struck me (from Savitri). I put some intention on reading a book by him, but I didn’t come across one and quickly forgot about it until I read Rudyhar’s book. Reading about Sri Aurobindo in his book, a lever clicked in a lock, and my heart was opened to the possibility of a guru, although I didn’t know that then. I only knew that Sri Aurobindo was a must read. At that time in my life I strongly resisted having a teacher, dead or alive, or following any one spiritual or religious system. Why did I need one? Knowledge and spiritual experience were coming just fine without one. I didn’t know then that there comes a time when great abysses open up where the soul steps, as you’ve gone as far as you can go solo, and you need a teacher to hang onto for dear life. Although I heard a thousand times that when the student is ready the teacher will come, I didn’t know what it meant until the teacher came, but it took me awhile to let him in, or them in I should say, since the Mother came too, later.

Two and a half years after reading Ruhyar’s book and that lock being unlocked in my heart, when I had returned to my hometown of Houston, after staying in Garberville for a year and a half, and I was just about to leave for Israel, not yet knowing I would be going to India too, I ordered a book by Sri Aurobindo. I never ordered books, always let them appear somewhere, on a magic shelf at Half Price Books for example, magic because I’d hear of a book and will it, and over half the time that book would appear on that shelf I kid you not. I see now that was a faith building process, and I needed it where I was going, eventually, to the open road. I ordered it because his name would not leave me alone, and so, at the last minute before I left the States for the unknown, with only enough money to run out within weeks, thus embarking on my first experimental adventure travel, a year overseas, I broke down and ordered The Life Divine. It seems to me now it had to happen that way, why a book by him didn’t appear on my magic shelf, because I needed to read it on the road, where faith was more pressingly built. From a heavy person the magic came (my muse).

I first met Sri Aurobindo in Jerusalem, as a living person I mean, the year 1995 as I’ve told you, about a week or so into our so called hunger strike (we drank banana milk and the like) in a little park the size of a football field not far from Jaffa Gate in the old city. It was morning, and I did a meditation and then picked up the aforementioned book to read, as I had come in the habit of doing daily. I read some out of it, and then closed it and gazed at the photo of Sri Aurobindo on the cover, and it seemed to me to come alive, like he was right there looking back at me, and so I asked him if I should go to Auroville after Israel. I really felt I was asking him, not a photo. I then went into the old city to the guesthouse where Lars and I had permission to use the bathroom, Lars, a young man from Denmark, being my hunger striking partner. I carried the book with me into the city. I carried it everywhere, never having a book that spoke to me so directly. It was over a thousand pages thick and very large in size, but I treasured it between my hands and never left it very far from me. I put it on a table in the sitting room of the guesthouse and went to the toilet.

The edition I carried

When I returned there were two very young women standing near the table, one holding the book, they both very excited by it. They asked me if I were reading it. Yes I was, why? I knew he wasn’t a well known author, but I was confused at their excitement. It went beyond the book and its author. Would you believe they were both from Auroville? They’d grown up there. I was stunned hearing that and had to sit down. I tried to explain what had just happened in the park, but of course it wasn’t the same for them as it was for me, although they were glad to see someone reading Sri Aurobindo there in Jerusalem. I, on the other hand, was just beside myself. I did manage to ask them some questions about Auroville, how you became a member, what the requirements were, those sorts of things. When I got to Auroville some months later, I told people the story of the two girls I met in Jerusalem, but it wasn’t until one of them came to see me (the other was out of station) and told others about our meeting in Jerusalem that people actually believed me. Funny, it wasn’t a big deal to her at all, not much of one to anybody else, although it did raise some eyebrows, and I found that lack of wonder so very odd. But it’s like that isn’t it? We encounter a miracle and only see a happenstance if it didn’t happen to us. But I ask you, what are the odds of meeting two people from Auroville in the old city of Jerusalem immediately after asking Sri Aurobindo if I should go there?

A million unanswered questions
Garberville and the works.
Won the sexuality ribbon,
I think their slow salvation out of town.

Hardly squeezed between the lines,
you’ve heard it from the horse’s mouth
a thousand tongues wag.

Redemption city,
I came to field in Jerusalem,
and you heard me say it in phrases:
Auroville I love you.

They put me off Garberville style.
My destination was a dead end.
You hear my rainbow?
Please let me in.

To understand the fount of man
learn about the dawn of history.
Ask Donny.
Learn about a weakness.
Loading the possibles that’s it.
He could show it to no one.

They gave an infant an orgasm
and sexual ties with children.
Manipulating consciousness to start man,
I think they were advised to.
See this fruit here Eve?
No tell me a devil don’t bother you.

The truth
more better blacksmith
for reaching out
into the unknown.

We obviously don’t want to return to early man,
but let’s not utterly condemn
someone who eats that old shoe today.

Getting back to Athens you understand now why I put all my hope in one basket, a picture of Sri Aurobindo in a bookstore window. We go way back. Hearing the bookstore owners were disciples and went to Auroville every year, I felt right at home, my hope in the right place. As they readied their shop for the day’s business, I explained my need. I wanted to teach English and winter in Athens. Did they know anyone that could help? He went behind his cash register and sat down, I going to the counter directly in front where customers stood. He made some phone calls. By the looks on his face I could tell it was a no go with each call. Presently he put the phone down, sadly shaking his head. I felt really let down, as I was sure this would be the ticket. Then I heard the cash register ring as one does when it opens, and he reached in and grabbed some cash and handed it to me. It was enough, he said, to take the ferry to Crete and a little extra for some food. He explained wintering there was much easier, was sort of a thing on that island. He and his wife gave me the nicest smiles for a send off, and the smile and thank you I gave in return remain genuine to this day. I asked about them once I got to Auroville, and it seems to me I did meet someone who knew them, but I never saw them again. Do you remember me? I remember you. You were the world being kind, the Earth smiling broadly at me, and, at the risk of offending all ye good people, you were Auroville speeding me on my way to what I needed to gather from the world for my final arrival, the one where I don’t then ever leave.

Riding the ferry to Crete I remembered the one I oft road in my teenage years, once I got a car. It went from Galveston Island to Bolivar Peninsula, very short trip. It was a small one and the parking lot kind. Passengers could either stay in their cars or go to the desks. I don’t know how it is now, but at that time, in the 70’s, there was nothing but highway on the peninsula for miles once you got off the ferry, except for an abandoned WWII bunker, and off both sides of the road sported beach, deserted beach. I liked to drive to Galveston from Houston with some friends and go skinny dipping at night on the beach. That was my enjoyment, not getting drunk or high. Other than smoking cigarettes and dipping Skoal, I was a straight kid, but not for moral reasons. My second time getting high on grass, when I was 14, I experienced the full on disassociation state, what the Mother calls infinity in the finite and what Buddhists call the pit of the Void, and both are quite revealing on how it feels, but the former way of looking at it greatly helps when you find yourself in it at whatever point it begins to happen on its own on the spiritual path, if you get as far as the changes and fluctuations in consciousness the path takes you to. I was so terrified I lay in my bed begging God to let me fall asleep, and if I woke up the next morning normal, I’d become a preacher.

I made good on that promise, and for the next three years I was what was called then a Jesus person, a Jesus freak to the less tactful, and I went to a Christian coffeehouse on the weekends and passed out religious tracks with fellow Jesus people at Houston malls, went to many different churches during the course of my religious period, and not just on Sundays. I often went to meetings and Bible studies on week nights, had an array of churches and private houses I went to each week, but it was in school, George A. Thompson Intermediate and J. Frank Dobie High School, respectively, where I preached, and I carried a big Thompson Chain-Reference Bible everywhere I went and would require anyone who wanted to be saved, and several did believe it or not, to kneel with me after lunch when all the kids were outside, so to ensure they were serious, and either you hated me or loved me. I was both bullied and admired, always had a crowd around me in Thompson when walking in the halls, both taunting me and defending me. At Dobie things settled down, and I did too, moving my religion more into my room and prayer closet, really getting serious with my devotion. I put my Bible down one day, at 17, rather abruptly for all my fans and enemies, and left religion entirely. It seemed to me, once I really started to ‘seek the face of the Lord’, that all I was doing by following a religion was putting on a set of clothes, which got in the way of finding God. I needed to be naked I thought, and so I started going out in nature, backpacking on the Lone Star Trail in Sam Houston National Forest on the weekends, going out in the fields and small patches of forest on the edge of Houston where I lived, a subdivision called Sagemont, and yes going to Galveston and riding that ferry to that deserted beach and skinny dipping, careful, always careful, to refuse any offer of grass or alcohol, anything that would alter my consciousness, so to avoid union with the Void.

As I stood on that ferry on my way to Crete thinking about the kid I was on that local ferry, my mind turned again to a measurement I’d established in childhood: would the child be happy with the adult he became? At a nine-years-old, when I’d been forced to live with my father in the country, where I spent hours each day wandering the woods in search of myself but not knowing that then, only thinking I was on the lookout for snakes and rabbits, trying to spot deer and coyote, I determined not to be like the adults around me, and I’m not talking about their character; I’m talking about their way of life. There was a world out there, and I wanted to see it; there was the unknown, and I wanted to know it. This was huge with me. Still is, only that kid, as elated and surprised as he’d be by the man on that ferry to Crete heading out on the open road into the unknown, since he was going farther towards the splash and rush of things than the boy imagined, he’d be so sad to see the falls of that man in this world school and that. As my muse put it on Crete:

Brahman, Brahman, Brahman,
and years ago days gone by I had nothing but traffic for my furry. [two lines sung]
Such significant and terrible things we’ve done.
I’m getting close to the spirit of keys.
The Board Ship Game,
it’s not breaking the record.
It’s stabilizing the connection.
He shall traverse what never yet has been crossed.
I’m traveling underneath it all.
Oh boy, the history we could lesson.

My muse of today:

Nara birth sign in 1847.
Uh, you’ll get the same story
in an old codger’s notebook.
He wants to be close to my penis.
Do you hear the crowd there?

We find known trashcans.
We put them in the book.
Now go print that out.

Dual option:
we are the world
or the Sexford Files.
Avoid the halfway
yoga face.

I can get you to trust me with society.
You have only to listen:
integral yoga.
We pop up everywhere,
even in your field of dreams.

I’m not givin’ candy to babies.
I’m feeding you sirloin steak visitors.
Let’s be integral and mean,
that’s nowhere above.

You’ll be nice and accepting by the time this is over with,
Integral Yoga smiles.
You definitely need a scene.
That’s coming up in the record book,
but don’t you know we have to land on our feet?

And first we have to land on Crete.
That’s our next paperwork.
Take incense.
I would have to say keep up with my doctor’s book,
starting with Eve.
Do you hear this story whistle softly in your ear?
I’m joining you shortly.

Heads up.
And this symbolizing the Self thing,
well all I can tell you is I had it all my life. [this and above line came on Crete]
Our eyes were travelers for the page
identifying this unseen one in all of us.
That’s the story.

You’re not gettin’ me on this boat.
I’m taking myself,
I’m taking myself for a ride.
You got the spirit.

Then she give you the orange.
That’s maybe to understand
nine million rock stars
never can be alone.
Each person
has all the group to hold.
You got that rocket man?

To Be Continued

© 2021 (although I’d probably give permission for you to use the material on your site if you just ask, but please ask)

Calling All Cars Just to Say Hello, Part 1

(You’d Have to Let Me In)

The entrance hallway to Forte Prenestino

Look for the man who has nothing but is not worried about what he is going to drink or where he is going to eat. Invite that man to your house, for that man will bring wisdom there.

I told this to a man in a dream on a bus at a town square, Crete, 2002

Adventure travel—what conjures up images of a rather wet Thor Heyerdhal on the Kon-Tiki trying to prove the currents of fate, not the hands of mastery, drew things, or, at a highest height, on mountains that is, maybe an old, black and white, otherworldly photo of Tenzing Norgay atop Mt. Everest comes to mind, which, no doubt due to a faulty racial default in our thinking, most people used to think was of Sir Edmund Hillary, or on a more mundane level, a superfast montage runs through your imagination of ‘running through the jungle’ wildcats and polar bears (jungle: anywhere wild and woolly) hot on your heals—is not exactly what you think it is. It’s traveling the world penniless, or rather, only with what money people have given you along the way or you have earned along that same way, but either way the whole thing’s quite an adventure, because, dead broke or not, you are in the hands of the aforementioned fates and have to use what mastery you have in your hands to navigate those terrible, sweet and lonely winds towards one safe harbor after another, or not so safe, whatever the case may be, and, believe me, it can take your breath away.

I spent several years in this mode, starting with a hunger strike outside the walls of the old city of Jerusalem in ’95 (you must pardon me, I was only 33), adrift on the waves of the world, traveling from country to country a vagabond, although I billed myself a spiritual pilgrim, setting my pilgrim feet on five continents, although in Africa it was only a step or two, to Mt. Sinai, Cairo and her Great Pyramid (this blog tells those Egyptian stories in a collection of stories called “A Journey of a Thousand Tongues,” which, I might add, hardly a single tongue has yet to wag about). All this was before the net became the dwelling place of our show and tell, and I carried neither a camera nor kept a waking life journal, after the Israel and Egypt poetry posting adventure that is, and parts of the journal I kept then, called “The Overthrow of I Am At the Equality of Soul”, are posted in that aforementioned collection, and so I basically have only an old passport to prove I went here and there, and these stories that came out of it that I’m writing now, over 20 years later. Let me say here and now that, over time, the whens of things and their names do cloud over a bit. You can never remember exactly what happened back then. Do I let the facts get in the way of the story? I try my best to stick to the facts, do not purposefully lie, exaggerate, or embellish for effect.

I do also have a now motley collection of dream and muse notebooks I began to keep after a nine month stay in Cuzco, Peru, when the muse first began to sprinkle down, muse being inner voice and vision, it becoming a flood in an little healing community off the grid in the state of Bahia, Brazil, called Kahlil Gibran. That ongoing inner journal, which I keep to this day, would not give much of a picture of my travels, like viewing them through the waters of consciousness, sideways and underwater at that, and so, other than perhaps getting illuminated here and there, you would have very little idea what’s going on with my adventure travel, which I can make a strong case that I continue to this day, although I’ve been in India and in basically the same place since ’04, because I’m still penniless and have no bank account or notable possessions, did not even have current ID until some weeks ago when I finally renewed my passport. If you don’t think you are a traveler on God’s green globe, stationary or not, you need to do some more figuring on life and its grand, same, same but different adventure. We’re on a planetary spaceship for God’s sakes, hurtling through cosmic space, etching deep furrows in the unknown, and if that’s not enough to make you dizzy thinking about your life’s journey, just ask yourself what in the world is behind, or bigger, than the cosmic space we’re shooting through at umpteen miles per hour. You have got to figure it just keeps getting bigger, adventure that is. You with me?

Incredible Ways
Italy

I got kicked out of one of the most notorious squats in the Western European squatters movement, or at least it was in 2002, the year this story begins—Forte Prenestino in Rome. It’s not easy to get into. You have to be recommended by someone living there to stay, and, if it’s not open for visitors, as it wasn’t the night I showed up, you can’t possibly get in. It’s heavily fortified, with a moat guarding its castle-like entrance. It is, after all, an old fort Mussolini had built, one of a handful around Rome, with a castle-high, thick concrete wall surrounding it, which guards a large, grassy open space that all the bunker-like buildings attached to the wall open towards. It has high ramparts surrounding it too, where the squatter community grew ganja, and for some reason having to do with politics, the communists that controlled the district allowed that, but it was an uneasy unlawful adventure nonetheless, and constantly hanging over its head back then was the threat of the other powers that be of Rome coming in and raiding the place and taking everyone to jail. Like in Northern California in the ‘good old days’ (I’m talking about the outlaw society hanging on such an interesting and creative cultural edge, not the presence of the law), helicopters often flew overhead, strafing the place. How many years it went on I don’t know, but with that threat always around their neck and all the squabbling among the members of the squat over the buying, selling, and smoking of the marijuana, the squat had almost ceased to function. Closed was its famous clown school, its restaurant, its avant-garde this and that, although it still did occasional raves.They’d started a tradition of once a year inviting a lot of press and throwing a big pot smoking party, and the one they’d thrown that past year before I showed up had really ruffled some authority feathers, had gotten the goat of the cops, I heard once I got in, and so they were really on edge.

at 41, Matala, Crete, 2002

Enter me. For reasons having to do with the purifying and grounding effect it would have on my consciousness and not out of some moral sense, and because I didn’t want to mess up my muse by clouding it with substance and desire, the whole time I was vagabonding in Europe, about a year and a half, I didn’t smoke grass or tobacco, do any kind of drug, drink alcohol, eat meat or eggs, or have any kind of sex, even that kind you do with yourself. That I looked the very opposite kind of character, more the kind of character I was in South and Central America (uh, moving right along), although I didn’t drink alcohol or eat meat in the Americas, sure made me suspicious around that squat and many others in the circle A crowd, that symbol of anarchy used then by squatters. “Just take a hit, one hit.” “No thank you. I’m not smoking pot right now.” Red flags all over the place: police spy! Interpol worm. Narc. That most such people get high seems to have escaped their notice. Don’t tell me they don’t inhale Mr. President.

Winter was coming, and I wanted a place to sit safe and write, both poetry and prose, although my muse had yet to give me whole poems. At that time it was just scattered lines that when you put them together could form a poem, if it were intended to by the muse, such as “A Suicide Bomber’s Broken Arrow Is Broken”, which I put together in a private squat on Strasbourg in Paris, right before I left for Rome, what was submitted to and rejected by The Atlantic Monthly I might add. It has since been made into more of a whole poem, as I went to work on it here in India after I was getting whole poems. It’s on my spiritual blog “Harm’s End”, which I do with Douglas, my collaborator in life. From the time I’d started getting muse, I was filled with this sense of urgency to put it together and publish it, and when you put that together with the constant feeling I had that I had to sit and write, not for the sake of writing but to publish, what I was doing basically the whole time I was adventure traveling, trying to find a place I could write and not have to worry about what I ate or where I slept, you get a rather hurried, worried traveler.

It never seemed to dawn on me that, when I did get somewhere I was taken care of or had some gig where I could earn my keep, cooking or teaching English usually, or helping people learn to interpret their dreams and such, sometimes teaching meditation and yoga, what I did in Cuzco, on TV with Douglas at that (he’s my other half basically), I rarely wrote.

