Tag Archives: art activism

Between Jerusalem I’m Sorry, Chapter 12

My beloved puppy dog Lisa Joy Rottweiler, where is she? I had to educate myself. Photo by Kamesh

We Grasp the World Now

I settled down on the beach there in Tel Aviv, sleeping in the sand in my army, down, sleeping bag. Bodies littered the area around me. I made friends. They watched my backpack while I went to day labor. They didn’t work. There were two principle guys that the group revolved around, both from Holland, an 18-year-old boy called Rhino, and the de facto leader I told you about, around 22. I forgot his name. There were young teenage girls all around him all day long like groupies, and he’d usually have one he was wrapped around, she just glowing with being the chosen one at that moment. They were Israeli girls, and all went home around sundown. I don’t know what it is about 14-year-old girls, or I do, but you won’t believe me. Most were around that age. This was to be his undoing, really what destroyed the whole thing, that nice, freestyle party we had going on the beach, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

It was centered on pot, though, not girls, and Rhino was a dealer, De Factor like his front man and advisor, but he’d smoke us out for free, the little beach crowd, and we smoked almost continually. We sat in the sand under an umbrella-like structure made of stucco that would fit several people, and Rhino would always be the bong master, and he’d put one hit in the bong after another, always taking a hit too each time he gave one to someone in the circle, and on and on and on. Every once in awhile he’d let De Facto be the bong master, but no one else. I got smoked out when I went to work in the mornings, I mean, I went and stood at this street corner not too far from the beachfront where men and sometimes women would drive by and look at me to see if they wanted to hire me for the day. I got work everyday. Anyway, the first thing I’d do coming ‘home’ from work was go to that bong meeting. It wasn’t always going on, but when I came back from work, Rhino would fire it up. He knew I could use it, and he was kind. Use it? That was the most I’ve ever been addicted to a substance in my life. It was all I wanted to do, get stoned. Life was hard. It downright sucked. If you’re wondering about the other people on the beach, the civilians, De Facto said not to worry about them. We actually believed him.

Work was taxing but interesting. Where else but Israel would you get hired for the day to mix cement for a construction crew that talked about Spinoza all day long? I spent one day working for a crew ran by a couple of brothers who were really into him. He converted into Judaism but wasn’t Jewish originally—that question of Jewish identity again: what, exactly, is a Jew? I knew nothing of Spinoza, and they were quite uppity about their knowledge of him and their love of philosophy—it was really something, what it being a construction crew and all—and they looked down on me as if I were some commoner unable to understand what they were talking about. There was something about being a gentile here, with them I mean. I had to brag about my spiritual experience. I chose Silent Mind to describe. It shut them up, because they only had knowledge, not actual experience, but I didn’t get hired for the next day. You have to be careful one upping people if your survival is dependent upon being a commoner.

Finally I got the job. It lasted for a couple of weeks or more. The order of events here and time are so screwy in my mind. It could have been a month. It was a small company that installed glass windows in buildings under construction. Boy what a view of Tel Aviv. It was owned by two brothers, the older one ex-Israeli special forces (they had an uncle on the ground at Entebbe they told me), the other a young man with long hair in his late twenties who was the supervisor. They were secular Israelis. I think they kept me, and did so until I left Tel Aviv, because I was ex-special forces, even though I was a bit of a butterfingers with the glass sometimes. When they saw how much I liked going to the buffet style cafeteria for lunch, we went often. I’d usually only see the older brother at lunch, but when I did we’d usually talk about SF. It’s a brotherhood that transcends nation states.

I told him about the Israeli captain that I went to the Special Qualifications Course with (6-82 WETSU! (We eat this shit up)). He was really impressive, he and the Canadian officer. They were both well-liked by the class, as they were good at everything we did, didn’t get in the way like other foreign officers did, like for instance the Saudi Arabian officer, who always lagged behind, but he pulled a rabbit out of the hat and helped me and two others pass the land navigation course, which 60% of the class failed and hence failed the Q Course. It was a mother. I must ask for a moment of silence and say that the Liberian officer was killed on a parachute drop. He was the nephew of the president. Heads rolled over that one. It was a jumpmaster mistake. False DZ. The man landed in a big, deep pond, and drowned, tangled in his shroud lines. Fellow classmates pulled him out of the water as fast as they could. SF candidate medics worked on him for over an hour, one of them my good friend, who told me the story. It was a no go. He was gone. I washed clothes with him right before it happened, and he was an officer and a gentleman.

Camp Mackall, North Carolina, 1982, dark thirty. I had to find at least one stake in a swampy to dry land forest to pass the land nav test. Our maps, like I said, were out of date, and the stake was not where the map said it was, or rather, it was, but the land had changed, and I couldn’t find it. We had to find four in the daytime and four at night, or at least five in total. The four daytime ones where a piece of cake. Night time, however, was a different story. I encountered two other SF candidates trying to find the same stake. They couldn’t either. One I had been avoiding the whole course because he’d been a Ranger Indoctrination Program (R.I.P.) assistant instructor that had beat me upside the head as I dropped out of a full equipment rucksack run right before I quit that program. Rangers are not SF. They are not unconventional. That’s all I’ll say about that. That was after I first enlisted in the army, three years before this present incident, and that quitting still haunts me in dream. The commandant of the program tried to tell me I’d regret it, but I didn’t listen. Does anybody ever?

Now, a sergeant myself, although only an E-5, I really didn’t want this guy to embarrass me in front of myself, and so I tried to avoid him as much as possible. Here I had to face him. He was honorable and said nothing about our previous encounter in the Rangers. We got in a line like doing a police call (picking up cigarette butts) but still couldn’t find the damn thing. Time was running out. Finally we sat down, frustrated. Then we heard the unmistakable sound of someone opening a C ration can with a P-38. I got up and went to the sound, and I was at the wall of a draw, which is a thin stream running through the land, invisible because on both sides was tall, impenetrable vegetation. They were the bane of the SF candidate at Camp Mackall. The others motioned me to go through the draw, which I had to do on my belly the brambles were so thick. Low and behold, sitting right next to the unfindable stake was the Saudi Arabian officer eating a can of peanut butter. I went back through the draw and gave the good news. Soon, all three of us were there punching on our ticket to prove we’d found the stake. It was in the middle of a small, triangular island of land made by three draws, each in a different position than the map showed, and it showed no island between draws, why we couldn’t find it. How the foreign officer did I will never know, as he trained mostly in the desert, or so we figured, but, needless to say, we respected him after that.

Back in Tel Aviv I was smoking pot, a world and 13 years away from Camp Mackall. It happened one day, on a weekend I think, that I was given the honor of being the bong master. It was delicious! I had as much to smoke as I could smoke, finally, and I just inhaled it. Suddenly, out of nowhere, I was hit with that undeniable urge I’ve described in the Jewish Messiah at King’s Cafeteria story. The urge was to get up and run away from there as fast as I could because the cops were coming. I couldn’t believe myself, and it was as though I were watching myself from outside as I thrust the bong to Rhino, mumbling something about having to go, and go I went and fast. I got maybe 20 meters away, walking along the top of the beach where the promenade started, and I told myself this was crazy, and that I should go back there and smoke. I turned around and stopped dead in my tracks. The cops were there busting everybody. I turned around again and walked away, quite quickly, safe and out of sight, thanking my lucky stars.