It’s part of the immaturity of a one day writer and poet to feel that they need to show it to the public before they are really ready to. I mean it’s normal, but it’s still not kosher if you know what I mean. God help you if people read you and call you a writer or poet before you’re really one. I could use a sexual reference people today may consider offensive, as if I’m hitting them with unwanted sexual images, and call to mind premature ejaculation, and, oops, I’m afraid I did. We might call almost all of net writing a premature spill, especially with its attention deficit disorder missing the point only wanting to get to the point, that point being, striped of all other clothes, to post and be read as quickly as possible by as many people as possible, that, I might add, gets forgotten quickly to boot. “It’s a lot of tongue wagging. Creative potential, but it doesn’t spin properly and make for itself a substantiality, an intellectuality” (my muse). The years of practice writing used to take before you got read seem to have vanished along with great writing, in my humble opinion. With any kind of writing worth its salt, but most especially with the inner listening skills required to hear the muse of poetry, and the skill to quickly change levels of consciousness so as to record it, you need many years to cultivate it, watch it grow.

Do we have anything for the hit parade?
Hello I’m his muse.
Walk softly stick;
carry a big heart—
adventure travel in the rain.
That’ll liven it up.

I turned around to look back at the big door, gate really, having just crossed the bridge. I was in travel mode and carrying my backpack. I’d been asked to leave. Memories of the three weeks swam by, my long, lonely, lovely walks in the neighborhood, sittings in the children’s park just next to the fort, the smiles of the mothers, the shouts of the children, the cool evenings that melted into night as I stood on a rampart overlooking the kingdoms of the little life, seeing inside myself the same but also a strong feeling to go beyond, the bus rides to this ancient ruin and that, which I did without paying (the fine for doing that was 51 euro, odd that number), and I never met the Man, except for the time I was on the way to the Coliseum, accompanied by a Catholic priest I’d met who wanted to give me a tour of it, and at about midway, at a stop, I had this undeniable urge to get off, and I did so, saying a sudden, awkward goodbye to the priest, and right as I got off the ‘bus police’ were getting on to check for tickets, believe it or not, that darn mosquito that taught me so much about how aware they are, how much they want to live, by attacking me in my bed and then flying nonchalantly away half the length of the long, narrow room, which began to fly frantically again as soon as it noticed I’d followed it, so to avoid being clapped in my hands and killed, the three young Middle Eastern men who lived in an identically long room next to mine, who took such care of the youngest one, who just wasn’t right, the other two always very close to him when they left their room, never letting him walk out of their care, they telling me he’d been tortured much worse than they, where I don’t remember, but I do remember, vividly, wondering over that torture and his inability to return to us from it, because it was as though he really wasn’t with us, wasn’t even with his two fellows in displacement, one of whom was his big brother, and I wanted to tell the boy to just forget about it and come back, not yet aware that there are things you don’t come back from so easily, because you’ve seen how hell can open up on earth and swallow whole lives, yours swallowed as though it were happening to the whole wide world itself, sort of like how a black hole is said to swallow things, stretching them out to infinity, and no matter how fair the world may appear, how full of laughter and love, you know that’s not the case, and that the beauty’s only a thin veil waiting to be rent at any moment. You’ve seen the truth behind it, the real, and you can’t for the life of you stop looking at it.

Or so the world seems to those whom it’s bitten so very badly. They can’t just forget, but they can heal, something no doctor or drug can really help them with, although those things can teach them to go deeper, if they’re worth their salt. Only their very own soul can heal them, because they have been bitten so deeply they have seen behind the veil, but in their pain they’re not seeing true; they’re seeing the enigma, the specter, which claims to be reality but is itself just another veil, though a fundamental one. The world is like an onion really, and when all layers are peeled you see the soul, and beyond that God, seemingly formless things like the center of an onion, but, when you see them, they are more substantial than form, or really, where form comes from, but you have to see so very deeply to see the truth of the world, and few can make that long journey. I was a person that had seen the truth of which I speak, but only on the inside and deepest of me and in my inside above, and now I was on an adventure to see it out here in the world. So far, though I’d seen a lot of beauty, I had only gotten deep enough to see behind the specter. Looking back at that entrance to the fort and my time there, I felt something, but only now can I put my finger on it.

No, I hadn’t really been treated unfairly by being told to leave. I got into the fort by promising the member who let me in that I’d only stay three days and nights. I’d stayed three weeks and counting. After doing something stupid that reeked of self-importance, that member spoke up, and there was a group discussion. In my travels there were so many of those over me, and not only because of doing something stupid. It happened that we had a visitor, a young man that wanted to see the ‘plants’, and I gave him a small tour on the ramparts, accompanied by another member, a very young man who didn’t challenge me. It was actually he that had started the tour, and I just sort of naturally took over as we walked, my self-importance stepping in and ruining things for me, as it often did. I’m really sorry, for a lot of things, but one of the big ones is how big and important I’ve always thought I was. It’s not that I don’t think that now; I just know it’s not true in the way I’ve always thought it: I am great how are you? although my dogs believe I am. Aren’t dogs wonderful? My muse has said, “Organisms taste themselves bigger than they appear,” and that about sums it up other than to stress I’m not alone in this misperception. Can we dwell the world here?

I guess I scared that pot growing, squatting community some, looking like I’d just stepped out of some commune of the 60’s, a leader of one at that, and not smoking grass myself but showing such a keen interest in their pot crop, or so my action must’ve seemed to them. It really was just self-importance rearing its head. At any rate, I was out, how that group discussion turned out, with one dissenting voice, from a rather hip and intelligent man that spoke good English who lived in a sort of camp (was it a mini-trailer?) in the center of the fort’s field. I asked him to intercede on my behalf. I wanted to winter there and write poetry, and would they just please allow me to do that? I really made a bid to stay. I told them, through my friend, that I’d do any kind of work they wanted, and I could help reopen their restaurant, and I had some thoughts on that, which no doubt helped their decision: who does he think he is? Out, out, out.

This is a monster ole hell.
Yeah Donny,
you’ve picked out the asuras on their walls.
It’s place and I’m sorry.
And you know what they did?
They built bombs.
It was in the snow under their coat.
Didn’t use it.
That’s Forte Prenestino.

You can buy me some coffee.
These are public works.
A brand new diet,
hearing inner vision.
You wouldn’t call it what you get in a fact-based check-phone.
It’s lucid and free.
There open
to reality’s deeper sheathes,
and you give it your outer truth,
and you won’t get reality exactly as happened.

Inner truth
is so beautiful.
It’s got everybody in the same hand.
Daddy? Daddy?
The Who wants to
tell the kids are alright.
Anti-daddy,
I’m so sorry,
you’ll have to fight with ‘im
where it’s at:
that’s bad ain’t it?

Reading this sentence it was to gather the world.
It’s bigger than words.
It’s your enjoyment at this page,
and every set of feet was pilgrimly determined.
You know I’m talkin’ about love.
There’s your headwaters,
your comfortable sight,
your headquarters.
If you have nothing to do with it I can buy it,
all lock, stock, and barrel.

And this is Earth kind
reminding you of our holes in the sky
where love is not our bottom line.
We need more from such forts
than smoking politics,
and whatever protest movements.
Where we fail one another,
is that in our letter box?
Create Forte Prenestino
the fact that you put it there.

Here we are again, on the highway. I’m getting used to the pack again, and that was always an adjustment, no matter how many times I took it off and put it back on, and I’d gotten a rucksack attached to me in the Green Berets, 20 years earlier—I mean fitted to my back like it was a growth on it, if you know about SF and rucking. Although there was plenty of traffic, I found myself doing more of a rucksack march than hitching. Nobody was picking me up, at all. I’d taken the Old Roman Road, not the freeway, going south to catch the ferry to Greece. My plan had been to go to Athens for the winter if Rome failed, and it had. Damn them barbarians. I’d started my journey from Paris, and I mean this looking for a place to hold up for the winter leg of it, as Paris didn’t let me stay either.

You ever heard of a city being? They exist, but the city has to be near as old as the hills, or is or is going to be really a hub of things, to grow a proper one. I’m not talking about the soul things but of things we aren’t yet aware of. Being is larger than form, can take form in inanimate things, in a complex system such as a city for example, an exceptional and lonely mountain, or an old haunted island for that matter. I can go on, but that’s enough to try and wrap your head around the idea. Is a city being conscious? I really asked Paris to let me stay, put little notes in the crevices of some of its monuments asking that, walked its streets with that request in my heart and mind, told it to its residents I met in its parks, but only the ones that looked to have an ear for it. One kind and wise lady I spoke to in a park, and Paris is a place of parks, told me not to be disappointed if I couldn’t stay, said it like she knew I wouldn’t be able to, and I knew Paris was speaking but didn’t want to know that. You know how it is when you hear words of fate. “If this city wants me to leave…,” meaning city you jerk, and this was my muse at the time.

The big problem with Paris is I’m having to look at myself—
comida national.
Assembly, the unconsciously decided.
There is a Paris watching.
And if I ask,
I think maybe there was a seeing from the beginning.

(my muse back then)

If you know how to sit and look, or walk and do so, you can catch a city being being a city unto itself, its central movement that is, doing something vital in the city, but it’s being a city being all over the city, even in our homes and offices. I think it’s photography that can best capture a city’s central movements so people can see them, the stark way it shows an event, one, single frame of movement, what happens too quick for the naked eye, but when we see what we’ve captured, God dog, we’ve caught something alive, however deft it might be.

It’s a real being.
There’s thick there.
That means slow, retarded movement.
Leave a lot of space.
You mean a self?
And there it looks.
Ooh.

We could just turn to brotherhood,
how it serves up its food.
It’s the biggest model in the house.
Can you see it?

I wasn’t an obstacle.
It didn’t step in and make sure I stayed.
It didn’t come around with a house.
Do I see a snob?

Um, Rascal?
I don’t think his notebooks make poems yet.
Off the grid.

Can you see Paris?
I’ve given you a world.
That’s the world being,
who I’m really sneaking up on.

How about the surveillance camera?
A bigger monster
than a ghoul.
You hear me sweetheart?
I’m listenin’ to these hoods in culture.
That’s about to happen somewhere.
Hunt me down and kill me
if I still told you.

Nobody works for his realization.
You look like a rascal.
They just put the glasses on me.
Can we curd this?
You have those messages now
tellin’ people you’re sorry.

You are the hour of the unmanifest.
You are a vehicle of the unmanifest.
Hear the world here.
It’s the unmanifest.

Hear ye, hear ye, hear ye
Mr. Armstrong.
Details to get out of prison,
cramped experience.

I’d taken the Old Roman Road because it sounded romantic, and ancient, and I was into ancient. It was not, however, a very practical decision it turned out. While I’m sure I got at least one ride before I got to Lake Albano, 25 klicks south of Rome, I don’t remember any such significant cultural exchange up to that point, and, believe me, if you’re an American hitching in almost any other country with the possible exception of Canada, ehh, you have a little more umpth in your cultural exchange. You know the song: “America, fuck yeah!” Even if they don’t say much of anything, other than to ask where you’re from, the number one question both among travelers themselves meeting one another and when you’re a traveler meeting somebody regarding themselves as stationary beings, you feel both their ambiguity and awe over the good ole U.S. of A. It’s just the country, you know, love it or hate it. Who’s t-shirt does the world wear? I doubt the citizens of many other countries could vagabond quite like I was doing. I was in a similar position to ole apostle Paul, carrying a U.S. passport that allowed me to go most anywhere almost no questions asked. In the newly formed European Union (I’d landed in it almost to the day the Euro was issued), whatever the regulations might’ve said, an American at that moment could travel freely and stay in any country without even showing your passport. “I’m an American.” “Oh yeah? You may pass.”

The road ran up steeply on the side of the lake, it to my left, it a bit breathtaking with all the villas along its shoreline, which were nestled in old trees, and it much bigger than I’d imagined it would be on the road going towards it, but it was soon so far below it was no longer the main event. The road was. Shaded and steep, at that juncture, I got a sense of its old age, like it was grooved into the land, which seemed to have shaped itself around it. Then came the Papal Palace of Castel Gandolfo. I took a detour and went into the compound, also on my left. I walked in a ways and walked back out, the two very young guards eyeing my suspiciously. I eyed them too. They were dressed in ridiculous feather-capped and striped, billowing attire, silly to my New World American mind at least, holding Medieval-style weapon-staffs. The young men were guarding the entrance to the Apostolic Palace, but their purpose was more ceremonial than real, obviously. I could not get over how proud they looked, like they were the pick of the litter. I guess it depends on your perspective. I have no room to talk seeing how ridiculous I must’ve looked to them. It’s just that there were no mirrors in that parking lot, for either of us. Soon I was back out on the highway, hitching to no avail.

You know, I did see the pope, but not there. One day back at the fort in Rome I’d gotten this sudden, strong urge to go to the Vatican, and I did. I hadn’t visited it yet. Inside there was such a hustle and bustle, and I soon learned a cardinal had died, and there was going to be a high mass, and the Pope was about to arrive. “Zenith outing, now that’s a big outing to stay away from,” my muse then. I waited a few minutes, and low and beyond, there he was, Pope John Paul II, standing on a platform being carried by several men down a corridor that ran along one side of the huge hall, marked off by those thick, slack, red, velvet ropes. He was being carried very slowly, and he was looking like a king back and forth at the crowd that lined both sides of the corridor, behind those ropes, and then our eyes met. We stared into each other’s eyes for about ten seconds or so, I kid you not, long enough for people in the crowd to turn and look at me too.

I must explain why he must’ve looked at me. The photo of me above looking like a John Lennon, or some rascal to many eyes, was not how I usually appeared. I never wore sunglasses, because I didn’t want to cover the soul in my eyes, wanted people to be able to see in there, and the person taking the photo just put theirs on me and took the picture, and I just had this feeling that that picture would be viewed a lot in the future, and that’s not exactly the case but close. I’m having to use it in my social media to show what I looked like with my long hair and beard, which I wore for 10 years of my life, from 31 to 41. During that time I didn’t take my own picture (no cellphones back then like now), and I seldom asked my picture to be taken. So I have mostly only the pictures people took of me that they took the trouble to give me, and so I have very few. Although when you get right down to it it’s another feature of self-importance actually, I thought asking or wanting to have my picture taken was vanity. Boy have I regretted that. Anyway, I don’t have good pictures to show you of my real look with long hair, looking at you that is, only ones like below that’s either taken out of group photo or not too clear. Whether you can see it or not in the photo, I got told every time I turned around that I looked like the historical image of Jesus. In Italy, that really meant something, let me tell you.

Lima, Peru, 2000

One time, however, the only time I got my passport checked the whole year and half I was in the European Union, it meant I looked like a dangerous freak. Shortly after the eye to eye staring session with the pope, I high off my ability to be somewhere someone important was about to show up, a vanity high really, I passed by somewhere on the street in Rome and saw, on what I don’t remember, the number 661. I’m into numbers to guide me, and I have my own repertoire of numbers for that, doubles being one thing, like 33, which was and is a number of divine action for me, or 41, which is my number for purity and sexual abstinence and just general wholeness, but triples being, or meaning, so much more, like 441 meant that those qualities were really being represented in the circumstances I saw the number in, or that I should really work much harder to produce those qualities. 661 is a bit different in that it’s the month and year of my birth, June 1961, and when I saw 61, I knew that I was in a really ‘me’ place or should take the number as a yellow brick road towards that, but when I saw 661, I knew that I was in circumstances as me as they could get, or would be if I ‘followed’ the number, or so I thought until this incident.

It certainly didn’t help my appearance that I’d just picked up this ridiculously large plastic flower on a long stem off the ground, which must’ve looked in my hands like a sort of scepter, picking up and carrying some ways strange or beautiful things lying on the ground or somewhere at hand being another thing with me. It also got taken along with my passport, the man taking it wearing this ‘you fool’ face, you absolute fruitcake. It did happen that someone important was about to show up, the prime minister of Italy no less, and there was a small crowd gathered there waiting for him, but I was the only one detained and taken inside the building. I wasn’t handcuffed, just told to wait near a security booth by some mafia-looking security men while they checked my passport for warrants or whatnot. I am sorry, but they didn’t look like secret service, more rough than that. I knew they knew I wasn’t dangerous, and they knew I knew that, as I spent more than a glace looking into the eyes of one of the goons, who met my gaze with utter contempt. The whole thing, I gathered, was just to rain on my parade, and I had been walking on air up to that moment. They saw someone a bit too free, or weird, and they wanted to rein him in and had the power to do so. They gave me back my flower too when they gave me back my passport, with that same look they had they taken it with, and I was told I could go. Yep, 661 also meant, or more meant, beware, something against you being you is about to happen. That was not a fun lesson in sequent numbers, and I felt like a little kid who’s ice cream just fell off the cone and onto the ground, only I didn’t cry. Needless to say, I didn’t wait around for the prime minister.

You’d ask how conscious Rome is. “You can also write to Rome,” my muse said while I was still in Paris, which can also mean the word right too, something the muse does often, makes a double meaning by implying a word that sounds the same as the word spoken but means something different. So, I could go right to Rome, and I could write letters to Rome like I did Paris so to stay there. Implicit in that is a conscious Rome, and walking around the city you can feel its beingness, its greatness actually, as my muse said of it at the time: “A greatness lies willed in the State of Rome,” but you just can’t help but chew on all the cruelty of its culture and its rule in its heyday, and you wonder where all that went to. For me, it’s a sign of our moral progress that, except for some hell opening here and there on the globe, a hell spot usually open somewhere at any given time for a spell, for the most part we aren’t like that anymore, or at least our gladiators don’t kill one another, and we feed people to the crowd to entertain ourselves, not to lions. Rome has also gone through great change, obviously, and I’m talking about the being Rome, but Rome did not match me like Paris did, and here’s a poet talking. At any rate, I couldn’t stay in either city and had to move on from both. My muse also said: “Rome , a preliminary thought for civilization,” and it said that on Crete weeks after I’d left Rome, and putting a personal interpretation on it, as, whether you realize it or not, your muse is always talking about you in some representative fashion or another, Rome was for me not a place to plant the civilization of myself, my culture; it was a prelude to my poetry and to this present story.

There on that Old Roman Road, I wasn’t getting any lifts. I don’t remember if I’d slept a night out or not before the lake or after, but, in any event, I remember that first night, where I just went into the olive trees along the side of the road, near dusk, and found a spot to lay down for the night. I had a small tent, but I only used it occasionally. My time in Special Forces had gotten me accustomed to doing things in the dark and to sleeping on the ground anywhere, but even still, each time I had to begin doing that again in my camping or vagabonding, it’d take about three nights before I got used to it. After the army, while I was going to college, I kept my skills up by often going alone for the weekend to nearby Sam Houston National Forest, where there was a wilderness area, and just roaming around the hiking trails or tracking deer, not to shoot, to get close enough to slap on the butt, something I’d read about in Tom Brown Junior’s books, which I was really into as a teenager before going into the army, any book about wilderness survival.

One slightly magical weekend a couple of years out of the army, I’d been tracking a deer for hours, and I actually (for the first time on my own) not only saw the deer but got within a few feet of it. I was so ready to slap its ass, let me tell you, excited as all get out, which was my undoing. Now a deer can’t see too well, or it maybe can, but it doesn’t realize it’s seeing you until you move. I’d been learning to track them since late childhood, with my dad, but that’s another story. It was on a dirt road, the kind that doesn’t get used much that has grass growing in the center, grazing. I was upwind from it, and so it couldn’t smell me, the sense it relied on the most. I had to move ever so slowly and then stop, frozen in whatever pose I was in when the deer had looked up. I was able to enter the road and begin creeping up on it, it looking up every couple of minutes and sniffing the air, looking straight at me like it knew danger was there but not able to ‘see’ it. The slow pace was too much for my patience. It would have taken hours to move the several feet to slap it. As it was, I did get pretty close, close enough for government work they say, close enough to show you my almost there wilderness skills at any rate. In short, the deer saw me move and bounded away, and I could’ve sworn it was laughing at me as it hopped off: “Silly human, slap my ass will you?” The wilderness does play tricks with your imagination.

The spot I found to spend the night was just off the road, and there were no buildings in sight, and so I felt no need to seek out the owner of the property and ask permission to sleep there. It was a side of the road thing, but some meters into the olive grove, far enough the road was no longer the major event. You cannot call an olive grove a forest, as it’s too kept for that, really orchard-like, except the trees are in uneven rows most of the time, but when the trees are very old, like these were, you don’t feel the keptness of an orchard; you feel the magic of the olive, a feeling of olden times that has some weird, gnarled, wellness in it. I cooked something vegetarian, cooked it on possibly the best piece of equipment I’ve ever had, a very small one burner stove that burned rubbing alcohol, the kind you could get at any medical shop. No prepping or pumping, just lighting the alcohol. It’d boil water within minutes, something of course subject to your distance from sea level, not super fast like a fancy backpacker stove, but who needed fast? I only needed to eat. I usually ate whatever vegetables I’d managed to buy or get given to me boiled with some noodle or rice, usually with some kind of bread, not much variety, but there again, the army had accustomed me to eat what I had and be glad I had it. I lay down in my army down sleeping bag, and I expected ghosts that night. After all, this was the old southern road to and from Rome, where all roads used to lead, and not for goodness’ sakes. But nothing came to visit me that night, and I was disappointed. Little did I know that a couple of nights from then, sleeping in the woods of the railroad tracks in the ferry town of Brindisi…

Do you remember what you thought on so and so day 20 years ago? You might if thinking were as big to you as doing. It started with me quite early, when I’d get up before the family did on Sundays before church and sit on the sofa in the living room and think to myself, starting when I was about four, not long after a horrible metaphysical experience I relate in other writings, which no doubt led to my preponderance for thought. Sorry to leave you hanging in the Void, but we got to get to those ghosts in Brindisi. Anyway, I’m a thinker, and on that day humping my butt off because I wasn’t getting any rides I picked up something I chewed on a lot: the representative nature of the world. That sounds so unlike it really is. What it is I can’t really say because we can only use known words to describe the unknown, can’t describe it as it is to itself; it is unknown after all. It’s not something you only think about; you can feel it too, and as my feet hit the pavement they were sounding the depth of that symbol we are, the world is, not too terribly deep, but deep enough I could almost see it in the sense-world of where my body was at that moment there on that old Roman Road.

My thoughts were on the larger, what the world’s a symbol of, and what it might be ‘thinking’ about the me there hitching. I did and do a yoga that aims to carry such thinking, on the part of us I’s, to a realization of the thought, something that comes in degrees, all the way to being that larger being, but here I’d been chewing on it only for about seven years or so, since I’d started the yoga after my first trip to India. It was getting riper, but it was still a long ways from a threshold moment like Neo has when he ‘realizes’ the matrix. Where am I at now? I can now see it, not as green computer scrip that Neo sees, but as a hue upon the world, not enough of one, though, to be anything more than a victim of the world’s meanness, what we all are.

Not everyone, though, is or has been such a victim, at least not in those moments that matter most. I spent a couple of days in Rome roaming around the Forum, the famous ruins of the government of ancient Rome. Due to my rather ‘different’ appearance and the rather free-spirited manner in which I walked and viewed things, crossing lines, sitting on things, not because the girls were flirting with me, or so it seemed to me then and does now, two young women I met there, who gave tours of the ruins in English, gave me the works for free. Two things I most remember from their tour, other than the smiles they gave me, like they really liked what I must’ve represented to them, someone off the grid, was, one, the story of the martyrdom of Saint Lawrence, and, two, the punishment of the Vestal Virgins if they got caught having sex.

My thoughts on the road turned to ole Lawrence, how he was being cooked alive on a gridiron, and after sometime he says, or so history reports it anyway, “I’m well done on this side. Turn me over!”

Martyrdom of San Lorenzo by Palma il giovane, Public domain, via Wikimedia Common

If the story’s true, and whether it is or not doesn’t detract from my thesis regarding it, you might imagine that St. Lawrence had come to something of the realization I’ve somewhat described, where the ‘larger world’ is bigger than the one his senses are in, this present world before our eyes, to such an extent he can crack a joke like that on being burned alive. That he most likely didn’t see it as a larger reality that encompasses this one and is its origin, but as a heaven within the world of our universe, didn’t stop him from the experience of the larger being more real to him, since here it seems, and in other like-wise places we encounter in history, the strength of the thought has more bearing than its depth.

Now the Vestal Virgins who’d had sex, on the other hand, I thought about them too, how terrifying it must’ve been to be given only a bottle of wine and some bread and be entombed alive, although Wikipedia says it differently: that they were given enough food and water to last a few days. The two tour guides juiced the story up some it appears, and we can forgive them for that. Either way how horrible that must’ve been. I imagined the Vestal was the very opposite of the saint, and she only saw the world in front of her face, or more to the point, could not see past the tomb she was in, it being her whole world come crashing down on her, it being her whole world period, a lethal mouth of horror that swallowed her slowly, until the agony was too much, and she lost her mind to tooth and claw trying to get out. The things you think about hitching, and you’re really out there, with no world of friends or family you’re either going towards or leaving. I tell you. Sometimes it’s just too much.

I don’t how long I was on that old road, two days maybe, one night. Finally somebody stopped and picked me up. He said that no one would pick me up on that road, and I needed to go to the freeway, and he kindly took me there and dropped me off, saying to be careful because it was illegal to hitchhike. Imagine that, illegal. I put my thumb out and began making my way south, no problem at all. The freeway was the kind that was only that, like some gated community for cars and trucks only, had no mom and pop businesses on the side, or any shops or gas stations, except every few kilometers or so there was a very artificial corral of such you had no choice but to pull over and use if you needed some kind of fill up, which featured a shop, gas station, and restaurant. Once I got going on that manmade and only made for man river of cars, although birds did fly over, and animals did get run over, hapless me-people now an occasional pile of goo that had dared to venture across tomorrow, I understood, a little, why hitchhikers weren’t allowed; we stood out like a sore thumb.

I only had enough money for the ferry to Greece, but someone that had given me a ride had also given me five euro, and so I ate something at one of those generic restaurants. I should say here I seldom begged, but did a couple of times in a pinch, like once to get back to Safed, Israel from Jerusalem. I did ask for damaged or otherwise unsellable vegetables at markets and such, but that was different. People often gave me money and food without asking, usually only small change, sometimes more, but never big money, and they did so to support my lifestyle, or maybe they were just throwing money at the problem, their problem being they wanted to live such a lifestyle, and were too whatever to do it. I’d usually hear something like, “I’d glad to know people are still around doing what you’re doing.” I looked like a sore thumb from the 60’s, and 20 years ago the memory of those very different times from today were more alive in the collective psyche. You have been lied to people. The 60’s were not naïve; they were another planet.

I also had something else going for me, and there in Italy, it was like a ticket to ride. It wasn’t only the Pope that thought I looked like Jesus, all sore thumbs aside. Italy is a Catholic country, or at least I experienced it that way. At some point I don’t remember, probably near Brindisi, I either got off the freeway or it became more a highway, and I got on a bus, as someone had given me some change. I got on and told the bus driver I wanted to get to the ferry to Greece, and he didn’t say a word, probably because he couldn’t speak English, but he’d understood what I wanted it appears. He got up out of his driver’s seat and motioned me to come with him, left his bus full of people and led me down the street and around the corner onto another street and down it to a waiting bus, which he put me on, paying my fare. He waved goodbye and left back to his bus. It doesn’t take a genius to know why he did that. In his devotional heart, he was doing that for Jesus. I was just his representative image, and he was “letting a form come to see what the real eye images,” to quote my muse around then, which is about praying or singing to statues of Gods in temples, how that isn’t the worship of idols in other words, and not about my likeness to Jesus, about which it said, not on the same page however, “I doubt if the person I am really looks like Jesus right now.”

I got to Brindisi too late to take the ferry, and so I had to find a place to sleep. Out in the country it’s easy; you just sleep somewhere off the side of the road, but in a city that you didn’t know, you had to be careful. Walking back from the ferry landing, and I don’t remember how far that was, I saw a raised portion of land with a lot of trees on it. It was the railroad. I went up there and camped a few meters from the tracks, assured no one would be walking up on me in the night. Boy was I wrong, but it weren’t the living that showed up. I don’t know what time it was, 3ish maybe, but I woke up to a horror show. Every creature for miles around that’d been killed by the train since it’d been running, I imagine, came to see me, all lined up zombie-like to pass in review. One by one they came, some without heads, many crushed, missing limbs, all horribly disfigured. Now local features like this just aren’t in The Lonely Planet. What is a body to do? I just looked at them, gave them the attention they seemed to want. They meant me no harm, and I knew that. I wasn’t afraid, and why I wasn’t was because I was really out there, like I’ve said, and it wasn’t only friends and family I wasn’t hooked into; I didn’t do media either, except for books I carried by Sri Aurobindo, my spiritual teacher, read his epic poem Savitri daily—no movies, TV, newspapers, magazines, net suffering, just the occasional check of email. Nothing in this world, however, is only this and not also something of that. If I found a book along the way, or someone gave me one, for example, I’d read it, as I found it was usually just what I needed to read, the same with the occasional magazine I’d find in an office or somewhere, and I’d read the headlines of newspapers I saw in the vending machines. I was wide open to the other, or the things we drown out by a continual barrage of social signals and hang-ups. And the other came to call.

While I’m not the purest I was then, I still spend most of my time in the sights and sounds of the reality in front of my face, not hooked into media for very long at any given time, except for watching a movie I’ve been on the watch for and the typing of stories and poetry I’m doing now, and the net time that takes, but I am into friends and family, dogs and a cat a big part of that, as they’re the people of my world, and I love my world and its people. The time I do spend on the net when I’m not writing, however, is a very concentrated hour or so to try and ride the reading wave of current world thought, an elusive wave that goes in every which direction and turns you every which way but loose, because you just can’t get over how, as much as it seems to be going nowhere, is actually, maddeningly, getting there after all. Where is there? Can I show you?

Now were those dead creatures ghosts? They were probably just the life-body, the vital we call it in our yoga, of the humans and animals that had gotten killed by the train, not the souls of those people, which were probably long departed. Such parts of dead people often hang around the place they got killed, especially if it were a violent and sudden death, and they usually only do a certain routine, like the lady in black I saw walk up the stairs in a squat in Jaffa, Israel, the building hundreds of years old, the stairs crumbling, and she floated over the sections that were missing. That was her routine I gathered, going up and down those stairs. Since there is an ego in the vital, or was when the vital was part of a living body, the seeming ghosts do have some sort of will, rather mechanical though, as the dead creatures I saw at the railroad tracks did, wanting me to view them. I have seen actual ghosts however, the two most striking instances happening in Northern California in the early ‘90’s.

It was broad daylight, and I was sitting in the cemetery of Laytonville, California, having just spent some weeks up on nearby Spyrock Mountain with the pot growers. That’s a sad cemetery by the way, as there’s some graves of children who all died the same time, about a hundred years ago, and you can feel the loss reading the sentiments on their gravestones. Completely alone, or so I thought, I sat down near there and smoked a joint, and as the high settled in, pot being an aid for the seeing of hidden things, I looked out over the cemetery and saw a tall, thin, beam of light over a grave. I went over and looked at it more closely. It was about human height, but with no features at all, just a beam of light a few inches wide. It also had color to it, and the colors I saw were auric in quality, which meant they had hues to them that contained emotions, or the feelings of feelings, and here they were fear and sadness. I looked at the grave the light was ‘standing’ over, and it was a fresh grave, of an old woman who had just been buried the day before. I’m not making any of this up folks. I sat down and talked to her, so to perhaps make her feel better, less afraid. After a little while the beam vanished, slowly, like a wilting sun.

Some weeks later I was working washing dishes at a restaurant in Garberville, California, a town in the redwoods not far from Laytonville, and I got off work around midnight. I was sleeping in the town cemetery, as they are quiet places to sleep where people don’t usually go at night, and so no one will bother you. There’s a road that rounds the place, and I was winding down from work walking on it smoking some good grass. As I came to a place where there was an old tree with a large hole in it near the ground, one that went plum through, I saw what looked like a large silver sheet waving not far from it, waving like it was angry. It was several feet across and several feet high. Saying it was a sheet is the only way I can describe it, and you get the picture of what it looked like. It wasn’t, obviously, a sheet. Not realizing what the ghost was trying to tell me, which was, “Get out of my cemetery!”, I just went to where I slept, in a shallow, partly dug grave some distance from the tree I’ve mentioned, on the other side of the road, not in cemetery center, and went to sleep. I woke up the next morning and went into town and heard about the vandals that’d knocked down a gravestone in the night, throwing it a few feet, not far from where I saw the ghost.

Now, I tell you: there were no vandals in that cemetery that night, only an angry ghost. It’s interesting, though, it had the power to move something very physical and very heavy several feet, and it must’ve been an old ghost to be able to do that, but it didn’t have the power to harm me, and it was me it was mad at, why it threw the gravestone to begin with. I think that should tell you a lot about ghosts. I do imagine that they can harm us, even kill us, but only in very exceptional and extraordinary circumstances. For the most part we are protected, by the laws of metaphysics, from ghosts.

Back in Brindisi, I just went back to sleep after the last dead creature had passed and reviewed before me, woke up the next morning and got on the ferry, to Igoumenitsa, Greece. The feeling of freedom was exhilarating, and I did a Titanic stance and stood at the front of the ferry facing the wind and water, or as close to the front as passengers could get, not the king of the world, nor even its minister, but a penniless nobody the world had taken by the hand, to the open road, to the paths of my destiny. Now to Greece, to Greece.

This has been
an enormous supply chain
of the ideas we find ourselves in.
It goes further than this.
Can we see about tomorrow?

I can’t see about tomorrow in my hands.
It’s not narrative yet.
It’s not written down in the book,
but we’ve walked every inch of that trail
in the timeworn fonts
of the story yet to be told.

Hear me people,
listen.
The world is at your feet.
Go get it.

The shock of silverware,
that’s bad business,
the hidden wellsprings of our founts of evil.
It’s horribly noticeable
in mirrors and things.
I looked into a glass,
behind my reflection a fiend.[1]
Here it’s on the ground
something wicked this way comes,
a ghost gone mad in demon likes.
We round about it sepulcher.
The world of the ghoul,
do you understand?

You’re too small people to face reality
The Atlantic Monthly is that you?
What an Eye you have on your page;
I’ve submitted to you an epic poem.
Did you turn me in to the Man,
or are you just ignoring me for keep’s sakes?
You are the forefront of reality?
Let me show you my titties.
Do you hear me world?

The care
that’s what does it with animals.
We give them company,
more than just a little,
a whole day’s worth,
what I done
writing down all this for you.
A little puppy
I took good care of.

Science would make reason kneel in surprises,
in all its wares.
Can we call this a surprise?
The Church did the same thing.
Stupefied,
it took reality in pictures
reality didn’t make.
We laugh at its process.
A story of make believe
conformed reality to its picture.

Now cities giant in surprise,
the Earth springs forth beneath us,
and science can only say one word:
material process,
as if we did not dream in our beds at night
of worlds we make inside our heads.
Where is that engine room?
As if consciousness were not a thing in a plant
as it speeds towards recovery.
Can we say it smiles?
As if the world were not larger than we see
springing forth from founts infinitesimal
to ever larger pictures of reality make.
Like reality stops here.

Science where is the spirit world?
Why do you populate dimensions with other universes?
Your choice that.
It’s not graven in reality,
as if what the mystics have taught since time immemorial
were the babblings of idiots.
Can we gauge science?
It’s too small for the reality we experience,
yet it’s been made the default view
of the control center of human progress
without our knowledge or consent.
Oh science study thee well.
Reality’s comin’ for yah.

Surprise,
I give you a calculator.
I will give the opportunity
to see if science works in magic.
I’ll show you magic.
Science will secure its field;
you’re an agent of destruction;
continue.

Open out on the unknown,
the best writing opens out on the unknown,
open road.
Not present with me yet.
That’s comin’.

I’m relating my own personal experience,
what?
The hood comes up.
I’ve got my hood.
We’re mountain together.
A puppy dog belly
in our put
just to keep it warm.

This has been transportation of the net.
Alright, alright.
On the roof
with a hummingbird’s song.
Let me get out of your microphone.
Are you gonna build the theater?
You do understand
these are Fort Sumter play rights.

I’m almost done.
How much is with you?
Can you make a difference?
Enter bigger
reality of consciousness.
You know what’s all black and blue.
Every science hole in the world.

Daddy, the dream showing the truth:
our fear of reality.
Just leave us alone.
I gotta go find my station in life.
Found a new friend.
It’ll be an honor to change the reality construct.

What I’m tryin’ to say:
let’s grasp reality by the horns, will yah?
let’s consciously see, will yah?
I’ve given you a lot of examples
to show consciousness to your room.
Don’t stop there.
Go all the way to God.
Alright people,
the bird comes to those who could fly.

To be continued

_________________________________________________________________________

[1] Breaking Silence Careful to Stay an Apparition

note: this half of the story was written for and posted on the blog THEHEDRAL. There it will appear in four parts. Here is the link to the first part, the second part, the third part, and the last part is forthcoming.

© 2021 (although I’d probably give permission for you to use the material on your site if you just ask, but please ask)

The Epic of Man

William-Adolphe_Bouguereau_(1825-1905)_-_The_Remorse_of_Orestes_(1862)

The Remorse of Orestes by William-Adolphe Bouguereau

Everybody doesn’t know their airplane parts or that they have one.

(Slightly modified here, this essay was written for and submitted to two science-minded magazines that are atheist in their perspective so to challenge them with evidence they do not seem to be looking at: the range of their own inner life. One did not bother to reply, but the other, Aeon Magazine, replied kindly telling me it didn’t fit them but recommended two spiritual magazines to send it to. The ironic thing is that when I submitted this essay I had an online debate with an Aeon editor in their comment section after an essay on exactly the point that most magazines only promote their worldview and generally do not include challenges to it as published features. The editor told me that they did include other points of view, although it did have a worldview to promote and wasn’t ashamed of it. Their rejection of the essay and recommendation to send it to someone who’d agree with me gives some measure of validity to my point.)[1] 

And science mingled with creation’s scene
a quantum sum
white.
Left me nauseated.
Please.
And we go outside
I hope.
And no one would hope not.
You guys don’t have goal one do you?:
Boys,
have to put ‘im out,
whatever-You-Say.