They took only Rhino, but took everyone’s else’s information, that they would use later. De Facto went into action, or thought he did. That night I saw him on the phone with Rhino’s parents, on the promenade up from the beach. He’d assured them all would be well he told me. Rhino’s parents had just visited him there in Israel, and we were still munching out on all the Dutch chocolate they left him. It was sad, and I really felt for those parents and their child. I was cautious about going back to the beach after the bust, of course, only went back to the promenade, but De Facto wasn’t cautious, for some stupid reason I couldn’t figure out. I’d taken three friends of mine and went to a squat another friend had found for me in Jaffa. It was just in time too because the cops raided the tourist backpackers scene near the beachfront that very next day, going into the main bar everyone hung out in and really busting heads, beating the shit out people, and they raided the main hostel too, or a couple of them, to just clean the area of all that riffraff, as they saw us anyway. De Facto got hauled in too. I had warned him in that conversation at the public phone stand, but he told me that, before he’d left the beach and made that phone call, he’d told an undercover officer on the beach that the man was one, explaining to me it’s the law they have to tell you if they are, and the man told him, “You’ll go far”. He seemed to feel that was some kind of proclamation that he would not be busted, or something like that. He got seven years in prison, Rhino five. The issue of the young girls was the main issue at trial I heard, not so much the grass, but I wasn’t there. A few of the girls were at the trial, someone who was there told me, they loyal to the end.

The friend that found me that squat in Jaffa was not happy I invited three more friends to join us, and he made himself scarce. He said it was just for me, a safe place he’d given me and me alone, although he’d come and stay there too he said. The relationship had become complicated. He was in love with me. I really don’t know where to fit it on the timeline, our friendship, but we went to Safed together for a day and a night, and camping in a gorgeous gorge that had a lush forest at bottom and a rushing river. We went there with the three other friends I’ve mentioned. They are spoken of more in the collection of stories about the hunger strike and poetry postings called The Journey of a Thousand Tongues. He didn’t like them and they didn’t like him. I really like him though, and that got misinterpreted.

He was a young German man named Hans there in Israel to explore the Holocaust, why his people did that, and I’m putting into compressed terms the reason he told me he was there. He was very German in appearance and in accent, and I’d offend people by trying to describe the German physique, even by saying there is one. Let’s just say he was tall, muscular and naturally so, in a gangly sort of way, and he had blond hair and blue eyes. He was a bit scary looking, like he could break you in half if he wanted to, but he was the opposite of mean, a very gentle man actually, baffled by people’s reaction to him, or their first, unconscious reaction, before they got to know him, if they did. He was having a hard time in Israel being German. He encountered a lot of hate. He came wanting to work in a kibbutz, but was rudely refused on account of being German. What a chance at healing, what was really being refused. Now he was just roaming around, vagabonding like I was. I don’t remember how we meet, but we became fast friends for a while, until the romantic/sexual thing cropped up fast and hard. He bought some herbal ecstasy, a bundle of tablets and such packaged neatly, one for me and one for himself, wanting to go to the squat and do it together, before the bust and all, and I’m not only talking about do the ecstasy. He was so disappointed at my no that it ended our friendship. He was not, however, caught up in that bust. He was very proficient at being on his toes and could handle difficult situations. He just couldn’t handle unrequited love. Are you there Hans? I’m sorry.

Where exactly it goes in the timeline I don’t rightly know, somewhere before the bust though, because De Facto got some heroin for B Actor and a couple of others from the studio crowd in Safed. Sounds awful, but hear the story. They were as surprised to see me as I to see them. They just showed up one day at the beach, looking for heroin. They didn’t know I was there, but when the saw me, and saw I was ‘on the beach’, they asked me to help them get some. B Actor and another young man were looking for the smack for a young man with them. They came all the way from Safed, the boy in tow, to find some for him. He was about 22 or so, and he’d lost his mother some months before, and the grief was a noose around his neck still. He’d been a heroin addict before coming to Israel, and he’d come to free himself from it, but he’d convinced his friends, B Actor and another young man, that if he could just get one hit of heroin, that would really help.

They knew nothing of heroin addicts, obviously. My big sister Gwen had been a heroin addict, for a long while, and I knew from experience they were making a big mistake believing him, as that one hit would just put him right back into the addiction, but I don’t remember if I tried to tell them that or not. I do remember B Actor explaining to me that, according to the Torah, any kind of plant use was okay, or some such, meaning, as he saw interpreted that, it wasn’t against the Law to buy the heroin nor for his friend to take it. Incidentally, some of the ultra-orthodox grew some potent skunk I heard more than once while in Israel. I never smoked any, and so I can’t confirm the story. Anyway, I asked De Facto to find some for them, and he did, and they bought it from him and thanked me. It all happened in the space of an hour. In parting, B Actor said something like, “Oh, I see these people love you, and so you’re okay.” “What?” I thought, “How incredibly insincere.”

I left Tel Aviv with 700 shekels, headed to Eilat down south on the Red Sea to work, as people were saying that was where the money was. I traveled with those three friends, and not one of them had a red cent, and so I paid for all our expenses, which were not too high, as we were hitching mostly and cooking on my miraculous, burn common alcohol, one burner stove, but still, it took all my money to get us there. I also did all the cooking. There was a young Englishman whose name I can’t remember, a young man from the Netherlands, Alison I think his name was, who features in the story from Tongues “The Guests of Unseen Egypt”, and there was Jack, a young man from South Africa that did not like Jews, and maybe didn’t t even like himself, but he was my friend. Goddamn did he cuss. Here’s some advice: never pay for everything in a group without writing it all down to show the group after, or they’re likely to deny you paid for most anything.

The Eilat thing didn’t work. Oh I did get work, but it was terrible there, just awful, and so I took what I made and went back to Jerusalem, leaving the Dharma Bums behind, what I called, and subsequently they called, our little group, especially after me telling them about the book by Jack Kerouac on the way, and then finding a copy of it under my bed of the hostel we booked into, Home Hostel, upon our arrival in Eilat, like right after checking in and going upstairs to our bunks. There were no other books under that bed or any other, nor a bookshelf in the room, not even a stack of books. It was a miracle, and I know you don’t believe me, but when we found that book, well, we actually became the Dharma Bums.

Landing at the bus station in Jerusalem and wandering around the new city was the lowest point of my Israeli adventure, a low point that would score high in low points in my life, meaning I was pretty dejected and down and out. I forgot every synchronicity, every magic event, every miracle, and I just wanted to cry. We are so that way. I had worked my butt off but only made a few shekels, which the bus ride from Eilat had taken. I began to sing the song “Bridge Over Troubled Waters” but changed the lyrics to say, “I am weary, feeling small, and tears are in my eyes. Will you dry them all, be on my side? Oh times are rough, and friends just can’t be found…” I didn’t just sing out loud to the street. I sang from the depths of my bleeding heart to the love of the universe. It’s said we are hardwired to respond to a baby’s cry. I suspect angels and the like are likewise hardwired when it comes to our cries, if they hit that spell-bottom note, and mine had.

When I finished singing I looked around. I saw a new age spiritual bookshop nearby, and so I went in. In the lobby was a bulletin board. On it was a small flyer about a weekly meeting for world peace but no address, only a phone number. I got permission to use the phone in the shop, and I called the number, and a lady answered, who was very cautious. I rattled on about the hunger strike and the poem postings in the Old City of Jerusalem and how I wanted to continue to Mt. Sinai and maybe even to the Great Pyramid in Egypt. It was all for world peace, I explained, both inner and outer. Reluctantly she gave me the number of someone else, who, after I said the same to him, gave me the address and how to get there and when to come. I was to take bus number 8 from the city to a suburb of Jerusalem. I was to meet Issac, the very next day, whom you will be pleased to also meet. He was to set my feet more than just on the path to Egypt. He also introduced me to the Mother, via a book, and he was into books.

I met him in his small yard outside his apartment. As I had walked up the path to his place, I saw a man in a wheelchair, and he had a pencil in his mouth and was reading a book and turning the pages with that pencil. I was surprised, not expecting this. He was paralyzed from the neck down. I will never know exactly how to look at someone with a noticeable disability for the first time and not feel that awkward, “Am I doing this right?” He was reading The Urantia Book. He greeted me kindly and a bit on guard, not knowing what to expect from me either. Meeting for the first time a man with hair past his shoulders and a long beard, who dressed in colorful, baggy clothes, and a lot of purple, there’s some doubt as to whether or not he’s a bit of a loon. We exchanged the normal how do you do routine. I told some of the story of the peace work I was doing with poetry. I don’t remember if I gave him any of my poetry to read. I’d had many photocopies of the poems made on paper of different colors, and so it’s likely I did. Neither do I don’t remember where my gear was or where I was sleeping.

He asked me to do energy work on him. I had not done that before, hadn’t been to India yet and hadn’t learned about pranic healing. I did know about Reiki, but I didn’t know a thing about it except you use your hands as vehicles of energy so to heal people. I tried to tell him I didn’t know how to do it, but he insisted. As I put my hands on his legs he told me how powerful I was, and I was secretly pleased, as someone had seen my power. He gave me a hundred shekels for the Reiki. When I went there again another man was doing doing Reiki on him, and I heard Issac tell him he could feel his power too, and he also gave the man a hundred shekels. Embarrassed at myself to myself, I realized Issac was just a really good guy, liked validating and helping people, and the Reiki was his way of giving money and also giving someone the dignity of having earned it.

When I left that first time, he loaded me down with three or four photocopies of popular New Age books, one by someone claiming to channel angels from the Pleiaides and another author aliens from Sirius. There was also some Robert Anton Wilson. I had read his Cosmic Trigger and The Illuminatus! Trilogy. That was before Silent Mind. After experiencing that, a book like that didn’t interest me. It doesn’t go there. We are sectors, sectors in the pond. You’ve heard it reveal itself, just throw away material. Don’t tell Issac, but all those photocopied New Age books went into the trash.

I was to get to know Issac, and we were to become friends, even writing letters to one another after I left Israel. He broke his neck diving into shallow water when he was 16. He came to Israel and made Aliya as a young man. He was in his thirties now. He was orthodox at first but took off the Black clothes and eventually embraced the New Age. His parents were quite rich, and they supported him and provided round the clock nurses to care for him. I was to become friends with them too, but they were weary of me at first, like I was going to be a mooch or leech or something. They protected him from his generosity. He was profoundly disturbed about being paralyzed. I’d never been that close to someone completely paralyzed, and in time I’d be right there as he was fed and taken care of, and it was painful to see and also humbling. Issac told me that sometimes he jus lost it and broke down into screaming tears on account of being almost completely paralyzed. The woman that answered the phone number on the flyer at the spiritual bookshop was his girlfriend. She loved him dearly and also protected him from his generosity, why she told me she was guarded in that initial phone call. He told me that, when he broke down like that, she would just hold and soothe him. In my mind’s eye I could picture her doing that, as, in getting to know them and hanging out there, I’d see her wrap herself around him in his big chair, trying for all she could to keep him safe from pain, as much as her female power can.

That other man doing Reiki that first time I visited was named Jeff and was from New York and into being a healer. He talked about Christ consciousness a lot. Neither Jeff nor Issac seemed to mind I wasn’t Jewish. Jeff was in his late thirties. He lived with his girlfriend, who gave him a limit on how long he lived with her, as Jeff did energy work and no other kind of work. It didn’t pay well. Jeff was, like Issac, somewhat developed, and by that I mean they did not have big reactions to things that other people did, not usually, and they were kind to everyone and had genuine concern for other people. They were warm human beings.

Jeff took me to a place he said I could camp, which he said had strong Christ energy. It was the forest behind Yad Vashem, the holocaust remembrance center of Israel. It was also slightly above Ein Karem, the village where it’s written that Mary went when she was pregnant with Jesus to live with her cousin Elizabeth, who was pregnant with John the Baptist. The book of Luke says she went there hurried but doesn’t say exactly why she went. She went there to be safe from stoning, but the Gospels don’t say that. Instead, they make up a cover story to hide the fact Jesus was born from a teenage girl, who got into trouble, getting pregnant before marriage. I’d imagine it was the same with her cousin Elizabeth, the two girls put together, for how ever long, to help protect them from society. I camped in that forest for about three weeks, preparing for my trip to the Sinai and to Cairo to post my poems. I camped in the ruins of a family healing center, its actual name I’ve forgotten, but it seems to me it was for families coming to Israel from war-torn Europe and from the Holocaust. There were no buildings left, just the ruins of a fence with the sign identifying the place. It was on the side of hill, right near the top, and it was a clear area, a good place to camp. I had no tent in those days. SF had taught me to sleep anywhere and to be alone in the forest, or wherever, and not be afraid. Every time, though, I slept out alone again, and it’d been awhile since I’d done that, it’d take a couple of days for the fear to leave, but I wouldn’t be too scared to go to sleep. One night on that hillside, I was awakened by the loud yapping of some kind of canine-type creature, but I had no idea what kind. I don’t think they were dogs. Half asleep my first thought was that it was ultra-orthodox Jews, and that might’ve come from the dream I was just having, but I don’t remember it and so really can’t say. I was completely surrounded by them, as I could hear the yapping coming from all directions, directed at me, but I didn’t come out of my bag to try and see them. So sleepy, I just went back to sleep.