Is that it?
Just drink some Man along the way.
Where’s my scholarship?
I will speak –
I’m havin’ a dream.
Why didn’t he do it?
Did the scientific method
go there?
Not in your dreams.
How get this across:
measure all of reality
one field of explain?

Because we are having our life here in this age it’s easy to think ours is really messed up compared to past ages, but it’s always been like this, and people down through the ages have more or less always felt the inadequacies of their own age as the worst ever, barring some momentary triumph of peace and prosperity. Saying that, it does seem we are once again spiraling down into that militant intolerance of others’ ideologies that has catapulted us into ever increasing all-out war time and time again, most recently the Second World War, though at any moment you can see ideological war-fires spotting all around the globe, and not even the light of reason can help us now; it’s been eclipsed these days by its most recent replacement, the New Atheism, who’s very basis is intolerance, in this case the intolerance of ignorance, and unfortunately even a genius can’t seem to figure out how ignorant is such an intolerance. You have to have a little understanding of human nature to understand what I mean. The concept of character armor, especially our own, would be a good place to start.

While we can go on and on about what lies at the bottom of the clash in ideas – the right way to live; my divine, your divine, or (added recently) no divine, some ideal or another people think everybody should bow to –, maybe a lot of it has to do with not realizing or understanding just how much we don’t know yet about ourselves and existence, or, to put it more in the hand, just how much there is yet to discover. For this reason I’m writing down my experiences, in this piece on lucid dreaming and death, not because mine are unique to humanity or are colossal in the light of others’ experience but because I’m one of you guys (although I do try to anchor on the inside), a net surfing, movie watching, book reading modern mind indulgent of the heart, or modern heart indulgent of the mind, depending on which you put your compass in, if it’s on a Tuesday or Wednesday, but mostly because I can write about it, although I should add that for several years, while I traveled from country to country with pilgrim’s feet, in lieu of any English teaching or handyman job available, I made my way by relating my experiences, sang and danced for my supper, so they are not altogether the most usual for people to have and do give some hint of the more about ourselves we have yet to see.

To isolate your lucid dreaming from your dreaming in general, from your outer-body experiences and that whole inner-outer crowd, from your waking life and the context that it provides, from even the web of dreaming of the particular night in which a certain lucid dreams occurs, or the whole cycle of dreaming of that moon for that matter, makes for a certain artificiality and gross incompleteness of a demonstration and discussion; nonetheless I shall do so to a certain extent in order to relate my experience. That’s really the problem in discussing anything about life and the world – cutting it up in artificial bits that in the cutting often lose a great deal of the essentialities. But we have to talk about this, our lives that is, our living, our being here wherever and whatever here really is. Continually faced with such immensity anywhere we look has us telling the whole history of whatever just to say some little thing about it.  I’m bridging that now by tipping my hat to it and just getting on with the story.

Although I had many isolated lucid dreams as a child, lucidity then something that would sometimes come as a dream ended, my first pronounced lucid dreaming cycles started, and the first time I died in dreaming, when I was an undergraduate in college in my mid-twenties. I’d recently gotten out of the army and wasn’t yet attracted to the spiritual path. In fact I was an atheist. Neither was I clean in a moral sense, and I add that to show dreaming ability, or the ability to control and manipulate the dreambody, calling it that to give a better impression we have an inner being not exactly the same as the outer one, not by a long shot, does not depend on matters of morality, on how good or, for that matter, how bad you are. Although it really isn’t a moral issue as some consider it, it bears mentioning that I used no substances at that time other than dipping flavored tobacco. Especially grass inhibits the ability to remember dreams, although if you’re stoned and can go into a dream directly from the waking state, maintaining continuity of consciousness, you enhance your dream-range considerably. Because I had a great deal of the subtle kind of life-force that enables inner exploration and experience, and because I’d always even in childhood remembered and chewed on a lot of my dreams, and for other reasons less obvious to outward-faced mentality, soul reasons, I just suddenly started having a lot of lucid dreams as my adolescence came completely to a close, and I moved fully into adulthood.

Waking dreams come in cycles if you have enough of them to observe that tendency. Without any prior warning I found myself waking up in two or three dreams a night, which is something in itself, but I was as well armed with that rare almost absolute control one can have in such dreams. I didn’t seek answers to big questions, look for enlightenment, or search for God or for my soul; I had fun, being as I was still a kid for all intents and purposes even though I would not be for very much longer largely as a result of these dream experiences. The whole thing presented itself to me as the ultimate video game, total immersion, real virtual reality, something that over the years as I’ve wondered over has given me bright and dark hints of maybe the game being played with us here, some angle of explanation of the role of life in time, of being a person on this planet – we’re avatars of someone’s gaming, someone larger than time.

Only I didn’t know at the time that it wasn’t how many men or monsters I killed that mattered; it was remembering I’d somehow lost my true identity in playing the game, which doesn’t necessarily mean I have to stop playing. The soldier in me, the ex-Green Beret, had not had its fire tested in battle, and so when I awoke within a dream I willed the scenario to change into a battle, and armed with a sword or machine gun, depending on the time period I chose, I could finally be the hero I considered myself to be, although perhaps if I’d been in battle in waking life I’d have gotten myself killed so quickly I’d have been deemed more stupid than heroic. In the dream I was invincible. Nothing could harm me. Bored with that I sometimes imagined a person that fit my desire and lust to a T, and I would, uh, have sex.

It’s not easy to give this picture or show the power of which I speak; I was like a god and could will a dream scenario to appear and do there my will. What a shame I wasted that power on kid stuff. Being so young and yes innocent, ignorant of what could happen, like most young people, I had no idea what danger lies lurking in power and speed, be that of a motorbike or a dream, but a wake up call came. Unfortunately there are consequences; what we do matters, both here and in dream, although there it doesn’t matter near as much. It seems to be in the design that dreams are a proving ground for us and as such the lines of karma spun there are much more loosely woven (yes an emphatic statement, but even the hardcore reductive materialist would have to laugh at life’s ironies and coincidences:  “almost as if … no, what was I thinking? That’s impossible”).  I, however, had crossed way too many of those lines, and the consequences were such that even to this day the fear of what can happen makes me drive slower even probably than I should. Wisdom sometimes is more old than wise.

Things went on this way for about a month, and I’d go through my waking day just waiting to go back to sleep, as it had suddenly become for me the pinpoint of my life experience, as opposed to the other way around as it normally is for most. I would kill a hundred men in a slaughtering ecstasy, ravish wantonly whatever beauty I conjured up to lay down for me, and to scarf down the carnage to the last drop I learned to sink into the dream with all five of my senses. Not knowing the deep ways of dreaming, what I was in fact doing by that sinking in was leaving my own dream-range, though our personal range is always shot through with strange encounters with the world and universe at large (I don’t expect you to believe that; it becomes more self-evident the deeper you go into inner experience, the more you experiment with the creative reflex, of which dreaming is but a part), and in my dreambody going to someplace else in the multidimensional, multifaceted field of life on the inner planes. In inner exploration, where your will points your awareness, there you’ll go, in the same way under the sun where you point your feet and walk your body can’t but follow. This will be one the test, stomp, stomp.

On that fateful night I suddenly found myself standing in the darkness facing four angry men. The place was open like a park, and the men were brown-skinned, and that is all I know of the where and who. Neither had I any idea of the why and how, what had made these men so mad at me. I had no memory of anything happening beforehand, but that was not my major concern because one of the men was holding a large butcher knife and looked as though he were about to kill me with it. I moved to defend myself but couldn’t move at all. As the I’m-about-to-die alarm went off in my being’s self, despite knowing I was dreaming, which only seemed to add some perverse spice to it, I willed myself to wake up in bed, my heretofore never had failed me before failsafe. It didn’t work; I was too sunk in the dream to wake up before he stabbed me. I felt every inch of that blade slide into my heart, felt it as a sticking, stabbing pain reaching into my heart where it unmasked as death, and as my blood flowed out from the wound, I fell to my knees in disbelief and died.

Years later in Jerusalem in 1995, in my 33rd year, I would suddenly remember those four brown-skinned men stabbing me in that park-like place and be convinced it was my impending death I’d experienced, sort of like I’d been given a hands on no holds barred premonition. I was sitting alone at night on a park bench outside Jaffa Gate of the old city, having left my friends and our small camp where for the past eight days we’d been conducting a hunger strike for world peace (it’s a long story) to go off and think about our decision to remain there despite just being visited by some angry Palestinian men who told us that if we didn’t leave the park by two a.m. they’d come back and kill us. One held a knife just out of his jacket and told me, “And you, we’re gonna drag you in these bushes and fuck you first, and then kill you.”  I had hair down past my shoulders and looked quite the pretty boy.

Simply to explain let me say that earlier in the day we gave help and council to a fellow traveler, a young Scottish woman named Patricia who had been badly beaten because she refused to have sex with the manager of one of the many Palestinian-run guest houses in the old city, where she’d stayed briefly. The manager was a young man named Mohammad, and it was his gang of friends threatening to kill us. They were part of the Palestinian mafia we heard from our Israeli friends, and I think that was just the Israeli tendency to make a mountain out of a molehill when it concerned anything bad the “Arabs” did, but they were organized, and they had men at the entrances to the park watching in case police or soldiers came by. It turned out they didn’t come back that night to kill us, and rather than sit up and watch the clock we decided just to go to sleep. If we were still alive by morning things would obviously be better. It even happened that Mohammed returned a few days later and apologized and offered to help us in any way he could, upon being behooved to do so by Palestinian elders, after getting his ear tweaked, we heard later.

They’d gotten involved wanting to know why the Israeli army came in force into their part of the old city. In one of the many ironies of being a peace activist, I guided a squad of soldiers and police through the old city to rescue Patricia, who was being prevented by Mohammad’s gang from leaving the hostel she had moved to, but that is certainly not the only irony of the story. The one, however, that really got my goat was sitting on that bench the night before all that ironic adventure without a doubt in my mind I was facing my death because the events of that situation were so similar in nature to that dream. It would not be the last time I thought that dream to have been a premonition of my death, as that is certainly not the only time I’ve made people in another land mad at me, but however I may actually die, that death was a death in its own right. I not only died but went to the other side.

Man I talk to yah.
Heavyset looks happy
because he knows he’s not happy.
I need books.
John dead.
Happy to be a believer.
He loves that little light of day.
Look at this table.
Skin it down to its last science:
you don’t have an answer
you borrowed somebody’s.
Weird it’s accepted
their reality.

You might.
You know somethin’.
Might have us all
clearly
becomin’.
Go inside hurt.
If that’s your peak experience
it’s gonna drop back down to you
because y’all peak at your peak experience.

Life beckons.
Steven why are you here?
I’m not,
I’m just some cling-on.
And a host of other pajamas.
We build up the dreams of our lives
with the silver cup of time.
Use familiar things
as your heartbeats
the door glitters.

Perhaps the greatest reason such little credence is given to personal inner experience, and why there is such a strong if largely unspoken taboo against it all over the globe, and I’m not talking about adopting beliefs about it, practicing techniques to enhance it, or venerating the inner experience of some accepted figure but about Joe Blow or Jane Doe’s experiences being valuable, is because of our tendency on the one hand to take it at face value, not see it as symbolic and representative in nature, and on the other to give it more authority over us than society and even our own reason, and we know where that can lead. Especially a near-death experience, what we tend to call these things, whether you actually experience the moment of death or not, can leave you utterly convinced of the validity of not only life after death but of the absolute truth of any ideal-forms you may encounter during the experience. For many it turns their whole life around, and they become religious-minded or at least spiritually oriented. Not so with me, although it certainly became an index of experience in my life and brought my dream fun to an abrupt halt.

My skepticism could not so easily be laid to rest. Maybe if I’d gone to the gates of some rapturous heaven or burned or froze on the brink of some torturous hell, or saw Jesus or the Devil I might have been converted to a religious perspective (these figures because I grew up Christian in America, since we tend to see in such experiences the religious forms predominate in our family and/or society), although I hope I would’ve had more presence of mind than that, but I didn’t go to any place fantastic, only to my own living room, and I didn’t see any divine or demonic beings, only our years-dead family cat, a white feline more like another sibling in my childhood than a mere cat, named lamely Kittypus, but the story is not as dull as all that, not by any means.

In other writings I write about visits to and visions of the fantastic, but an inner experience such as the one I’m describing doesn’t have to contain such to be valuable, to have a considerable index of worth. When the experience is just down to earth, familiar, more of this world than any other, you’re less likely to be carried away by it and so are in a better position to interpret it and not simply take it at face value, since its representative nature is more apparent. I should add here that’s the first law of inner experience: take nothing at face value; everything you see is symbolic. I would also like to add that’s the same one to have for outer experience, but I would be too much ahead of my time. Your dreams are full of purposefully placed symbols that mean something, okay; the subconscious can be quite the wizard. You might grant it that, but I’ve built a bridge too far by saying the world and life are so filled. That would be like saying it all means something, and nobody, not even the religious-minded, would want to look out of their little world and give such credence to everything, especially to what they don’t believe in.

There on my knees watching my blood spread on the ground in front of me, I forgot about the men and their killing me, even about continuing to try and wake up in my bed, although I was still aware I was myself dreaming. I was now alone with death, and that is something it seems we each face in our own way, like the personal way we greet the ocean upon arriving at the beach regardless of how many people are splashing around. Then the whole scene vanished, and I found myself in outer space. Ahead and above me some distance I could see a doorway, just a door there in space with no building it was a part of, a normal looking wooden door but with a bright yellow light shinning out of the space between it and the door frame, all the way around, and the light beckoned so much comfort it hinted at, and there in the cold of space having just been killed I needed some comfort. I reached the door and opened it, and to my surprise, I was looking at the interior of my mom’s living room, a place I’d come of age in, but the whole room was transfigured bathed in that yellow light, and I could see that at the back of the room the light was intensely brighter, as if there was the essence of the peace and solace I felt. Kittypus came and rubbed herself against my leg, but I completely ignored her so attracted was I to the yellow light, and I really regretted that later – she was saying hi, and I understand I’m going to far again giving (other) animals an afterlife, but you can see for yourself if you don’t want to take my word for it.

The only thing I wanted to see was more of that light, and so I scrambled to enter the room to get to its source, but the door just closed on me, and I found myself awake in bed in anguish I hadn’t been able to go into that light, but in the following days it wasn’t that light that concerned me but in keeping my own light of mind on, as it seemed I opened in that experience more than the door to my living room, and the power that had heretofore been so much fun became a nightmare I couldn’t escape from. You might say I opened the floodgates of the subconscious with all that inner exploration, especially with it culminating in such a bottomed-out experience, and its tenebrous brood rushed into the light of day, and that certainly happened, but I would say it differently: I crossed the fence that hems us in and keeps us from straying off out of the ordinary, that wall of mundane that prevents us from seeing what more there might be, not only in the near-death experience but in playing the creator and destroyer as I had, in being a dream-demigod, and for my transgression I suffered the onslaught of the guardians of the threshold. It’s not that one way of seeing it is right and the other wrong; it’s just that reality will always be bigger than our interpretation of it, will always symbolize deeper than we can presently see.

The lucid dreaming cycle did not end with that near-death experience, unfortunately, and for several nights after I was plagued by dreams in which being awake within them, far from being anything even remotely entertaining, only accentuated the terror I felt, because suddenly my will had been amputated from my knowledge, and I was completely helpless. One dream will suffice as an example. It was pitch dark, and I was lucid and running from something so hideous and foul I knew that if I even turned around and looked at it I’d go mad. You can’t appreciate what I mean sitting there reading about it. I could feel its breath on my back, and my only thought was, “Wake up!  Wake up!”  Right before it grabbed me I woke up, and I was sweating and had to go to the bathroom. I lay there a moment basking in relief at having escaped being eaten. I got out of bed and opened my bedroom door, and there it was, a real monster, not something you’d see in a movie – anybody’s imagination would run from such an image. It bit into my neck and chest and began eating me right there. I felt every bite.  Screaming I woke myself up, again, and for days after I had those panic attacks you get when you suddenly haven’t the slightest idea what’s real and what’s not. The cycle ended shortly after and left my world trembling and quaking, but it stayed in place, and by the time the next cycle rolled around sometime later, I had recovered enough courage to have another go, but this time a bit more like a passenger and witness than an Almighty.

If things would have continued to take place in my own personal inner world, if they hadn’t made a crunching contact with someone else’s inner world, with the outside world as paradoxical as that might sound (it’s precisely in that paradox we make the most fundamental error in our reasoning of reality: that everything and everybody’s spaced apart existing as objects the inner life of man a freak of Nature with no connection to other objects or bearing upon reality except through material process), then I would have no call to bring my dreaming to your attention other than to show what fun you can have or trouble get into. Nothing I’ve related so far challenges the reality the science-minded propose (they’d call it being skeptical), a reality where no experience of consciousness beyond the manufacture of the brain, independent of gross material processes, is possible. I just have a very colorful and active inner life. The next dream experience I have to relate, however, would add not only another chapter to reality but a whole library. In short, it brings into view the possibility of an infinity of and unlimited range of personal existence, or at least such able to supersede the boundaries of time and space.

Of that cycle of lucidity, which occurred about a year later, after less notable cycles where I got my dream-feet under me again, I only remember one dream, but if it were the only dream out of a whole lifetime of dreaming I were to remember, it would be sufficient to convince me we don’t yet have a clue to how big we are, or can be, how much more range we as individuals have than what range we are told we have by our societies, our schools, our religions, and our sciences. It also begs the question of the distinct possibility of superior ranges of existence to ours that have such as its law of being, the ability to supersede time and space at will, but neither did this dream convince me there’s a God. I was after, however, more open the possibility, did not equate that possibility with the existence of the Tooth Fairy, Santa Claus, or Bigfoot (but in the strangeness of things they too might be based on some half-truth partially witnessed), since I saw that god-possibility as a whole other order and range of being capable of inhabiting all at its zenith of possible, and, unbeknownst to me, my dreambody has begun searching for it. The will on the feet thing again.