The reasons I thought it might be ultra-orthodox Jews had to do with, yes, still being in sleep mind and not yet fully in waking mind, but maybe they were in the mix because twice when I was sleeping out in Israel I awoke to an ultra-orthodox youth leaning down over me and looking at me. The first time was in the cemetery on the mountainside in Safed, not far from the mikvah, and I just woke up to him staring down at me, saw he meant me no harm, and I went back to sleep. I just figured his elders had sent him to see who was sleeping in their cemetery. The second time I was sleeping in a pile of people on a hillside of Meron during Lag BaOmer, the mother of the boy I had a crush on, Zeke, and maybe Ger, but it could’ve been Hen-ya. I don’t remember. The kids were not there. It was a real Croods evening. I woke up and an unbearded, ultra-orthodox youth was peering intently down at me, again, but a different youth this time. I looked up at him a moment, showing myself to him with my eyes. Then I closed them and went back to sleep.

Lag BaOmer bears a moment in this book. It was there I saw the tribes of Israel. I mean saw Jews in tribes and as tribal. Just about everybody I knew in Safed walked over the hills to Meron for Lag BaOmer, in their own little groups. I walked (and slept) with the original crowd I hung out with, whom I named above, but I had dinner with the art studio crown. We ate on a forested hillside, and it so reminded me of SF. Mosheheim had prepared dinner, one of the spiciest meals I’ve ever eaten, hotter than fire. Everybody praised him for his cooking. I don’t think everyone was sincere. I had done that chameleon thing again that I did a lot traveling, which is to put on the dress of the culture I was in, take on its look, but not exactly, and not exactly purposefully, more like the artist of the Art Cafe of last chapter, who’d take suggestive shapes appearing on his canvas and bring out the suggestion. I was dressed with my very long hair down, but combed in such a way it appeared I had long, curled payos, and I had on black clothes, a t-shirt and slacks of some sort, but black nonetheless. I wore that white kippah I’d found in the cemetery. I think I was still considering converting at that moment. Over the course of the evening, a couple of groups of young orthodox, laughing, called me over to have me in a photograph with them, and I obliged, knowing they just wanted a picture with the clown. Someone from the studio crowd told me they were making fun of me, but I was thoroughly enjoying myself and didn’t mind. It was a lovely evening, so much excitement in the air, no bonfire of the vanities.

So you can see why I thought I was surrounded by ultra-orthodox yapping at me. Anyway, I spent my days in Ein Karem visiting the churches or just walking around, finding nice places to sit awhile, and I went to Yad Vishem two or three times. I saw some art there that bore the unmistakable mark of being created by someone who’d suffered something of hell. There are universal forms that remind you of the Void, even if you don’t know the Void is there, remind you of terror at its most real, and I saw some of those forms there too. I felt so much pain in places there. But I looked and looked for some indication that… I’m sorry, I don’t know how to say this. It will take some telling.

After the inner journey to the well of soul I related earlier in this book, I began having dreams of being Jewish, and I continue to have them. Some three or four years ago, I had a definitive dream that showed me my last life was as a Jewish man in Nazi Germany, as I’d had a definitive dream of being a Black guitar player in the American South around the turn of the 19th century. The memories of the Jewish life had been activated by the contact with my soul essence, and memories of past lives are stored near the soul. I was in hiding in the country in or near Germany, and I was very poor, came from a poor family. I wasn’t killed in a concentration camp, at least not that I can recall, but the threat of being discovered loomed over me heavily.

The soul math, derived by the Mother and Sri Aurobindo, does not add up; there’s not much time between the death of the Black man and the birth of the German Jew, and they say that the more developed a soul is, the longer it spends in the afterlife. Although I cannot quote any authority other than my own knowledge and experience, I have good reason to believe my soul came to maturity, adulthood as it were, at the end of the Black man’s life, making it free to manifest in the world, take births, at its choosing. You can look at this life, its inner and world experience and see something out of the ordinary is going on with my soul. This is what it looks like when a soul has grown into the adulthood of the soul, this type of participation between the world and the individual, the individual and God, but I must make a distinction between my soul and my ego self. My soul chose in this life me, meaning the outer personality Donny, someone born under the influence of a hostile being, a demon, and all the weirdness and bad that entails. This is for the purposes you see played out in this book and in my other works. My muse says enough about those purposes at the end of this chapter, has been talking about them in much of the poetry of this book, so I don’t need to go into that here.

But back to that German Jew. The dream of being him was representational, not like the dream of being the Black man, in which I actually lived the last hour or so of his life inside his body, hearing his thoughts, feeling his feelings, and mine at the same time, like when I was in my grandfather’s body as he died. Here, I was both the character in the dream and an observer of him, alternating between the two, normal dream stuff.  In the first part of the dream I was on a passenger train before the war and the pogrom against Jews. The train was later to become the cattle cars to a concentration camp. Now, though, it was where rich Jews really living it up. There was a car that was full of luxury items, really decadent, the most expensive cigars, liquors, liqueurs, all sorts of vice-like things, the best of the best. They were all hanging on the walls as if on display. I went inside, allowed because I was Jewish, and no non-Jew could be in there, but I knew I wasn’t welcome there and would be told to leave if a rich Jew saw me in there. Then the items suddenly all turned into kinky women’s lingerie, and I got out of there, and the dream shifted to during the war, the train something I was afraid of, looking at a it from a place of hiding up in a forest. The train tracks became the focus of the dream, the fear I’d be soon on a train to a concentration camp. I lived with a small group of other Jews in hiding, a farmer hiding us. At one point I was walking down a trail with my wife, the tracks looming large at us down below in the valley. I realized she was Sunshine, a very young woman I had a strong connection to in Garberville but couldn’t figure out why. That knowledge was just part of the dream.

At the end of the dream I was on this strange, huge, contraption beside the tracks that resembled some sort of ride at an amusement park, and it had you go in a spiral on a rope up it, and many people were on it, but not many made it to the top. I did, and when I did I had an experience of Silent Mind. It bears mentioning that in the dream I was utterly dejected, so scared I’d get caught. I hit some kind of fundamental low that triggered a momentary experience of enlightenment. You got to figure that I wasn’t the only Jew, or Gypsy, or gay, or whomever, that did. It’s not only spiritual practice that brings enlightenment. Sometimes the worst thing in the world can bring it, and you got to figure that some, maybe a handful at most, marched into death triumphant.

I could interpret that first part of the dream in terms of the behavior of some rich Jews, not all, during the Weimar Republic, when the majority of the population had to go without a lot.  Even if it were only a small but visible number of rich Jews, and I’m sure it wasn’t only Jews but other rich people too, non-Jewish Germans would, in the manner the masses see, distortedly, build up resentment to Jews in general, and Hitler and the Nazis took that and ran with it. Notice I was Jewish but not really allowed in that railroad car, which represented the decadence of rich Jews before the Nazis, not all Jews like I said, during a time when most other people in Germany suffered want. If you see what I see, it’s not Jews who were responsible for any blindness to and disregard of the suffering of the German people; it’s more the rich. It’s always has been like that, not only in Germany but everywhere, even in communist and socialist countries (the leaders got the good stuff). The rich rule the world, are the true masters of the race, de facto though they be, the ‘good’ rich notwithstanding. Here’s the ticket: we get the rich out of political office and make it much more difficult for capitalism to produce the super-rich. On the table, on the shelf, we have the equipment to change the world.

What I was looking for at Yad Vashem, although I couldn’t put my finger on it at the time, was an exhibit of the luxury stuff in that railroad car, with all the names of the Jewish rich people that owned them and their positions in German society attached to the items. You can put their donations to charities there too, their social work, to try and correct what needs corrected in that distorted how the masses saw. I think you get the picture. It means looking at the whole picture and not just at the fact of being victims. Do you like genocide? It will keep coming again and again as long as we don’t look at the whole picture and correct ourselves accordingly.

What do we do, though, with Jewish exclusivity? We cannot deny it exists. Does it lead to Jewish nepotism and Jewish privilege? In some cases of course it does. They’re human. Now let’s go through Hollywood and the news media (have I missed one?) and get their percentage down in those places to somewhere around the 2.4% of the population a net search will say they are, speaking of America. We can also, while we’re at it, make sure there are no areas of New York City where a red blooded American who is not Jewish cannot feel at home, and make sure there is no invisible zoning in Jewish neighborhoods in New Jersey to make sure non-Jews can’t rent or buy homes in them. I’m sure I’ve missed something, but you see the list. It’s ridiculous, and I’m being sarcastic. In the persecution and hatred of the Jews, the reasons thereof, we are missing something, something big that has to do with the abilities to interpret existence it itself and to handle intricately and fastly the outer world. And I’d need to simply spell this out: there is no cabal of Jews controlling the world, but I can tell you where that insipid, unhinged belief comes from. You would not have thought of it in a million years, and you will be so surprised you’ve missed it, and if you don’t believe it, that will be because you don’t want to, not because it’s not true. All the way to meaningful, that’s the position Jews have when they enter society. I don’t think you’d enter that with every Jew, but you have my meaning. And now we look at odd first.

The lights go out.
Strange noises are in the air.
What time is it?
The world transitions into stargate.
We’ll put our hand on the greater,
and we’ll just follow bloody apes will yah?
Joy by surprise
sculptured this to us.
I’m looking at the origins of man, are you?

I can do nothing else than jump into it with both feet. Imagine how we developed human self-awareness distinct from the other animal species. Whether you believe or not in an evolution of consciousness or of identity, what evolution is in its essence, you have to admit something happened to our minds that separated us from the other animals, or somewhere about us. Was that all in one go, or was it in stages, to get to the human identity we have today, ego identity is it? And there’s even a reluctance in science today to admit we actually have one and call it that. First, I’d call it outward tuned (wake-centric) ego individual identity, with an almost exclusive focus on the outer world for the business of human endeavor, and an emphasis on the individual. I’d imagine at first it was the opposite, with the central focus on the inner life and on the group, speaking of immediately after the initial leap or separation point from other species, the  subsequent stages taking us out more out into the outer world with the pinpoint of our awareness and towards being more distinct individuals within the group, however many back peddles there were too, as there always are, not to mention sidelines here and there and offshoots going nowhere.

I’ve suggested earlier in this book that infant orgasm, that administered by a mother, not just giving orgasm but the focused attention too of a love affair, perhaps in conjunction with some substance like ganja or a stronger psychedelic I’ll add now, brought us into human self-awareness, the first stage of it, or rather, brought a baby into it, maybe several during the same time period, but the number is only significant to the time it took this to spread to other members of the animal species that made the jump to man, an animal species that was on the brink because it had started to walk upright, the true king of beasts, us right before we became us. That spread would still happen if the number were one, especially if there were the hostile beings I’ve described, demons we call them, but here the type that construe worlds, making it happen in the first place and making sure it spread from mother to mother, to the fathers too, so the babies more and more would be ‘human self-aware”. If you doubt the power of infant orgasm under the right conditions view my process. It mirrors, minus the substance, how we became man. Here, have an apple Eve. Representative is that story.

The power was out.
I quit school.
Some mail to you:
individualism.
I was stand up.
I was really
excited
to exercise me
outside.
Now you see evolution.
Your turn.

That is all well and good, er, well, not good, but good has come of it, and it’s not my place here to explain our place in the cosmic order, having our evolution on this Earth. I’m interested here in how we got here, to this present stage of human ego identity focused on the outer world and on being an individual within a group. I’ve explained, briefly, that a house in Overmind, a divine Heaven, intervened in human evolution, which had already gone through more than one stage of identity, as I’ve suggested, how many stages it would be hard to gauge, but our milestones such as the development of stone tools, burial, representative art, agriculture, the making of alloyed tools, and writing, would perhaps indicate moving to another stage. The stage that we are in now basically began Western civilization, what has been the dominant civilization in world process (however much that is in decline and being replaced by more Eastern), which itself began when a divine house intervened in human evolution and created the Jewish people, who became a leaven among the peoples for the new stage, our modern one, again, as far as Western civilization is concerned, and I’m taking huge, complicated, and interconnected movements, compressing them and putting them in an ordered process and in neat rolls, but of course that is only for the sake of discussion.

Putting Eastern civilization into the process, you’d put it developing that stage slower than the West, very generally speaking, or you can say that it’s not been leavened by the more recent stage to the degree the West has been, and may not ever be or even want to be, as is evident in the major differences between the East and West, which have a lot to do with the degree of outer focus and the degree of individualism. Looking at the process of the introduction of a new stage into humanity in terms of a leavening, one that takes its time to reach every people on the planet, if it ever does, it would be evidence of such a process that, in both the East and the West, you can find peoples today that still have at least one foot in the former stage, if not both in the case of ‘uncontacted’ tribes, focused on the inner life and the more ‘primitive’ hands on the world and in Nature, meaning more on her level and on her terms, that would entail and all the magical interaction with the outer world such a focus encompasses. Whether that magic is real or imagined is not part of this discussion, but, from my story, you can see it’s not all imagined.

Incidentally, the world culture being created largely by the advent of the Internet, the one the youth of the world seem to be embracing, and with a passion, is basically that Western hands on the world and on one’s individuality. Now you can understand the conflict more traditional societies have with it.

The first thing that particular Heaven did, I don’t know, somewhere from eight to four thousand years ago, give or take a thousand years, was to introduce customs, rites, rituals, practices, laws and the like that cleaned up man’s act so to speak, not only on the outer level in terms of vice and cleanliness, but on the inner level to protect people from the Hostile Powers and those people who used them or were used by them to gain power over other people. It’s really, really strong custom. Most especially, that divine house helped close the door to infant orgasm (and the Pandora’s box that opened) and sexual child abuse, with practices such as circumcision and a more general respect given to a person’s personhood, starting from birth, as sexual child abuse would have been not only universal in early humanity but normal.