I see now I was an atheist because I had to get out of my head and heart the idea of God I’d been raised with, an anthropomorphic figure who lived in a heaven above show was confused between being a god of love and one of wrath, what the separative human ego would be like if all-knowing and all-powerful, not someone you’d feel safe with, the quintessential example of intolerance who has doomed the overwhelming majority of people he created to the worst suffering imaginable forever without end amen because he is intolerant of their different religious beliefs or lack thereof, and free from such warring ideological constraints I could explore myself inside more intimately (fear really is the mind-killer; in inner exploration it’s the big inhibitor, although to a certain extent it does provide some protection), but as I approached God again, not from the perspective of belief but from the inner experiences I was having, not to mention more and more seeing something very funny out there in the world, something that cared not to be seen but once you started seeing it you got winked at more and more by it, enough to realize it wasn’t a thing occupying a time and space as you did but something that had absolutely no constraints, something totally other but at the same time in total identification with you, whatever kind of wink you got pleasant or painful, I remained an atheist because when you take all my clothes off I’m just this little animal trying not to get hurt or killed, trying to get enough to eat and if I’m lucky have a good time, not to mention I’m a male of my species and very territorial, and whatever it was I was trying to look the other way from was just so much in my stuff and in my world I didn’t even want to think about it or what that might mean to me.

In other writings I relate what ended my atheism as well as the finding of the soul, something else that had entered the field of possibility.  More to the point here and now, however, more practical for helping us break our habit of self-destruction as a race, as a species, more needful to shake us out of our intolerance for each other and separation one from another, the experience in this dream reveals the possibility we are not separate individuals alone on the inside cut off in there from everybody else as both the religious fundamentalist mind and the New Atheist mind think (both brothers in this regard), as just about every mind thinks for that matter. Just think for a moment what it would mean if in reality we weren’t, how much change that shift in self-seeing would bring. Alright, think long and hard on it. It would correct a lot of the worst kinds of human error, help solve the paradox of being an individual in a social animal species, a little person in an overwhelming amalgamated mass, and we couldn’t help but end up respecting both because it would bring unity into the picture, not the undifferentiated unity of a group but the unity of the individual with the group and it with the individual, at first on the social horizon but in time down home to the people themselves, not the thought up idea, the moral ideal, but the biological reality, the life imperative.

I should add that in discovering and founding ourselves upon our unity it would certainly help if we accepted the help of superior ranges of existence, and inevitably we will, but that is beyond the scope of this present writing. Although it’s also beyond the range of this piece, it would be appropriate to mention that seeing the inner connection between things would also reveal our more glaring error in our endeavor to create artificial intelligence: that the robot, program or whatever could become self-aware without also becoming somehow a portion of the ray or reflection of not only ours as its creator but the rest of Being

(We’ll only create a monster,
analytical,
something technical,
no form of life,
no cords of empathy:
Nat Zero.
Open my symbol box.
Who copied this email?
The wrong peacock),

and by the way isn’t it ironic that people for the most part not even interested in the possibility of having creators themselves are busy with and sure of the possibility they can create “people”?  You’d think they’d understand that in their endeavor they’re in fact grappling with the reverse, where we come from, not to mention that the strength of this desire to be ourselves the creator, the natural way it develops as we do, should make us at least suspect it’s inherent in Being itself as it develops, and with all the dangers we see in creating AI, we might begin to understand why whoever has created us and/or our world has put such a seeming distance between us and their reality.  What a surprise it would be if in this quest, in trying to get our hands on that ray, see the source of that reflection, once we become hip to the hidden biology we’ve missed and the epic inside of creation, we finally meet our own creators, and it’s our own face we see, though profoundly larger, unbound and free – our gaming face, not playing games as we play them through pulling the strings from outside but able to put some essence of itself into its avatar and allow it to play the game, with (some) free will, witnessing the game in such a way the watching itself aids the avatar towards its goal, which may not be simply survival and the avoidance of death, a witnessing unified to a total field of avatars in ways our ‘one pole of experience’ perception cannot picture even in imagination.

Now, to relate this eye-opening dream that just set my atheist head spinning: I became aware I was dreaming and found myself inside my father, but as I listened to his thoughts I realized I was inside my grandfather. I was amazed because I was me with all my thoughts and feelings aware of all of his, feeling even his bodily sensations and able to ‘see’ out of his five senses, although his outside was more of a sidelight. It was his inner life I was in, but it stands to reason that if I would’ve willed my awareness on his five senses and his sense mind I would’ve been as he, absorbed in the outer scene. I could see what he was doing though, building a fence, what he did to make a living when he wasn’t cutting cords of firewood. He was very hot and extremely thirsty. Then like a sudden unexpected earthquake, his whole left side exploded in pain, the pain of death, and he knew it was his death because the pitch of that pain was more than life could bear (you’d have to feel it to know that), and he began to panic, names and faces running through his mind, the people he wanted to say goodbye to, but just when the pain and fear became a whirlwind that I thought would kill me too, something at the top left of his head opened, and that light I’d seen previously, though this time it had no color to it, only intense brightness, came flooding down into him ending the pain and fear, and he forgot all about his loved ones and just wanted to go into that light, and just as he began rushing up into it, I woke up in bed not happy at being left behind.

I felt that dream to signify something, the future most likely, and if I would’ve believed my gut feeling I’d have really turned some heads, but I didn’t want to look stupid if it hadn’t been a premonition of my grandfather’s death, and so, because the dream wouldn’t leave me alone, I ended up writing my father a letter (I hadn’t spoken to my grandfather in years) and simply put a P.S. to have faith in hard times, nothing definite, just enough to make my intuition shut up. About two weeks later my father called me telling me my grandfather had just died of a heart attack while building a fence, describing how he was so thirsty he’d gone to the farmhouse he was working for and asked for more water two or three times. They saw him lying on the ground not long after his last visit, at first thinking he’d passed out because of the heat but upon reaching him realized he was dead. Now, I was just a passenger in that dream, a surprised witness, and I don’t know the law of such inner-body time travel and haven’t been able to repeat it, but I really haven’t tried since other experiences came not long after that were more the kind I wanted to learn to repeat, not ones of our hidden powers but spiritual ones of our larger identity (the law of my person seems to be to see these things more than inhabit them, but I am trying), and I don’t have to have someone else experience something like this to substantiate it, to believe my own eyes – know what I mean?

They won’t get it.
Not in their books.
An update,
this is significant.
I show the East coast
y’all.
Maybe l should
travel numerals.
This company
is just so big inside.

See here.
The airport…
Where’s the ticket?
Your girlfriend,
The ability to think free.
Some freedom –
you tie your bookshelf with it.
Look, don’t worry about it.
You know what it’s about?
Twenty seconds
in the ignition.
Yep,
in there surfin’
you get in that chute
there it is.
I don’t have the option to see there any movie,
But I can land it
of time and space.

Just seconds,
big deal.
Come on,
what are we talking about?
Ed could you please pass her the book
Soul I’m Go On My Life?
Put it there God
residency
when we grow up.

Of course theirs is the education college-strung
supported on banks of you.
It’s in the wash.
It’s Canadian.
I’m sleepy.
Super,
you’re so wide
how do you expect to put space on?
How many times
did I tell yah
You’re out algebra –
look over your shoulder
I’m there.

A help isn’t it?
I thought God too slim for boundaries.
They were like spectacles
soul put.
See something:
the wrong Green Beret
(I too know that)
on the road.

That’s mathical science.
Lemmie put it this way:
World X,
I gotta give it back to yah.
Would you look at that?
The solution
right inside your head.
Turn it on
like a light bulb
the focus:
there you are
watchin’ who you are
an employee especially.
You are out of your mind.
You got me
in the Everglades.
One minute.
Above your mind
get me.

[1] In a discussion of a review of the film Life of Pi on the blog The Atheist Experience, I posted a link to this article, and I’d have to explain this story sat in my Pages for years before I’ve moved it up to a post, and that I’d posted a poem review of the said film on the aforementioned blog, what the subsequent discussion was about, how I must be taking some good drugs here in India to write a poem like that. I got laughed at when I said it came from inner voice and vision and when I asked if they had looked on the inside for God or were even aware of their dreams, where they spent at least a forth of their day. I mentioned my experience in the inner fields, and I was told it was of no account because it was anecdotal, whereupon I sent the link. I saw in my stats that day and the next 50 views of this story, the most views that I’ve gotten so far at any one time on anything I’ve posted on the net, and there were no views of this story in the weeks before or after. It doesn’t take a scientist to know the views came from that discussion in the comment section of The Atheist Experience. Not one person, however, commented, much less put a like. Why the silence? Because my story holds the weight of reality, and the only thing I could be accused of is lying or grossly exaggerating, but If I am telling the truth, just think what that would mean to men and women who are almost exclusively focused on the outer world, who do no inner exploration, who discredit consciousness as just some byproduct of your brain that is inside your physical body and does not reach into the body of others. They would feel horribly inadequate, would not be so confident in saying unequivocally there is no God.

Without a Miracle a Few Fools Salvaged Hope

Taken with a Nikon FM2 on black and white film and developed in my darkroom. It’s a body being cremated.

A Journey of a Thousand Tongues

Part 4

The psychologist Carl Jung tells the story of a patient of his, a Christian minister, that came to him for psychotherapy. In one of the first sessions, he told Jung of a dream he had where he was sitting naked in the middle of a room and rubbing shit on himself. Jung advised him against therapy because, by the man’s dream, he saw a psychosis that might be triggered by it. The man was not in any kind of crises, although he wasn’t without life difficulties, why he’d come for therapy to begin with. He was a family man, upright and responsible, although rigid and moral-minded, and there was no need to risk setting off the psychosis by the inner work the therapy would have him do. It made Jung realize not everyone should do or needs therapy, and, especially with people who were religiously devout, it was best to leave some people be. Sri Aurobindo, who became my teacher upon leaving Israel, says that such people oftentimes are following the movement of their soul in following the religion they so ardently follow, and that to be rigidly religious like that is a necessary lifetime to have as the psychic being[i] matures, and so it’s best not to try and ‘convert’ them to spirituality, that being actual personal inner experience of the soul and the divine, as opposed to religion, which is adopting beliefs and a moral attitude and doing rites, rituals and practices. But does this general rule of leaving the religious alone apply in every case? That’s the question of this story.

“I’m going to throw my Bible in the fire, and if it burns then what you say is true,” Andre said.

That was not all he said, neither the first nor last thing, but it had been at that point I turned my head around to look straight at him, congruent with the surprise of hearing someone say the impossible, and it was the flare of sudden fire in his normally tranquil eyes that showed you he defied the impossibility it wouldn’t burn, such was his faith. My first reaction was to be rather pleased with myself that I’d made him question and confront his beliefs, feeling that fine familiar rise on the swell of an ego wave: how profound I was, how important things happened around me, how this thing and that. But seeing him distraught, my fondness for this man, Andre, took the helm of my feeling and then quickly overtook my thought, where it became admiration because he could live up to his high ideals, and I could not. How refreshing it was to be around someone who was slow to anger, lived without lust, a help to everyone, a lover of the world, a friend to the worst people, and a good one to me, I rumored to be of that latter crowd.

Andre was a French Belgian self-proclaimed Catholic monk that had been roaming the Holy Land for 2 or 3 years as a vagabond pilgrim, trying to embody the principle teachings of Jesus, earning his way by his friendly and open manner and his strong back and hands that could handle heavy work. He was a year older than I, 34, and in the past few days, which seemed like ages already, we’d taken to discussing our differences in opinion regarding religion. We were both part of a small group of several people camping in tents on the Mount of Olives, near the top just below a Palestinian village, in its dump actually, which we somewhat cleared so to erect our tents. Below us and off to the left, as you walked down the mountain, was the Russian Orthodox church, and near the bottom of the little road we used was the entrance to Gethsemane. We had tentatively named ourselves The Jerusalem Peace Group, Andre having joined our group as we were leaving our previous location in a park outside of Jaffa Gate, a group that had formed around a hunger strike two of us were doing for inner and outer peace, Lars and I, where there was no real hunger nor the sincerest desire for peace, because every other day we had a milk and fruit or vegetable puree. And I must admit both Lars and I were doing it more for personal motivations than for peace, and here on this day we were going into the third week of the strike and were scheduled to stop at Easter and Passover, which occurred at the same time that year (1995), just a couple of days away.

Our other vagabond pilgrim, Zeke, a Russian Jew, Torah scholar, and Kabbalist, who I’d been having such conversations with before Andre, couldn’t camp up there with us because it was Palestinian-owned land, and Hamas was rumored to hold meetings in the village we were camped directly under. If a Jewish person came to our camp, even in disguise, the young village boys always about our camp would quickly discover them and heckle them loud enough for nearby adults to hear until they left, fearing the worst. Andre was nowhere as learned as Zeke, nor as skilled in such subtle conversations, he so young and Zeke in his 50’s, but he had a sincere faith that made up for that. He was one of those kinds of people you like just the way they are, religious fanatic though he was, and here I’d gone and messed with his engineering.

So as to dissuade him, feeling now his mental anguish more than my ego, feeling something aptly called empathy, I reminded him about that scripture that says not to tempt the Lord thy God, and with a mixture of both agitation and devotion he told me how much God loved and cared for him, and how he wouldn’t let him down. It was then I saw a danger you see befalling people that you can’t warn them about so blind they are to it coming, a danger that mixes well with the kind of faith he had equally blind, sincere or no. He believed his Bible would not burn.

It was precisely here we differed on religion. He believed whole-heartedly not only in Jesus as the only way to God but also in the teachings and traditions of the Catholic Church, so much so he lived homeless and without possessions, going to mass everyday and taking others (our whole group would go with him on Easter so as to appease him). At that moment in my life it was my ideal not to believe anything about God and the soul until you had experienced it personally, unconscious of my own belief system whose totality I had not experienced yet and may never, at least not in this present incarnation of my soul into the vehicle of Donny, meaning I too had to fill in the infinite gap in experience with belief. Even though you know your personal experience is inadequate to encompass the totality of things happening all at once everywhere, past, present and future, or, how I might say it, ‘the all at once’, when you’ve nonetheless had genuine firsthand experiences of God and the soul, and the person you’re discussing those things with only believes in some inflexible shadow of them, you see that person as being limitedly orthodox, however much you limit yourself by belief much like they do, and neither is the agnostic and atheist excluded from this universal limitation of relying on belief. We all use belief to fill in the gaps in the knowledge and experience that inform our ideals.

Like I said, he believed in the Catholic Church, all of it, its doctrines and practices, blindly you might say, and the only time I saw him come close to anger was when he was telling me, as he did in that conversation, as he had in previous ones, that I, a single, little person only 33 years old, could not negate hundreds of years of tradition with the wave of my hand. Who was I to do that? All the great people that had built that tradition surely knew more than I. If I’d been a little more observant, less intent on making my point, I’d have seen that his irritation resulted from the fact that our conversations were making him question that tradition, the ire his protection against doubt. You’d wonder what it was I told him that made him doubt his beliefs.

I guess you just have to be there, I mean, be physically present with me, see my face and look me in the eyes as I relate my experiences, because I’ve done that so many times on the net[ii] and hardly even gotten a nod from anyone, much less this degree of soul searching engagement I was getting from Andre. I say this because, when relating my experiences in person with another person, it’s rare that they don’t believe me and aren’t moved to the point of putting their spiritual beliefs alongside my experiences to see how they stack up. I’d have to add though that it’s not my path and never has been to be a spiritual teacher or speaker, although it’s part of it to share my story and my creative work on the net. In the past, I wore my experiences on my sleeve, or as merit badges on my chest, and I related them more to impress people than anything else, but I must say that oftentimes too it was to get a meal or a place to lay my head for the night, as I was to become a vagabond pilgrim myself a couple of years after this, for some years, in a journey that at least touched upon 5 continents, only taking a plane ride twice, once to go from South America to Europe, and once to return to India, where I remain to this day. I must say even today the ego is still involved in the telling.

Sitting there in old Jerusalem under the Moslem masonry, in a little sitting area just off the road and just inside Lion’s Gate but well past all the commotion of pilgrims getting off buses and filing to the Dome of the Rock, I had one of those moments you have when it’s almost as though you’re seeing outside of yourself watching yourself act and speak, one of those moments that somehow passes muster as one of the snapshots most viewed in an important journey in your life, or among the top ones in an especially rich cycle of time, when in the years that wane by you look over the big moments in the significant movements of your life. That it was more his big moment than mine attests to the mystery of such moments, why it is your selecting mechanism chooses this moment to throw up when you’re going over the big moments. Maybe the mechanism is not as centered on ourselves as we’d like to think, and maybe neither do we know yet what qualifies as a big moment and think of it only in terms of the greatening of ourselves or our people. This moment has always stood out in my mind when going over my time as a vagabond pilgrim in training in the Holy Land, when Andre and I were sitting there in a quiet cove under Moslem arches and debating the question of him throwing his Bible into the fire to see if it burned.

At the time, I passed his impulse off as him simply having a momentary loss of faith, and it didn’t even cross my mind he would actually test his faith like that, although I was quite surprised to hear him entertaining such an urge. In all of our conversations he’d been Peter the Rock, and he never conceded a single point, gave no indication, that I saw at the time anyway, that he was at all impressed with what I’d told him in regards to experiences of God and the soul, or what you can but give those titles to so spiritual and totally other such experiences are. I didn’t realize how fanatical he was, that he’d gone in his belief much further than the institutionalized uncritical thinking of the Christian mind– virgin birth, God needing a human sacrifice, etc. – and had crossed over into the delusional by believing his Bible wouldn’t burn, and so it wouldn’t be too long before his hands heard about it.

Andre, however, wasn’t without his vices, which were principally cigarettes and coffee, which, if you took a look at how attached he was to them, how much he needed them, showed you he was stuffing something, some stronger hunger that he was using those substances to try and pacify. Watching him play with the boys who invaded our camp from dawn to dusk, his easy, affectionate manner with them, his patience with what to most of us was simply intolerable behavior (they tore our tents down, picked up and tried to break everything that wasn’t tied down, were always trying to saw a tree down with our saw, which in the end they finally succeeded in doing, which got us kicked off the mountain immediately) you saw his color for the boys, color being desire you feel for people that only expresses itself as ‘color’, not any overt romantic or sexual word or deed. It’s the driving force behind so much of human relations and isn’t a bad thing when it simply stays as color. It’s not to be confused with lust, and, oftentimes, the person feeling it isn’t even aware any desire is present. With Andre, you got the impression he wasn’t. I would learn later, however, it wasn’t desire for boys he was denying. That desire, or color, was part of another more general desire complex he denied.

A handsome devil Andre, he had that generations of French face about him, though with a Belgium twist. He was rather tall and slender, with dark hair and eyes, the former made of soft curls kept well under control, the latter large and slumberous, though lit by purpose and conviction in his faith. Always on his head he wore a taqiyah, or a skullcap, a more general variety that didn’t look precisely like either a kufi or a kippah. He shaved regularly, and I think he did so more because he didn’t want to look either Jewish or Muslim than because he preferred to shave, because his vagabond lifestyle made it difficult to have the infrastructure to do so.

You’d think he would be a hit with the ladies, but he seemed to have no interest in women, had no color towards them in their presence, nor they to him, despite his good looks, and it was easy to just pass that off to his strict religious vows (he’d readily tell you he had taken a vow of celibacy), but something was up with him in regards to sex and that whole nine yards that added up to more than simply to a vow of celibacy.