That the door to sexual child abuse hasn’t been closed in the Jewish people, or any people on earth, attests to the fact it will take more than law and punishment to stop it, and while we’re on the subject to stop murder, rape, theft or any type of wrongdoing as well, punishment and law being the main means that divine house dealt with earlier man and still deals with us today, why it’s time to change. By those means it aimed to create a holy people, and it did that in large part by separating Jews from the mass of humanity, a mass much different than the one of today, who are, the incompletely or unleavened parts notwithstanding, in the same stage of human identity that Jews are, which would mean the separation isn’t now the thing. Do you see why?

To get some picture of why a definite separation from the common mass of man was necessary, in almost all walks of life, you might imagine a humanity for the most part compromised by its inner life it was so open to it, open more to the Hostile Powers than the Divine Powers in the mass. Violence would’ve been the order of the day, in all its forms. Everyone would basically be a mess, even kings and queens. From the creation of peoples like the Indian and Chinese, as well as other peoples, where a spiritual elite was created, which later degenerated into a religious elite, and I stomp my foot here because that will be on the test, the test being the temptation to return to a society built on that latter elite, the former having been virtually smothered by that latter, it’s evident that other divine houses were intervening in humanity to help besides the one that created the Jewish people and it’s more hands on the outer world individualist identity, but it was that more solid in the outer life and in the individual self that was to take the lead, at least to our present day. It could grasp the physical world by the horns.

Now we can talk about Jewish exceptionalism. It would stand to reason that that their terms of man, what fashions the human ego in each child born, would be more primed to success in the outer world and as individuals, and please understand I haven’t dismissed the group by any means. In Jewish culture it’s maintained something of a tribal nature and hence is what the individuals look up to as in what’s larger than themselves and what they rely on, that pillar of their reliance really God notwithstanding. I’m sorry it’s impossible to talk about every individual in a group at the same time. So many differences and exceptions would be present. It’s this very strong, sometimes exclusive, identification with the Jewish people on the part of individual Jews, over and above the identification with any other grouping in humanity, including humanity as a whole, what was necessary in creation of the people and hence in the creation of contemporary man, which is no longer needed, but that’s not to say the Jewish people are no longer needed, not by a long shot.

A good book to read about Jewish exceptionalism and Jews’ thoughts on the matter is The Jew in the Lotus by Rodger Kamenetz. It has informed the writing of this book, and he emailed me a copy so I could read it because I didn’t have the money to buy it (thank you Rodger), but he wouldn’t go so far as to review this book, of which he only read an early chapter some three years ago, if he even did. He stopped talking to me once he discovered my social stigma. He got a poem. He didn’t respond to that either. There’s something I’ve learned more about recently than at other times I’ve confronted it, and that’s the tendency of us, which has also come from acknowledging my own stubbornness and resistance to change, to not only stubbornly resist any changes to our beliefs and options when confronted with the facts of the matter or the truth of the thing, or some very pointed art that shows us we’re wrong, but also the strange habit of digging in even deeper with our ignorance into the grounds of reality, the better presented the facts, the more poignant the truth, the more engaging the art, the deeper that digging in. I’m just sitting here wondering how we’ve gotten anywhere with that very pronounced handicap in our ability to change. Explains a lot, you know?

Burnt Books in the Margins
You said I know.
The whole class he won’t offer humanity.
My lotus pond,
it calls everybody.
Weren’t those beachers?
They were reporters.
I’ve got a helmet law.
Tell the people who ran for congress.
I’m golden at my job.
You just do away with me.
I need a last name.
Ginsberg no I’m not I’m Duke.
There’s a lot more in compassion
than a sympathy squeeze.
You hold somebody’s hand
people are afraid to be seen with in public.
Now that’s a railroad.
And it’s out of style.
It’s priceless.
I’ve caved in;
talk to someone else.
That’s the Batmobile.
It’s not a hero’s choice today.
They’re all in to counting sin.
See past safety lines.
See what you want to give humanity.
See the right road to humanity.
You don’t bubble anybody,
enforce their isolation.
That’s river of darkness.
You’re not a happy medium.
You’ve just shown humans in caves.
How we treat one another,
it boils down to this simple test:
will you shun someone shunned?
You’ve got a measure for humanity here.
I can call out witnesses,
even Jews.
What’s it take to learn this:
you are your best person to all?
Of course you sit out here:
that’s in such a bright answer
in nonjudgmental’s ways.
You reckon not their sin
or ugly feature.
You give them your humanity.
That’s how they learn theirs.
Am I blinded by the light?
I’m seein’ our course today.
That’s the necessity
at bottom
in humanity.
Examine history,
what’s the common of our feature?
A history of scapegoats.
A borderhouse,
it’s so much cultural today.
You kinda wanna give ‘im a nice healing procedure,
what I propose,
some of that book.
You made me a promise in pages:
the culture of humanity,
we give it every last ship.
And you made me a hope,
you the author:
there’s a vocabulary for the unknown.
Spread it your wings.
It is full of Jews
and the father thinking people,
your whole life?
Know their dimensions.
Is that a copy
of a fascist’s popularity?
In its backyard,
turnin’ your back to me.
I’m not gonna start sizzling,
show everything on the planet,
but enlightenment,
you got rid of this too?
I have to say something.
Where are the wings?
What do we withdrawal?
Where are the eyes?
Maybe subject to copyright,
it says:
here’s the door;
don’t let ‘im in,
human divinity.
Do you have the tree?
Do you have the classroom?
I’ve mentioned Savitri.
I have horizons.
Just get rid of it.
It’s testing human boundaries you see.
Over the head some opportunities,
and you just throw it out?
Ground Control to Major Tom:
train your eyes on me.

Now, he doesn’t have the slightest clue as to where that exceptionalism actually comes from (I don’t think anyone else does either), and he doesn’t go as far to say that Jews are basically the alphas in Western society, but you can call them that, for the reasons I’ve explained: their terms of man and the leavening of them into and through out their peoplehood. They are not a race but a people, some common physical characteristics notwithstanding. You would not take the authority of the Nazis to call them a race, as some people are doing today so to try and remove White Jews from the stigma of White privilege. And Jews have no innate superiority. Not knowing where their exceptionalism comes from and not understanding their elevated position in society as a result of it, resenting that, and smarting from Jewish nepotism and Jewish exclusiveness and Jewish privilege, where those do show themselves, and they don’t everywhere Jews are, although they really show themselves in Israel, they get persecuted. Do you see the difference?

The night before our little group of four left for Eilat from Tel Aviv, whom I’ve called the Dharma Bums, which the universe did too I’d argue, the Englishman and I were sleeping next to one another on the beach not far from where De Factor and Rhino were jailed, which is more down towards Jaffa than the place on the beach the bust had happened. We’d left our squat, and I forget why we’d temporarily separated. He was in his early twenties and was slightly developed, in the sense I’ve described that, a comfortable and warm person to be with. I’m sorry I’ve forgotten his name, like I said. We woke just after dawn, and I remember looking out over the land and water from our little sandy perch on the world, my body still cozy in my down bag, just my head sticking out, and for just a moment I got that sense you sometimes get that the world is a strange place, unknowable really, like an alien planet, and it felt good, because I was part of that unknown, as alien as the world; you know what I mean?

I told him the two very powerful dreams I remembered from the night, dreams that still carry significance into today. They marked a turning point in my life, the very beginning of freedom. The Englishman just listened when I told him the dreams, didn’t even wince when I told him I’d had full intercourse with my mother for the first time in dream, as a man not a boy, and that I’d come a long ways to be able to do that and not be freaked out by it. I’d told him of my love for little boys, as I told anybody that got close to me and that I wanted to keep as a friend, with some exceptions of course. I just knew some people would not be able to handle it. If the person remained a friend after that, they were more likely to be true friends. The Dharma Bums were such friends.

That first dream opened a door to freedom, as weird and taboo as that might sound, which was represented by the second dream. It released the second dream. I was a prisoner in an ancient prison, and I was locked in the inmost part of it along with many others. There were many outer layers of the prison, each fortified and guarded to the max. The inmost prison was the most heavily fortified and guarded. The walls were the thick, old, yellowish, stone kind that make up the ancient sectors of the old city of Jerusalem and other places equally ancient. The guards had swords and spears and were dressed in ancient armor. I attacked a guard and took his sword, killing him, and that started a rebellion, as all the other prisoners followed suit, attacking guards and killing them with their own weapons. It turned into a fierce and bloody battle, severed limbs and heads flying everywhere. There was quite an emphasis on the bloodiness and ferocity of it. Then we stood on the ramparts, bloody, war-torn, but free men, having killed all the guards and liberating the inmost prison, looking out at the next level we had to take, knowing there were many levels and it would take a long time. In the reality of that dream we had already won our freedom, and it couldn’t be taken from us, and it was only a matter of time before we would be out of the prison entirely. The sense was that we hadn’t just won our freedom in the inmost prison, but that we were now free men, the coming battles to write that out like thoughts you think out but don’t have to because you’ve had the wordless thought already that held the kernel of the whole thing. Need I tell you what that dream represented? It’s like I was surrounded by layers. In the most basic one I’m free.

There is but left one constituent element of becoming this thing that you all hate to show you. It’s the clincher. It’s what not a one of you see, or even want to. You’ve heard me tell you I was girl crazy as a boy. Oh, even at seven I could see I liked younger boys, but there was no sexual thing attached to that, not yet. It was girls I was attracted to. I did a lot of sex play with other boys growing up, the whole nine yards, loved it too, but I’d have pushed the boy aside if a girl had come into the room, or behind the bushes, or wherever it was we did it. Entering adolescence, I was a girl lover, coming out, a boy lover. What happened?

I told you I became a Jesus freak, a very religious young adolescent. I tried to be a perfect Christian, and that included purging myself of impure sexual thoughts and sexual acts, which was not only masturbation. I was sexually active with girls my age, even had intercourse with one, at 13. The fear she was pregnant was also a big catalyst to my becoming a Jesus person. When I became sexually mature, I stopped the sex play with other boys my age but began that with little boys, and with a couple of little girls, in my neighborhood, this even as I had sexual relationships with adolescent girls. I was a sexual kid. So, when I began to purge myself of sexual thoughts and acts, even rebuking my penis in the name of Jesus, I only purged the thoughts of sex with girls my age and with women, allowing the thoughts of sex with children, especially boys, to continue, and the ensuing masturbation. I did that because I hadn’t admitted to myself that I was sexually attracted to children, was in denial of it even as I entertained masturbatory fantasies of sex with little boys. An adolescent mind is a complicated, divided thing. You see I was programming myself, unawares. You really are no help here, you know?

We do not realize that what goes down in adolescence has a lot to do with the adult we are to become, shapes us, not as much as the first years of life do, but shapes us nonetheless. All the constituent elements of ourselves are up in the air, and how they are fitted back into place, if they are and aren’t rejected with enough force to put them down into the subconscious in some lock, what I did with my attraction to women, determines the adult we are going to be. That our sexual/romantic attraction does change in adolescence if evidenced by the fact that, normally, unless someone is on the track to becoming a pedophile, a boy becoming sexually mature will change his fantasies from little girls to girls who are sexually mature, to women in other words, although there is usually attraction to the mature female all along. So our sexuality is not engraved in stone as many now believe it is, but if you want to change the engraving, you’d have to do it in early adolescence and with a religious fervor. It has to be that strong, not that you have to be religious to do it, which means you have to will to do it and will intensely, and it can’t be forced upon you. I entered adolescence with a sideline attraction to little kids and came out of it with that not only as my main attraction, but my exclusive attraction, boys being the focus of that. And there you have it.

It bears mentioning that this is my ‘pedophile becoming’. Someone else’s would be different, maybe not so dependent on early adolescence to seal the fate, and, while we’re on the subject, I can’t tell you what all early teens need, but I can tell you what I needed. I needed to have sex and that often with a girl my age, preferably one that had sexual disorder issues too. We’d almost have to restructure society to know those things about our kids. Big Brother couldn’t do it. And while we’re on the subject of forced sexual morality, let me ask you: what would you rather have, and say you had to choose between the two, a pedophile or teen sex? That’s what I thought. Have you ever thought about this?

Returning to Ein Karem, where I was camping and waiting to take the journey to the Sinai and Cairo to finish the art action of posting poems in sacred and powerful places of my culture and civilization, doing the groundwork for a book such as this I see now, I got invited to a full moon gathering in Ein Karem that Jeff was attending, but I don’t remember him inviting me. I think I got noticed walking around, looking like I’d just stepped off the New Age, candidate for Christ consciousness bus. It was a New Age gathering. It began after dark, and we were on top of a wide hill above the town, above the tomb of a Sufi saint whose name I don’t remember and whom I can’t find in a Google search. Maybe it was a Christian personage of importance? We were gathered standing in a large circle holding hands, and the first thing we did was sing our names, each one of us. I sang out Don like an opera singer, what I called myself back then. Now I’m Donny, my original name. It’s like the story of the mountain becoming the mountain again after it being so strange and different for so long.

After the name sing out, Jeff was giving the reins of the gathering, and he had everyone do his thing, which was hold your two hands close together and imagine a ball of energy between them, feeling of it as if it were really there. I could never actually feel that. The look on his face when the woman who’s property and house it was, the host, abruptly gave those reins to another person, and then another, and another, as we made our way to the house some distance away, it was not a happy face. It was more like a slapped ass. Sorry Jeff. I’m showing my butt too. The reins of the group were given to anyone that had a thing they did, energy and group-wise that is. I don’t think Jeff quite appreciated that, as he kept saying, each time we came together a moment, that he could handle the group the whole time, offended he wasn’t being allowed to, but he wasn’t angry or terribly upset. He was just showing his spiritual ego, the bane of the spiritual path because it’s so visible to people around you but so invisible to you.