Regardless what that added up to, and you knew like you know the feel of fresh air that there was not a nightmare thing about him, Andre was one of those people that was under a lucky star, that is, he was taken care of by thy universe. I saw that most clearly one day when we’d walked out of Damascus Gate and were walking towards New Gate, following the outer road that runs parallel to the wall of the old city. Damascus Gate was the most lively of gates, was where the market was, and we’d find ourselves just drawn to it in our wanderings in the old city. We did a lot of walking and talking, especially in the mornings, when, as had become our habit, I’d give him the shekels he needed to buy Nescafe and a pack of smokes. I had only arrived in Israel with, once I changed money, about 700 shekels, but because I was sleeping outside and basically wasn’t eating, I wasn’t spending anything. Still, I knew the strike would soon end, and our group go its separate ways, and I’d be shekelless in no time, and so I wasn’t a happy giver to Andre, and he’d picked up on that.

I always waited for him to ask, and on this morning, he was hesitant to do so, when, voila!, he swooped down and picked up a whole pack of cigarettes, unopened and undamaged, from the gutter that lined the side of the street closest to the wall. I then gave him the shekels to get a cup of coffee, without being asked, since it was obvious to me the universe at least, and maybe even God, was providing for his vices, and so maybe it wasn’t out of line for me to do so too. It’s hard to appreciate from the distance of reading this how much of a ‘thing’ that event was to us at that particular moment. It seemed divine. In any event, it’s an event I’ve recounted countless time to people to show that the divine isn’t moral-minded and will even give us our desires, harmful ones at that, if we really want them, sort of like how a parent indulges their child with way too much sugar just because it makes their kid so happy to have it. I have the feeling, however, in the case of the divine, that we’re sometimes given what’s bad for us if we insist so upon it, not so as to indulge us, but so that we get burned by it and learn to want what’s better for us instead.

Not long after that, a few days, the strike ended, and all but Lars, his sister, Zeke, and I went to the four winds. After the poem postings in the old city, Zeke and I went to Safed, which is captured in the book in progress, Between Jerusalem. After Safed, I did day labor in Tel Aviv and then Eilat, returning to Jerusalem to go to the Sinai and Cairo to post poems in those locations, which is captured in two preceding stories of “A Journey of a Thousand Tongues”, also posted on my blog here along with the first story in the series. On my last trip to Tel Aviv before leaving Israel altogether to go to India, I met Andre ‘by chance’ in the street. I’d last seen him five months before, and boy had he changed.

The first thing I noticed was he no longer wore the skullcap, but then I saw the change in his whole person, which was accented by his new look, different style of clothes, longer hair, and so on, but those things didn’t determine his persona as they had previously, or, I should say, were not what he was wearing so to determine it. There had come about in him a global change in his person. His face was more relaxed for one thing, his posture too, but looking deeply into his eyes as he grabbed both my hands and pulled me close so glad he was to see me, I saw they were no longer lit with purpose. It was obvious to me he’d left religion. After a moment of surprised greeting, he took me to where he was staying, an apartment not far from there. As he was showing me his recent drawings and paintings, which were quite good, had a spiritual behind to, he told me what had befallen him after we had parted company, I a person he most wanted to tell.

He got right to the meat of the matter and said he went to Ein Gedi to pray and fast so to put his Bible in the fire. Ein Geti, a place I visited on my way to Eilat, where I began the journal that never made it into book form, The Overthrow of I Am at the Equality of Soul, excerpts of which I relate in the story “Clambers on the Mountaintop” , found also on this blog, is an oasis and nature preserve near the Dead Sea. He said he’d initially wanted to fast for 40 days as Jesus had done in the desert before being tempted by Satan, or so the New Testament says, but, if I remember correctly, and I may not, after about 15 days he’d just gone and done it, thrown it in the fire, and then watched it burn like he was watching his life burn down.

He said he just lost it after that and wandered around Ein Gedi for a couple of weeks, having momentarily lost his mind. When I was there with the new little group I was part of, calling ourselves the dharma bums[iii], there was a young man there wandering around and guarding the dumpsters like a dragon does its treasure (but he couldn’t guard both at the same time), who was obviously a little touched in the head, and by his appearance, he’d been there awhile, and so, at least at that time, I knew such was possible there, although my group had to get special permission to sleep there even one night. I guess they just left the crazies alone. Food was not a problem because the two dumpsters at the bottom near the sea were always full of unopened tourist lunches from the buses full of tourists that visited every day. Andre spoke very fondly of those dumpsters. I imagine at some point they got locked, as the world power came in and closed a door, as it always eventually does, that opens to experience beyond the limits of what’s considered normal.

Anyway, he very slowly and quite painfully came back to himself and went to Tel Aviv, where he lived on the street for a short while, until an older gay couple, the owners of the apartment, found him and took him in. They were well off, and they could afford to take care of him. It was a nice apartment, and artwork lined the walls. They cleaned him up, bought him new clothes, and encouraged him to draw and paint and address his denied sexuality. Andre, if you haven’t figured it out, was gay.

I don’t know what happened with Andre after that, as keeping in contact back then meant having a physical address and/or a land line, the net not yet being the ticket, although Zeke had given me his email address, the first person to do that and the first time I heard of such. I left him there in the living room of that apartment his life up in the air. Where he landed I can only guess, but one thing’s certain: he began living life a gay man. If you were to accept it, and it’s being pushed with a lot of force today, he should be proud of that because being gay is as right as rain, as natural as being straight, and it’s a toss of the coin which you’ll be, has nothing to do with any kind of pathology, and it isn’t even remotely connected to pedophilia. I would point out all that’s a statement of beliefs too.

I guess I should state my opinion about being gay, although in regards to Andre, if it was in his best interests to leave his religion, I can only say it happened and so what then? Maybe he made the best of it. About being gay: I’m a person under the impression that it might be a necessary stage for someone to be actively gay, and it’s important for it not to be illegal and subject to either punishment or a social stigma, in other words shouldn’t be persecuted, but if a person is to realize God and the soul, it’s a stage that needs to end at some point, any kind of romantic and/or sexual indulgence, not because it’s morally wrong, but because you won’t have either the will or life-force necessary to find God or the soul spending those on that, so much finding those things cost your will and life-force.

I also believe my muse when it says homosexuality is a social disorder. What I call my muse is inner voice and vision, although most would call it hearing voices, which is stigmatized as a mental disorder. As I listen to it, it’s divine revelation. I’d imagine you’ve never heard hearing voices like this:

Another[iv] excerpt from The Freedom

Why strap a bomb to your chest and kill the neighborhood?
Why send your tanks to that country?
Write a poem from where the One sees us.
That’ll shake everybody up,
and you’ve brought change right.

What does it mean to bring us a full home?
Daddy cleans and he whistles.
Oh he’s talked the TV now listen kids.
You know one way’s a bad wagon.
Yeah, I needed to fill his shorts,
or graft my review into his underwear.
I have more for you kiddo,
everything you always wanted about attention,
and there it just hits the spot.
I’m gonna call you to your bank card.
Stand here eager on yourself.

Unreal a boy gives his father that ultra-politique.
When they’re in that swoon,
when base is being gone over,
what a boy could hide there.
Daddy do it daddy.
He grows up with hungry clothed.
It’ll be his reason to see evolution
he don’t just sit there with it.

There you are.
Into the sea you’ve been hollered down,
into the sea that touches your toes,
where that hurt.
This is the trail in the sea-ward.
Every father has an account with us,
however remote,
moving in the intimacies of a man.
It’s not out of the direction of his love.
It just spoils there.
Might not ever even think about it.
Might never try anything,
but a man’s nature be around his children.

No, not all are drunk,
but there is a liquor cabinet.
If he’d open his dreams he might see it.
The father that does cross lines
more often than not it’s the casual touch,
little tight pressures he holds his son.
Squeeze daddy.

This is just an occasional glance.
That’s where he tests city limits,
shows that he is the owner
of the boy’s whereabouts.
It’s his flesh.
It’s just a little squeeze
where that little boy grows,
and he finds men attractive.

When this grows up in him
he’s the opposite
from pedophile feelings.
This was not to churn his shorts.
More romance here than touch.
He wasn’t put in that strange place,
something to make him investigate further on.
His daddy is the love of his life
that time,
and he’s comfortable there.
Grows up lovin’ men.

Homosexual we’ve reported.[v]
This is generated love.
He likes its squeeze.
Follow your counts.
Get rid of a fall.
You don’t believe it,
how wrapped up he is.
His life that regard.

Now a boy wouldn’t remember
his father’s affection.
Way too young
to bring memories back.
It’s a rollin’ stone.
Maybe he likes it
being gay,
but he knows
that life has not given him
his natural fulfillment.

The first boy
don’t fair well.
He remembers the pounding serf,
was I enough to understand
they wasn’t supposed to do that.
Y’all keep your mouth shut about this.
Visit…
Oh here we go.
What does he visit?
Dad does the talking boy.

That’s interesting.
He makes me feel at home
with the arrangement in the hat.
I could go in any direction.
Maybe there’s a woman on my arm,
but I can give a man more than a kiss
and take a child into the basement.
I could, but why bother?

Our policy is your papers.
Gain a step.
Your sexual orientation arrive in the breeze?
By the way the professor was kidnapped.
Stare at your business.
I am sorry,
these are the lines that appear.

Well I was gonna take you home,
but it’s made me mad.
We’ll see what the door is.
That’s what I would do.
Now they’re shipping it off.
He didn’t recommend it.
Seven of us like that.
It’s warm and squashy.
This is your sexual identity as it’s being determined by them,
all your mothers and fathers
when you were a teddy bear.

Most people turn five.
Is that what it is?
Hands up.
You don’t remember.
All of them
(that’s true)
that would do it
with some little kid
got so much more than a tight squeeze
in their waddling years.

You would know
mommy and daddy.
One of you opened up that land.
See how it grows.

Let ‘im plug.
Draw back.
That’s the way.
You have evidence spokesperson,
and you only have intelligence monitor.
That’s all you’re gonna get.
You gave
even more.

Hey,
well alright,
givin’ it,
so much attention to sex,
some cultural peanut.
Can a teddy bear grasp that?

It would
be about getting laid
being a man.
Boys you have to understand,
what you got
is so exposed,
and their attention just goes there.
It’s like all aglow.

All boys
in my gramophone.
Pardon the little lever
not bringing girls along,
but we gather.

I’ve brought you to thah
floor place,
the wet ‘et end.
I’ve given you a vision of mud.
What’s going on in your head,
I’m going crazy?

There look at it,
a library full of knowledge.
The box is strong.
Hard to open it.
Oh the police have videos.
You can find it on the Internet
you hear about all the time,
but I’m giving you art’s vantage point,
not some liquorish of lust.

We’ve looked at this through the art lens,
and we see more than just the act.
Nature’s been uncovered.
I’ve brought something out of her
deeper than her photograph.
We’ve shown lines behind.
Every peck we practice art here.
It reveals.
We could use the revelation.

Are you all ticked off?
It might be you sittin’ there reason for their being in their homes.
We’ve got to look at this.
Dishes,
we wash dishes.
This is a cleaning rainbow.
What root of it?
The powers better
at the universe,
the ones that turn on lights.

Say we ignore them.
They are just to come back later.
That’s orange actor.
Dropped him while you were off to sea.
He’s got a big of muse.
No easy way out.
Bigger things we handle better the bigger we are,
and that’s an art show.


[i] In his yoga the psychic being is the evolving personality of the soul, what is maturing, or growing up, as one goes through their lifetimes. Grown, it would become the leader of the life.

[ii] If you want to hear the major experiences, I’d recommend the following articles: “The Epic of Man” “A Hidden Resource Guide” “Help you from the Rear View Mirror” and “What’s Bigger Than the Universe; Hang On, What’s Bigger Than Everything?”

[iii] It bears mentioning that the four of us that made up our group were on our way to Eilat to find work, taking a bus as far as Ein Geti and then dividing up into twos and hitching the rest of the way. I’d told them about the book of that name, by Jack Kerouac, and we began calling ourselves that. When we arrived in Eilat we got beds at Home Hostel, and under my bed I found a copy of The Dharma Bums, and that was the only book there, and there were no more books under anyone’s bed, or even a bookshelf in the dorm room. I’m just saying.

[iv] I made a video out of the first excerpt of this poem that you can find where the whole poem  “The Freedom” is posted.

[v] For a prose version of this theory, though also applied to other social sexual disorders, read the article “Make Peace With the World”

The Guests of Unseen Egypt

A Journey of a Thousand Tongues

part 3

Walking my dogs where I’ve been walking them for about the past 4 years, I came across a DVD in the middle of the road on my way home. It’s rural India, although it does border middle class India, and only one other time have I encountered a DVD in those dozen or so acres, a piece of one at any rate. What struck me about this DVD was it was the English film The Gods of Egypt. While it isn’t out of the odds of probability to have found it where I found it while I was waiting for word to begin this story about Egypt, what are the odds of doing so? Now I can’t get my hands on the horns of your reductionist materialism with this little example, if that’s how you bag the world, the universe, and everything, but neither do I apologize for the magic which my eyes see in the placement of that DVD.

The last entry from a travel journal written as a report to the world called “The Overthrow of I Am at the Equality of Soul” that chronicles an art action of posting poems of mine in Old Jerusalem, on the top of Mt. Sinai, and at the Great Pyramid:

The Great Pyramid, Egypt
August 1995

I am sitting in the bottom chamber of the Great Pyramid in Giza where I have paid a policeman three pounds to come down here alone and write and meditate. I am beginning to feel the power of the this place and am seeing much auric light. I will leave two poems down here, “The Overthrow of I Am” and “The Reincarnation of Adolf Hitler”.

On Thursday the 17th of August I posted the poems on Mt. Sinai. As soon as I began taping the 1st poem to the granite, a small boy began to ring the bell of the chapel. He rang it for several minutes, and for a moment or two I thought he was doing it because he saw me begin to post the poems. It turned out he was just being a boy, but, though he was acting randomly, the two events were connected. It was as though the mountain was paying attention to my action. I did not feel at all that the mountain was opposed to my movements. Quite the contrary, I felt as though I was being carried and sheltered in the lap of the mountain, and, especially after the friendly dream, I felt very much as though I was following the process of the mountain. As soon as I put up the last poem on the top, I looked down and found a nice fat joint just half smoked. I didn’t bring any grass because I felt if I was to smoke while I was up there, it would come to me, and it did, but after I finished my work there. Then, high and happy, I went down to Elijah’s Valley just below the summit and meditated for a long time. Then I explored some and placed “The Overthrow of I Am” on a two or three hundred-year-old tree, with tape so as not to harm it.

After, 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, 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.

I cannot even begin to describe how incredible this journey is becoming. It is as though I am flowing in the very movement of the world, as at every turn there is someone to meet my needs and help me along the way. If I were to describe to you every incident there is no way you would believe me. This has gone far beyond synchronicity and has reached the level of participation. My soul, my larger real divine self, is directly participating in the movements of my surface life, and it’s the most exciting thing I’ve ever experienced.

Here at the pyramids I plan to finish this writing, but I’d much prefer it to finish itself, because it will be difficult to wrap things up.

I’ve moved to the King’s Chamber and spent a little time lying in the sarcophagus. I don’t think this was a burial chamber but a place used by the living to perhaps touch death and other places. I would very much like to spend the night here. They tell me it’s now closed for the day.

As I left the Great Pyramid I put “The Last Man on Earth” inside the sarcophagus. It seemed very fitting there. I’ve walked around all three pyramids and have stopped at some rocks between the two smaller ones where a large whirlwind captured my attention with its intensity.

This journey is far from over, but this stage of it is coming to a close. It seemed impossible when I first conceived of the idea a year ago. I had just suffered one of the worst defeats of my life, and the idea of taking my poems and my defeat to the ends of the earth at first seemed absurd. To take my weakness, pick it up, and show it to the world appeared a fool’s task. I was Don Quixote, and these places would be my windmills. But there is a strength in weakness, especially when, from constant handling, it becomes weak enough to break open. Then it spills and shows itself for what it really is, a way of becoming strong. We are taught, in our society, to hide our weakness and to be ashamed of it, and that it’s not supposed to be. I think though, it’s the very reason we’re here, and that the nature of the world can be found in the nature of our weakness, and if one of us, with a big enough weakness, one that touched every member of the human family, were to stand up unashamed and uncover their mechanism of weakness, their process of darkness, that everyone within hearing, whether they acted upon it or not, would see not only that one’s weakness but theirs as well. If large numbers of people began to see their own weakness, so much so that they were unconcerned with another’s, within a very short time the world would transform and darkness would leave the earth and not return.

                               *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

While I was writing the last paragraph an elderly man, the most distinguished looking of the ‘tourist guides’ roaming around offering their services, sort of like flies buzzing around uncovered food, found me where I was hidden among the ruined walls and leaned down and tried to tongue kiss me, although he’d first given me his hand to kiss, which I had, thinking it was some Egyptian etiquette. I was so overcome with the fact that I was writing about moral weakness—and here was a striking example— that I wasn’t the least bit offended, but I did stop him immediately, warding him off and excitedly telling him he was acting out what I was writing about. Perhaps because my refusal carried no anger or hatred, judgment or self-righteousness, or even any victimness,—although I was still able to nail his behavior on the head by calling it moral weakness, he being an elder Moslem man, and gay behavior is forbidden in mainstream Islam— he stopped throwing his surprise pass, obviously cut to the core, and he straightened himself up and apologized profusely, telling me I was “just so beautiful.” The dignified manner in which he apologized, the look of regret on his face, the pain in his eyes, still stand there in my memory mitigating what would be called sexual harassment today but wasn’t anything that grave. He seemed to be suffering from his pass much more than I, mad at himself, embarrassed in front of me, afraid before his God.

Posted on the old wall at the Jerusalem peace camp

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I was dressed like a fruitcake, but for some reason on this creative odyssey many people, especially Moslem men, found me oddly attractive. Maybe my outlandish king-like attire somehow matched the ancient atmosphere of these places I was  posting poems at and writing my report. At any rate, why ever they did so, people rolled out the red carpet much more than they showed me the door. I had long flowing hair that came well past my shoulders and wore a wide beaded headband that had beads that sparkled when light hit them. It was Native American and featured a wolf on the forehead. My beard was long, full, and untrimmed. I wore a purple hippie hemp shirt and baggy patchwork hemp pants of different shades of purple. On my feet were of course sandals. The only thing missing was a staff. I was 33.

At 56, I groan now thinking about how I looked, but I have to admit I’ve always been half crazy. It’s actually a bit mad to be telling you now this story in light of the new morality that’s more and more occupying us the more the world goes online. I can only hope it’s not death by social media. Today, if a person is posted on Judgment.com they’re probably finished, that site wherein their moral weakness is in sight of that critical mass of people who, if they react with a fit of hatred and anger, have the power to ruin your life (not in principle all that unlike the power those little girls in Salem had all those years ago when a person accused of being a witch was put before them). Because hatred and anger are the only socially approved reactions to moral weakness, how everyone is expected to react, conditioned to I’d venture to say, reactions that are the backbone of the new morality, more black and white than ever, no one visible on that pandemic site stands a chance.

Posted on the wall at the camp

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


Meanwhile, back in Egypt, I was a popular hit with many if not most I came into contact with, or a shock. I ended my meditation in the sarcophagus of the King’s Chamber, which I’d walked up into after meditating and writing in my report in the subterranean chamber, when two ladies came in, having been alone in the chamber until their entrance. Hearing them enter I sat up, as I’d been lying down in it unseen, whereupon one of them screamed like she’d seen a ghost, and she told me afterwards, in quite halting English, that she thought she had seen one because of the way I was dressed, like some ancient pharaoh. They were Eastern European, and there was a language barrier between us, but they understood my reason for being there when I explained it to them, more by action than by words, and they took my picture as I taped the poem inside the sarcophagus. As I was doing so 2 or 3 guards came in to tell me I wasn’t supposed to get into it, and that it was time to leave because the pyramid was closing. I reasoned that they must have a camera and had seen me laying down inside it and wondered if they saw me take a piss in the bottom chamber, but I couldn’t see any camera looking around for one. In any event, they were not rude and seemed more amused at me than anything else.

I really didn’t mean to pee inside the Great Pyramid. I meant no disrespect. I just really had to go after being so afraid on the crawling trip down into the bottom chamber. I was overjoyed that I’d been able to bribe the guard to go down there, but that joy quickly turned into fear when I saw the narrow 345 foot passageway that sloped downwards uncomfortably into the distance. It was lighted all the way down though. I had a panic and started to return to the main passageway, already making up the excuse I’d tell the guard, but I swallowed the fear and began the descent, first stooping because there wasn’t room to stand up, then crawling on all fours. Swallowing all that fear was like drinking a couple of liters of water, and I had to pee real bad, although I tried my best to hold it until I left. I explored a bit and sat down to a meditation, but there was no way I could hold it, and so I peed where the floor is uneven and strewn with crumbling debris, ignoring the idea to pee into the well that had been dug to explore possible hidden subterranean chambers, thinking that would be just too much of an insult. I apologized to the pyramid and did my business, greatly relieved, and wrote the last entry in my report, taped the two poems on the tallest things I could find there, and went back up and into the King’s Chamber, as I’ve explained, to meditate there.

Going to see the pyramids was long grooved in my life. On my 12th birthday cake was a very inexact rendition of the three pyramids at Giza, and it had taken awhile to talk my mom into having one made like that. She did not do everything I asked for that cake though, did not put “happy birthday archeologist” as I’d requested, telling me that was just too ridiculous. For the next Christmas I had gotten, among other things, what I’d asked for, two books of Peter Tompkins’, Secrets of the Great Pyramid and Mysteries of the Mexican Pyramids, two very large volumes that sat wrapped under the Christmas tree their secret identities exposed because I’d poured over them in the bookstore so many times. As it was I only read the first one all the way through, but in my journeys after Egypt I did make it to a few Mexican pyramids too.

I also read The Discovery of the Tomb of Tutankhamun by Howard Carter and Arthur C. Mace, which I’d checked out of the school library, and the librarian refused to believe I read it in full, but I’d read the whole thing, every detail it listed of every artifact they took out of it. I had wanted to be an Egyptologist for awhile, but with the passion of an early adolescent, and that passion was focused on the Great Pyramid primarily, which had captured my imagination like the way a sports star or other celebrity did other boys my age. I still wonder over it because I’m convinced when science finally cracks its secret it will have to redefine the world, more in magical terms than material.

Today, you are billed a crackpot or New Ager if you think the Great Pyramid was used for anything other than a tomb for the Pharaoh Khufu or that it’s older than 4,500 years. Flinders Petrie, an English Egyptologist who is credited with putting Egyptology on the right foot, a purely material one, is quoted as saying in regards to the function of the pyramid, “It is useless to state the real truth of the matter, as it has no effect on those who are subject to this type of hallucination.” The book Secrets of the Great Pyramid examines all the theories up to that time in regards to its function and details the history of investigating the pyramid, from the point of view that, whatever it was used for, it wasn’t used simply as a royal tomb. The book is considered a New Age classic and its author, nowadays especially, an uncritical, unscientific crackpot, though an entertaining one[1].

As a kid what seized my imagination in the book were the descriptions of Alexander the Great and Napoleon spending the night inside the pyramid and getting the daylights scared out of them, both coming out in the morning visibly shaken, but neither said what they experienced. It was reported that on his deathbed Napoleon was asked what happened in there, and he went to tell the person but then said to forget it because they would never believe him.

Good God what was it I asked myself many times when my boyish thoughts turned to the mysteries of the world, hitting in their rounds that pyramid. In the leave no stone unturned and earth uncovering nature of the net, except of course those stones and that earth in our blind spots, it’s come out that Napoleon’s chief lieutenant in Egypt is quoted as saying unequivocally that the emperor didn’t even enter the pyramid much less spend the night in it, and that Alexander the Great couldn’t have either because there was no way inside it until a way was blasted into it in A.D. 820[2]. It’s interesting to note that Napoleon didn’t just take his military into Egypt but also a small army of specialists to examine her antiquities and ancient monuments, so it stands to reason he would’ve had a keen interest in the Great Pyramid and would want to see and experience it, but maybe he didn’t, and maybe Alexander the Great didn’t either, but that wouldn’t mean there’s no mystery to discover inside, no secret the pyramid hides.

Posted on the wall at the camp

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s probable that, if the actual names are incorrect, people of some note did sleep in there and got scared shitless, since legend often has some basis in fact. A couple of years before visiting the Great Pyramid I did read a factual account of someone more modern spending the night inside, Dr. Paul Brunton, a traveler, mystic, spiritual seeker and teacher, and the account of his experience, chronicled in his book A Search in Secret Egypt, provides some clues as to what the pyramid was used for if you are subject to the type of hallucination that makes you refuse to believe it was just some ego-monument to a pharaoh, a tomb of ridiculous dimensions painstakingly aligned with the heavens and positioned on the earth just so.

Dr. Brunton believed Atlantis was behind the building of the Great Pyramid. For many that would be akin to saying aliens built it, what’s popular to say  nowadays, but either way, to credit anyone else but Egyptian architects and slaves, who lived at the time of the pharaoh Khufu around 2500 B.C., with the designing and building of the Great Pyramid, is considered unscientific and just downright dumb. Analogies are by nature usually inexact things, but the following one isn’t. If you lived in Medieval Europe and believed that anyone besides God was the father of Jesus you would be best to keep your belief to yourself or face the consequences. Now, I don’t know who built the pyramid, but I don’t believe regular people did, and nor do I believe it was made to be a tomb for Khufu, and, as a consequence, this story will be put on the nut side of the net, and scientific-minded mainstream-type people won’t take me seriously, and they are the gatekeepers of contemporary literature, and so stories like this one don’t get in. When it’s all said and done they might be considered the ones who wouldn’t face reality as it is and not how they wanted it to be.

There is still so much we don’t know about ourselves, still so much that we can know relegated to things to believe or not to believe in, but although we have the ability to know things we think are only matters of belief, to gain that kind of knowledge requires a hands on investigation into your consciousness that’s not even part of the program of becoming who you are and learning about your world, and no world authority, religious, scientific, or political, will encourage you to make such an inner exploration or generally even tell you it’s possible to make one. To get to that place of knowledge of what once was only belief, where you know for example there’s life after death, or that God is real, or the soul too for that matter, requires a conscious attention on your inner life far beyond what’s considered normal.

You have to have enough conscious contact with those nonmaterial things that you know them as intimately as you do the outer world and its experience, which means a great deal of contact and experience, and that takes a lot of time away from the things of the outer world, and consequently you aren’t going to appear so normal in the first place. Still, society allows this search, quest, school, whatever striving forward you want to call it, in the individual here and there, if there’s some hands on fruits from the oddity. I suspect, especially in the ancient past, in places such as Egypt for example, there was a whole class of people doing inner investigation state-sanctioned and financed, however much they were also made to investigate within set doctrinal and ideological boundaries. I’d venture to say that no one does the beginner’s mind, open ended exploration even today.

Posted on Mt. Sinai and in old Jerusalem

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dr. Brunton was a person making inner investigation, trying to be original and open ended about it, though he did start somewhere, a noteworthy and trustworthy individual among people who have made that kind of exploration, but his theory of the function of the pyramid, based on his account of spending one night in the King’s Chamber, which at the time of my visit I took as a prime example of what the pyramid was used for, has not stood the test of time in my own inner investigation. Just as I feel it wasn’t built to be a tomb, I also feel it wasn’t only or originally meant to be a place for initiation into the ancient mysteries, what Dr. Brunton concluded by his single experience. While it does fire the imagination, it’s inadequate to be used as any definitive example of what the pyramid was used for.

Things hide on my way to plain sight. Somehow the co-allusive is real allusive. That’s my muse, inner voice, speaking as though Dr. Brunton is speaking. After an out of body experience inside the King’s Chamber, his inner voice, spoken as though a high priest of ancient Egypt is speaking, which he can see in vision standing in front of him, tells him that he’s “now learned the great lesson,” which is that man has and is a soul, and the soul does not die. At the time of writing his book he saw that lesson as the main object of the ancient mysteries and it seems the greatest lesson life has to offer, but, if my muse is correct, and, as his later writings indicate, he would come to know other lessons equally great.

Be that as it may, I highly doubt the pyramid was orientated towards the discovery of spiritual truths, although in its chambers one might encounter them if one were so aligned because, as I see it, it was designed to exploit the powers of consciousness. It’s interesting to note that, although Dr. Brunton’s great lesson is about the soul, at no point in his experience does he cease from being the ego Dr. Brunton and become his soul, only becomes a pure mental being as he explains it. Although many might argue to the contrary, he doesn’t have a spiritual experience but a metaphysical one because he doesn’t experience ego loss or leave ego consciousness and enter momentarily a higher or deeper one, what in my opinion distinguishes the former experience from the latter. He doesn’t experience a change in identity, only experiences a much broader range of being Dr. Brunton.

In popular imagination ancient Egypt is associated with magic and not spiritual enlightenment, and I don’t think it has it wrong. It errs, I feel, in the kind of magic it imagines, that kind that seeks to overcome the laws of matter such as making objects appear and disappear, transmuting one physical thing into another, and other (pretend) feats associated with the common magician. It seems to me that ancient culture, or more specifically, its class of people tuned into the inner life, was into learning to manipulate consciousness. As I’ve suggested and will now explain further, it’s my opinion that the pyramid was used to enhance the powers of consciousness, powers natural to us but ones largely unknown and unused by the great majority of modern human beings, powers most would call magic they so far exceed our use of our consciousness today, powers that enable one to see and communicate at a distance beyond physical means and project the consciousness to distant locations, not only locations on the earth[3].

Victims of the quest of magic.
What that victim?
All these monsters
for cannonball.

The usage again
to put a man in space,
can you count it?

Tomorrow,
when it’s the right entity –
a soul rise.

                                       (my morning muse)

Who in reason is in their right mind? As we sit here, me writing and you reading, inter-dimensional extraterrestrial monsters smarter than us are pressing for an inner life hegemony on the earth, the real ‘child molesters’, while other aliens, also from another dimension, this one of mind, beings so far advanced in terms of consciousness we call them gods and divine beings, are both preventing that inner conquest and aiding us to advance, within their limits of course, and all this is going on right under our noses and directly affects the inner life of each and every one of us, and, consequently, the make and motion of our outer lives individually and collectively. And that’s not all, far from it, but that’s enough to bring into the picture so to get the picture we as science are missing something critically important about the world. We apply that ignorance to everything, the function of the Great Pyramid for example.

Posted in the old Jerusalem postings

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

After spending some hours in the pyramid grounds at night after closing, I decided not to seek permission to spend the night inside the big one. I basically chickened out, although it’s doubtful I could’ve gotten permission to do it anyway. The whole experience at the plaza, the day part and the night part, was all a bit much and on the negative side, especially after the second sexual pass I had to thwart combined with the feeling that murder was on the man’s mind and the long unlit walk out I made through an endlessly stretching graveyard in order to avoid the guards and get away fast from Mr. Grab, what happened in the night part, which I’ve yet to relate. It all backed up the overall feeling that had been creeping up on me during my short time inside the pyramid: this is not the safest of places.

Besides the lascivious men, other-worldly things crept about and could get you if you got inside stupid enough, and what I mean by stupid is at a depth you can’t handle, hands on spirit real, and you don’t have enough of a grasp on spirit to protect yourself. I had enough of a grasp to know I could really get into some serious trouble. I knew non-material beings and places are real, and I sensed that inside that pyramid was a sort of ‘manmade’ portal to other places, where one might encounter creatures from another world, although I didn’t formulate it then as specifically as I do now as a doorway, but I did know back then I could really get fucked by something really fucked up if I opened up certain doors, and so no thank you summed up my decision not to spend the night inside the Great Pyramid.

I was also still somewhat embarrassed with myself for peeing in it, knowing that meant something not so respectful, necessary though it was, but I was thankful I didn’t have to take a dump inside, which would mean something much more disrespectful, like shitting on it. You would wonder though, at what it represents in the story of redemption itself, the impetus to this creative odyssey, if you’ve read the preceding parts. I can perhaps put that as taking a piss on our sense of mystery in the world, our belief in magic, our feeling that God is real and the soul true. It would’ve been really bad if I had to take a dump.

Regardless, there at the pyramids, not yet aware of all the implications and meanings of peeing, I feared by taking a piss I might’ve offended whatever it was that met you inside it, not looking on it as something compassionate and understanding if you know what I mean, and I didn’t want to start with that handicap. I opted for doing a meditation inside one of the smaller ones at night, one where I knew I wouldn’t be disturbed and I could meditate as long as I liked, although for me they did not generate the same aura of mystery the great one did. I was going to use the meditation as a gauge to see if I wanted to try spending the night inside the big one.

A night meditation in the smaller pyramids wasn’t permitted, at least in its normal operation and as a normal guest, as the whole place had a parameter and was guarded, but it was possible if you made prior arrangements with one of the grassroots tourist guides, and I had done that with a young Moslem man slightly older than I if I remember correctly.

I had thought he’d wait until after the laser show to sneak me into the smaller pyramid because it meant climbing the side to get to the entrance, since we couldn’t just walk up to the entrance in plain sight from the front. The guide insisted we do it soon after closing, and that meant during the laser show. That meant skirting the searchlights to get to the pyramid and climbing the side in sort of a leap frog wait here and minute manner because colored searchlights swept by us every minute or so like they were searching more for escaping prisoners than providing entertainment, how I experienced it anyway, with both the thrill of escape and fear of capture. The booming recorded (English was it?) voice accompanying the searchlights, so civil, slightly excited even, did help to dispel that feeling of being an escapee, but it was a bit out of this world too under the thrill and dread of the circumstances and didn’t really help to make me feel better about being there in the first place. The guide seemed to know the routine of the lights and hence where to be when, and we got in without being detected.

I don’t remember how far we went in before he stopped and we sat down, him wanting a massage of all things at such a time and place. To him I probably looked more like a flaming fag than an ancient pharaoh, or even a fruitcake, with my long flowing locks of hair and baggy purple clothes, and he had other things in mind than just me doing a meditation. Struck by how odd it was he wanted one, but having lived the past couple of years in a hippie community where massages and hugs were as common as handshakes you took and gave, I began to rub his shoulders, but doing it with hands that did not carry emotion in them. He was a man, and I had no attraction to him in the least. My willingness to touch him he took for permission to grab my crotch, which he turned around and did, a bit forcefully, and I had to pry him off me.

Being a man back then that looked quite feminine, in a freakish sort of way, and being a Western tourist, and someone just passing through, I’d gotten my butt pinched a few times in the old city of Jerusalem by Muslim men, enough to suspect I was looked at like a woman by more men than those who pinched me. Just outside the old city, one Muslim Palestinian, accompanied by a small group of men, had threatened to rape me, as he put it, “drag me in the bushes, fuck me first, then kill me,” as I relate in the first story of this creative odyssey, “Behind the Mask Jerusalem.” Here in Egypt it seemed no different, and it made me wonder if I would’ve gotten the same treatment anywhere in the Muslim world as diverse and multi-cultured as that world is. One thing common throughout, of the societies where Islam is the dominant religion, is that access to women is restricted, and in some cases even just looking on their face or at their hair is forbidden to do in public, something debated quite a bit today. Somehow I doubt Islam would be willing to admit more prolific homosexual behavior as a result, of the casual kind, not the kind where a man identifies as being gay. The kind where one would let a penis and an anus do.

Posted on the wall at the camp

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Telling this story 23 years after the events related, try as I might I can’t remember everything that happened inside that pyramid that night, or even which smaller pyramid I went into, only the massage and sexual pass the tourist guide threw and shortly afterwards being in a situation where I felt he wanted to kill me. I don’t remember the journey to a room of almost total darkness we ended up in, but I do distinctly remember I sat with the man near a large hole in the floor. He’d said beforehand we couldn’t use a flashlight because we might get detected, and so it took my eyes some time before I became aware we sat before a large dark hole in the floor that I could not see a bottom for. He was telling me to blindly jump in that hole and do my meditation. It was a chamber he told me. I argued with him, by this time paranoid he was trying to have me jump to my death, and I mean, under the circumstances and the huff he was in for being refused his sexual advance, it would be natural to assume you are at least in big danger. I did not make the jump, much to his disappointment, and we left the pyramid, and I don’t remember the journey out either. I just vaguely remember breaking off with the man once we got outside the pyramid, abruptly, and heading for the graveyard that bordered the plaza on the Cairo side so to get out and not the way he wanted to take me.

Once inside the graveyard I regretted my decision. In my travels I’ve slept in graveyards because they are usually quiet, clean, grassy places where you can be relatively alone. Doing that and being a mystic, I’ve had a handful of encounters with the spirits of deceased people, only one menacing. Here I had not started off on the right foot, and I was on the run from the otherworldly, and going from the pyramid plaza to a cemetery at night just did not lift me out of that worldview. It’s an old Moslem graveyard of a more modern era, and maybe some graves are a couple of hundred years old or more, but I don’t know if that’s the case. I didn’t look at gravestones. I just ploughed ahead dodging graves and statues as best I could trying to get to the end of the thing as fast as I could without outright running. After what seemed like an hour but probably was more like 20 minutes, I began to doubt there was an end to get to. Finally, there it was.

Getting back into normal civilization, in this case a greater Cairo neighborhood, did not get me out of the woods. It was late, somewhere around international closing time. I didn’t wear a watch back then because I didn’t want to be a slave to time, and I don’t now, but things have really changed since then in regards to what keeps the time on us, and I’d have to explain I don’t carry my cell phone everywhere nor reset the time every time I drop it and the battery falls out. The street was deserted, and I knew the buses would not be running too much longer, and I had no idea which one to take to get back to my hostel nor even where a bus stop was. I began walking down a street that was lined on both sides by residences stacked high one on top of another no break in-between them, looking for a bus stop. Before I got very far a man spotted me from a slight distance, the only other person on the street besides myself it was so late, and he came directly up to me, smiling a big smile. He asked if I were American, and I said yes, a bit wary of course. He was being such an excited kid about meeting an American he put me at ease. He invited me to his house to meet his family, especially his young son, who really wanted to meet an American he told me, and there I was again before an abyss being urged to jump in.

You would expect me to politely say no thank you and make a quick exit from the conversation in light of preceding events, in light of a lot of things, but at that moment I remembered Alison, if that was indeed his name (over the years it’s people’s names that escape me most), an 18-year-old boy from Amsterdam I traveled in Israel with after the peace fast and poem postings in Jerusalem. My memory involved watching him follow some men into a cave without the slightest hesitation. They had invited the both of us to see something ‘very nice, very nice” inside, not knowing enough English to say much of anything other than that. The entrance was a dark rough-hewed opening of a tunnel on the side of a small mountain where there was a mikveh fed by a spring issuing from it. I did not know how far into the mountain the tunnel went or where it went. I did not know these rough looking Israeli men. I had 700 shekels in my pocket I’d spent weeks working for doing daily labor in Tel Aviv. I was also very stoned on some strong skunk the men had smoked with us, and I was very paranoid.

We had been picked up by one of the men while hitchhiking to Jerusalem from Tel Aviv. In the car the man turned to us in the backseat and asked, more in sign language than with words, if we wanted to smoke some pot. We really did look the part, and we really did want to get high. Yes, yes, yes was our excited answer. We waited and waited for him to spark up, but he didn’t. I got a little edgy when he pulled off the highway and onto a dirt road, but we came shortly to an abandoned village and parked, and since there were people milling and sitting about, not a lot but enough to know they weren’t all related, I relaxed. He took us to a spot under the trees where his friends were waiting. They had a large vicious-looking dog tied to one of the trees. They did not appear, how would you say?, refined men. They got us high and urged us to come with them to the mikveh, obviously wanting to show us something. Whether or not it was an idea that popped into their minds as result of getting high, or it was a preplanned maneuver take us somewhere so to knock us over the heads so to take our money, I could not tell. Stoned and under the influence of pot paranoia, I was leaning towards the latter. However much a peace pipe it’s billed to be, pot doesn’t oftentimes give you such a friendly feeling. When I saw it was a cave’s mouth they took us to, I was convinced they meant us no good.

They stood a minute or so outside the entrance to the tunnel motioning us to follow and repeating over and over, “very nice.” Obviously they knew how it looked. They went in, and I couldn’t believe Alison just followed them inside. Well, actually, I could believe it. In Tel Aviv he had succumbed to a temporary malady affecting especially adventure travelers: going off the deep end in the absence of any real social structure. He’d stopped saying more than a few words at a time, stopped bathing and changing clothes. His hair was a mass of mad curls and sand. I had taken him under my wing and was making sure he ate and didn’t come to stink too much. I was also watching out for him because he was wide open to anything and anybody. I tried to stop him from going inside the tunnel, but he ignored me completely. I danced on one foot then the other for a few seconds, and then I followed him inside, sure I’d meet a knock over the head.

You had to slightly stoop to walk through it, and it went in straight and narrow some 10 meters or so directly into the mountain. It came out into a large roughly oval shaped room aligned top, bottom, and sides with shining crystals. The ankle depth water flowing around about gave the place a magic feel, what with all the dancing of the light reflecting the crystals in a darkened cavern-like space. The men were obviously proud to show us this, and greatly pleased to share it, and they took the kind of pleasure that gets the biggest kick out of you feeling it too, sharing the experience with you, as they were as excited about our pleasure as theirs. They did not want a single thing in return except to share that with us, and we were complete strangers to them from a different land and language. As I see it now they were very refined men, and they were kind.

The experience, happening just weeks before coming to Cairo, had been a lesson for me that sometimes you just go with someone no matter what it looks like because it may have something for you you’ll both greatly enjoy and highly need, like it’s something from the divine or something setup-wise so good it is to you. Maybe I missed a great meditation not applying that lesson to jumping in that hole inside the pyramid, but that was just too much of a test of how much I will trust. Here with this friendly man, it was easier. So, remembering Alison, I politely accepted the man’s invitation to his house and followed him down the street and onto a side street and up flights of stairs to a small apartment full of the warmth of a smiling family wanting to meet an American. With him I smoked a hookah (tobacco) for the first time, and tasted again Arab hospitality.

After a short visit, where he made sure I was refreshed and ready to travel on, he took me to the bus stop and waited there until the correctly numbered bus came, and he put me on it and waved goodbye. I think it was the very last bus of the night, and I returned to my hostel feeling much better. The following day I went to the Museum of Cairo. The ticket taker let me in for free, I think just for being different. That was good because at that moment 10 pounds was a lot of money to me. Inside the museum was like touching a circle together, as I saw firsthand many of the artifacts I’d read about when I was 12. And on those  higher notes of hospitality and a 12-year-old’s wonder, I left Egypt on the bus for Israel, and a week later I was in India.

Posted on the wall at the camp

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Time has killed the sense I had then that I was actually posting good poetry. I’m embarrassed to have thought that. It’s in the over simplified language of a nursery rhyme, but it’s meaning is quite dense, too dense in meaning and too simplistic in form to call good poetry, but maybe with the very short and to the point attention span of the net, and it’s love of simple shiny device, it might be appreciated at least as poetry at its most puerile, as doggerel poetry. The ideas and ideals the poems embody, however, aren’t infantile, and they might even be appreciated as high ideas and higher ideals that do us good to read, and, despite everything, net readers also like a good read. I wrote these poems and similar ones before I discovered my own muse. After years of developing that inner hearing discovery, I’ve had to throw out the idea that I have ever written or ever will write good poetry. I still have the same flaw of cramming deep ideas into shallow language, in this case conversational English with a twist, but now it might work a better and more lasting poetic spell because it’s how it’s meant to be, what comes naturally, not what I make up to try and sound poetic.

As I relate in the first story, the one set in Jerusalem, I began this creative odyssey as a result of tripping over my penis in a small community where I had come to some measure of prominence for grassroots social work and community level dreamwork. The journey of posting the poems and writing the report was something I did for that community more than for the world at large. I sought redemption, and I saw myself as doing penance for my wrong, and it didn’t escape my notice, nor should it yours, that often along the way I encountered situations that reminded me of my wrong, made me face it from the opposite direction, not as the wrongdoing, but either trying to protect myself or someone else from being sexually violated or being a victim myself, as defined by the new morality at any rate, but none of what I encountered as unwanted sexual advances, even the death threat one related in the Jerusalem story, caused the degree of trauma that would make me a victim in the sense of what that word implies, that someone messed you up. It seemed to me, and still does, that embarking on that odyssey involved surrendering to the powers that preside over such journeys of penance and redemption, divine powers as I encounter them and as they operate, a willingness to sacrifice even my life if necessary, and those powers took on my case and had me go through the lessons and hardships I needed so to give back to my community what I took from it: it’s faith in itself, it’s willingness to trust and believe, it’s dare to hope, in short, it’s innocence.

I made the mistake of only communicating with a single person from the community, and only with him for the Jerusalem part of it. I figured he was the best person for the job. He had helped me get out of town so I wouldn’t be beaten up, escorted me to the bus. He was centrally located at the only bookstore and was a dedicated 60’s style community activist in a place where that still fit. It happened he lost my correspondence and told no one about it nor about the journey of redemption. I had especially wanted it read to whom it most concerned, the person I tripped on, but he didn’t read or give it to anybody, just left it among all his papers under the counter until it was lost, what he said upon my short return some two years after I’d left. He did say it made him cry it was so honest and heartfelt, but he stopped communicating with me after that brief visit, and so you have to wonder if it was all that ‘strike the cords of sympathy’, ‘I hear you guy” as he said it was. At any rate, I’m telling the story again 23 years later, though this Egyptian part of it I’ve never written down until now. I’d like to believe putting it on the world wide web will make it easier to identify. I can only hope it’s not like believing in Santa Claus.

Posted on the wall at the camp

The greatest fact of our material existence we are all but blind to. We don’t even have a practical language for it it’s so unseen, and yet we live in an ocean of one another, are so into each other’s stuff it’s not even funny, inside and out, cannot even tell the difference between ourselves and others sometimes we so live and breathe one another. Inclusive terms and words such as civilization, society, culture, humanity, the human race or species, etc. group us together as separate individuals within the larger group, but they don’t give the hands on idea the group is a holistic entity that each individual is an integral part of, imply no sense of intrinsic oneness or underlying unity, no notion of a shared common identity. I say the greatest fact of our material existence because this common shared identity does not stop with just other humans but includes all things, God even, but in the material field, in the world, it’s other human beings that are the most immediate to our experience in terms of the dos and don’ts of our daily lives, the think and act feel and be of our mutual existence, inside and out, where it is we begin seeing the underlying unity, right here at our own house in human unity. The moment we got our hands on that, as my muse puts it, even a tree would not sink from hope.

We do have a hands on sense of a shared identity, but more in negative terms than positive, in ways that bring yet more division and polarization within humanity than unity, such as the outrage we feel when someone has violated someone else, the sense that now they have a debt to pay back to everyone and not just the victim, or the hate or mistrust we feel for other groups in humanity because we so completely identify with our own, be that a clan, ethnicity, nationality, race, gender, sexuality, religion, political party or particular ideology, or even a friendship circle. The results of this negative sense of human unity can most clearly be seen in the behavior of a mob intent on hanging someone, which happens every day on the net, or an individual who’s strapped a bomb to their chest or put a gun or knife in their hand or murder on a steering wheel hell bent on killing everyone not in their group, which happens every day on the earth. We literally can’t see the forest for the trees, and at just about at every turn, we throw out the baby with the bathwater, as a point of pride in most cases.

Between the time I posted the poems and now the Internet has intervened, what I did not foresee, what has made my journey of redemption basically null and void since the net has so amplified our negative sense of a common identity, to the nth degree. It’s polarizing us in ways we would not have thought possible before its advent, and it’s creating a new morality, one even more black and white than the old one. What was once frowned upon before the net is now intolerable, but, if you did it when it generated only a frown, you’re held accountable for it now when there’s zero tolerance for it, which means you’re ruined. The gravity put on speech and act, the dead seriousness given to the least little gaff or moral blunder, is making the human condition more and more illegal. Nowhere is this more apparent than in regards to sex, what I’ve argued elsewhere is the heart of our morality, why it’s centerfold on the net. Today any unwanted sexual advance on any person of any age is being reduced to rape such is the gravity we give it. God help you if you’ve fondled a child.

I sit sometimes so surprised at all the smart people, journalists, politicians, professors, scientists, doctors, religious leaders, and the like, even artists, who sit at their computers and overreact no differently than the average Joe or Jane. The Internet has put a microscope on us, and being the hypocritical moral-minded creatures that we are, we’re focusing in on the dirt. Although the net has amplified it, we are not looking at anything that hasn’t been in humanity since the beginning of history. Seeing it up so close and in such ugly detail, our first reaction is to stop it. ‘Not one more time!’ rings the hastag.

Our reaction is not unwarranted or uncalled for, because beneath that dirt hides so much pain and suffering, for all parties involved, victims and victimizers alike. It’s just that it’s self-righteous, hypocritical, and blind, is not a reaction based on true values and real identities, isn’t founded upon the underlying reality of unity but on the belief of the separate individual. Get that guy! It’s the way we have always dealt with wrongdoing: react, accuse, and punish. If there’s one thing the net should teach us is that the way we try and stop it only adds fuel to the fire, however many bad actors are taken out of the picture. You just have so many rising up to take their places.

Overcome the prejudice of seeing the bad guy.
This is a non-judgment veggie.
It wasn’t the world over.
It was right in front of you.

                                                  (my muse)

Imagine a world where every person put humanity and the world where people now put their family, nation, race, gender, sexuality, religion, or whatever have you. It’s the global identity being bounced around here and there, but no one in any position of power is taking it seriously. What gets the press are the hundred and one problems that result from not having such an inclusive identity. It would be where, instead of being told and taught from birth onwards that you’re first a Jew, an American, Chinese, Russian, white, black, a Moslem, a Christian, a Hindu, a man or woman for that matter, you’re taught you are the world first and whatever else second, and just like you can still be an individual within your subgroup, you can still be one with all the trimmings in the original main group. You might can see how many problems get solved if everyone on earth would look at the world and humanity in that way.

In practical terms, where we really get our hands on the thing, that would mean each and every human being is as intrinsically important as any other, regardless of their position in society, not the same in the sense as being the same or having the same abilities, capacities, development, or needs, but as important as anybody else, the serf as important as the king, the poor as the rich, the woman as the man, the adult as the child, the violator as the victim, and on and on, which is what the higher ideal expressed in such sayings as all men are created equal and love thy neighbor as thyself is getting at, oneness. It’s not ‘there I go but by the grace of God’ when looking on someone less fortunate than yourself, but there I go[4].

In such a personal set of circumstances, not just feeling empathy for all but a living sense of a shared identity, you’re not going to just walk away and not help someone, whoever they are. You also wouldn’t get offended by their mess, if they’ve made one, and with that non-judgmental understanding attitude be in a better position to help convince them they need to clean it up and let you help them do that. When you apply this attitude to criminal behavior, sexual or otherwise, you have what’s been missing in the formula crime and punishment, what would make it more equal to stopping crime.

It’s really common sense if you look at it. Not knowing where it comes from because we are all but unconscious of the intrinsic oneness, we have the expectation that people should treat others with respect, be empathetic, not look on women for example as objects of sex, not take advantage of the innocence of children, and so on, all a part of the general human-wide expectation that you should be good to others and not bad. We believe it’s some code we adopt and follow at the same time we feel someone should just naturally assume this attitude towards others, in other words, have it innate. People who do not have empathy for others, disrespect and harm others, we look at as more animal and less  human, call them monsters, predators, and what have you. We are outraged at their behavior, hate them, disrespect them, and have no empathy for them. We just want them to pay for what they have done. We never ask ourselves how can we expect them to have empathy for others, the kind that you feel for everyone that keeps you from harming anybody, the kind that makes you feel remorse if you have, when we have none for them, and they’re somebody. Is the violator the only one here acting like an animal? Isn’t it supposed to be a preexisting empathy for all?

Posted on the wall at the camp

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We come to my redemption. I’ve kind of let that go for the most part because I have to face the facts, but, like I still write poetry although I may not be much of a poet, am even writing an epic poem that I’m unlikely to finish or is even likely to be an epic, I’m still writing my redemption. And I do so knowing that in today’s morally indignant world it’s more likely to bring me ruin than redemption if the story were to get out. It’s gone beyond that hippie community. I’m half mad, like I said, to tell such stories today.

I can take comfort in the fact there seems to be a moratorium on my web work, due either to it being too low in quality to attract any attention, or for the opposite reason, and it’s just over everyone’s head. I’ve posted some pretty controversial stuff over the years, the kind that explodes so easily on the net, but in my case nothing detonates. I am actually thankful for this, and I hope it stays this way.

I do believe in miracles though, and anything is possible in this worldwide movie we are all starring in unawares. If I’m able to do anything at all with my net footprint, it’s give some sense that the world goes deeper than we even dare to hope. I’m not talking grave here, about heavens and hells, gods and devils, but about who we really are, each one of us, outside of the movie. It’s the greatest fact ever. We are not our name. We are not what happens to us wearing that name. We are not even what we do. We are more than the world, go higher than heaven, and greater than the universe, are actually actors upon a stage, avatars of a gamer, or, if you like, do live in a computer simulation, all apt symbols for the unknown we are using the known to figure, and if we can but get some sense of this, we wouldn’t take ourselves so seriously, would be able to take what comes much better, be much more resilient, not so prone to suffer strong and lasting after effects when something happens to us shockingly real. In this world something like that eventually does[5].

What the fuck?
Leave ‘im alone.
That means not gonna hunt for you.
Thanks, real nice of ya.
Questions and Answers
hefty in your conversation.


__________________________________________________________________________________________________

  1. https://www.nytimes.com/1971/09/12/archives/secrets-of-the-great-pyramid-by-peter-tompkins-illustrated-416-pp.html  A review of the book by The New York Times
  2. http://www.strangehistory.net/2013/12/02/napoleon-and-the-great-pyramid/
  3. My own experience with out of body travel in the article “You’re Like Wow, That Really Was Enchanted by a Rock” suggests this possibility of leaving the earth, but, as I was unsuccessful in my attempt, it would seem more is needed to achieve it, using a carefully constructed ‘launch pad’, the Great Pyramid for example, could help facilitate it. And, although it’s not included in the text, the pyramid might also have been used to travel in time, within limits of course, and I base this possibility on an out of body experience I had where I traveled in time, related in the article “The Epic of Man”.
  4. Sri Aurobindo expresses this same idea in his writings, but it came to me soon after the experience of Supermind, years before I read Sri Aurobindo, and so I don’t credit him as my source for the idea.
  5. The articles, “The Sponsored Man; What’s Bigger Than the Universe? Hang On, What’s Bigger Than Anything?” and “Help You From the Rear View Mirror” amply elaborate on this movie theme as well on what identity is beyond ego.

Clambers on the Mountaintop

Moses at Mt. Sinai by Jacques de Letin

Moses at Mt. Sinai by Jacques de Letin

A Journey of a Thousand Tongues

part 2

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, and 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 Eilat to get to Egypt 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 the prophet wannabe 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,” 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
At
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 on this blog, “Make Peace With the World”, and the long poem on another blog, “The Pupil and His Divine, a Harmony in Five Measures” (I give the first link of five) might interest you to see what that future self has written on these matters. My poetry Twitter feed would give you the most up to date writings, my insight on many issues. The two links (to two photopoems) are to particularly crucial poems on the topic at hand.

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.
Grounding,
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.
Savitri
some of those things alive.

Watch abysses –
or Edgar Allen Poe.
“Fight us Law?”
Yep.
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)

Behind the Mask Jerusalem

Damascus Gate, Image by Walkerssk from Pixabay

A Journey of a Thousand Tongues

part 1

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 (I’ll explain presently) 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.

(one of the main poems posted on our rounds of posting poems in and around the old city)

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.

(another main poem posted during our postings)

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.

The Golden Gate, Image by Walkerssk from Pixabay

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 (hostel manager) Mohammad’s of the world would come in from the cold.

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