Some years later I’d be sitting in a similar New Age circle, although much smaller, in the Inca ruins of Sacsayhuaman above Cusco, Peru, seated with natives of the city, not tourists. Douglas and I had apartments up there. We also had a weekly TV spot on the local Good Morning Cusco show (I forget what it was actually called) teaching yoga. We turned into a comedy hit, for a little while, doing theater skits about horny yoga instructors like Pedro Perverso and channelers and their handlers like Imposlosdos. With our badly pronounced Spanish and rather poorly done yoga postures (we were not really Hatha yoga practitioners), we just hit the right spot at the time, the city’s funny bone. It was something walking down the street and having people come up to you and know who you are. Anyway, Louis, the leader of our little group, a local dentist, gave me the reins, asking me to lead the group with that Indian mantra I sung a lot (it was the Gayatri). Anything Indian was prized, but word was around there that the Andes were the ‘new Himalayas’. Funny, I never saw any deep spirituality there. It was all New Age. When he introduced me to people, he’d always say I’d lived in India for years and years, and I’d have to always say I was there only for six months, but you know, he was actually being prophetic. I led the group in one repetition of the mantra, felling that ego swell you feel when you’re leading people and they are a following, or at least I felt, and then he gave the reins to someone else, and forgetting all about ole Jeff, I got offended.

In that gathering in Ein Karem, our movement ended at the back patio of the house and had been reduced to just a handful of people. The others were eating or milling about. We were seated in a small circle. A young woman had been given the slot to do her thing, which I was to learn quickly was channeling. The way she slightly convulsed and then introduced herself as Jesus, as if her words were about to change our lives, seemed forced and smacked of so much pride. Afterwards the other host, the husband of house, told me it was obscene, and I agreed. He commented on how everyone there now knew my name, and how lovely I’d sung it out, and I was so flattered.

That would be my last night in Ein Karen, and in the morning I would go to Issac’s and get the cash to go to Egypt and post my poems, as he was sponsoring me, just enough to survive seven days, and I was to return almost shekeless, but I managed it. Issac gave me a copy of The Sunlit Path, a book of talks by the Mother, my first introduction to her. He gave me a copy of the book, not a photocopy, as he’d ordered it for himself originally but decided to give it to me, saying he’d order another one. What struck me about that book was the photo on the cover of her standing on the stairs, looking like feminine Mystery herself, and, in the book’s contents, her understanding of childhood education and of the spiritual path. I stayed in a spare room in Issac’s apartment for a couple of days before I left Israel and went to India, to Auroville, his blessings speeding me on my way, his and Jeff’s, as he had given me a tour of a Jerusalem I didn’t know existed, leading me down thin stone steps into a cistern two thousand years old, and I had walked within a few feet of the entrance many times ignorant of the depth of time just in arm’s reach, into other places as well, where the cafes are underneath the city in three thousand-year-old stalls, and I didn’t even know they were there. He went with me by bus to Tel Aviv to the airport, he paying the fair, we both sitting like kings in the two front seats of the upper carriage, the windshield so big it went from our heads to our toes, the sunlight so warm it went into our hearts. Thank you Jeff, and thank you Issac. It would be a gross violation of good faith and given hospitality if I didn’t also thank in this book the Israeli family who lived in Yemen Moshe, near our first hunger strike camp, who feature in the Tongues story “Behind the Mask Jerusalem”. The father Josef, his son Milo, my age, and the mother of the family, slowly adopted me in my six months in Israel, encouraging me, dressing my wounds, giving me food, cash, and near the end a place to stay. And thank you so very much Israel. I couldn’t have done it without you, and that’s the spiritual path. Now can I give you something?

How do you start?
You cover it,
where you go wrong.
That’s your principle change.
You work on that.
It’s where you’ll find a handle for the world.
That’s my method.

That works for some,
if you’ve got this big wrong to the world,
somethin’ you can’t handle,
somethin’ that just takes you by the nose and runs you in ruts.
I don’t think good people understand it.
They are so self-righteous mean,
lookin’ at you.
You don’t know what to tell them.
Freewill is strong?
It has you by the balls.

I’m a lead on that rope.
I will help you get out of it.
It can be done,
and you’ve got so much help doing it,
if you can open yourself that far.
I’m on your side.
I know how it is.
A mountain,
you see it?
You’re climbing the path of yourself.
What makes you tick
you investigate,
look at everything about you.
That’s the spiritual path.

You are discoverin’ the truth of yourself
and where it intersects the world.
You want to find yourself,
who you really are.
It’s larger than spheres,
so you’ve got a lot of work to do,
investigate everything,
so it doesn’t falter you.
Nothing can stand in your way
if you are truly exploring yourself.
This is so much an inner journey.
You have so much to discover,
so much to do,
so much to learn.
It never ends.

Substances matter.
Our officials
need to embrace social change,
need to let ‘em in.
I’d caution agains pot
as a daily stopover.
as a habit forming substance.
Now read me
no substances.
We move on from that crowd.
It has its price.
Diamond LSD for pedophiles.
Can you see the social change?

Boldly face the world a question mark.
That’s how you begin.
You see the process?
You just keep asking questions.
There’s a gap here,
and it quiets down.
The hush,
they themselves,
and then with God.
You learn to be quiet inside,
not to react so to outer things.
This is at first impossible.
I think we’re dealing with this right up to the very last.
It takes such a long time
to quieten yourself down,
be calm.

God is your front man.
I told you the story
of how God happen.
He becomes everything.
You’re not foolin’ this.
It’s the reality behind the times.
You’re lookin’ at it when you see the world.
How long it takes you to see that.
You have no idea.
You just begin.
It’s your handle on meeting the world.
God has so much to teach you.
There’s God.

Oh my He hit me,
and you learn about agency,
the order of things,
everything.
Why is this happening to me?
It’s not God’s fault.
He went the other day look.
I don’t know what’s you’re talking about.
It lasted forever.
You know who that is.
I’m editing your clothes,
your clothes,
your plain old clothes.
Did you know beyond my nail?
Have you learned reality yet?
Whatever comes,
practice God,
and the Hostiles,
you’re outgrowing them.

In ten you grow up.
I’m lost in God,
minutes deep down.
Chevy bubbles up.
It’s like he inquires
and commercials.
Your status
as a person in a hotel room,
relax, there’s a video.
Like substance abuse area,
watch out for false gods,
and hit your national registered cottage
right in the face.

Nobody knows how to concentrate
integral spoon.
As you know,
there’s some forced toys Sri Aurobindo asks
to leave alone.
Don’t leave here the here out of it:
aware of my shortcomings.
I listed them,
I looked at them.
It didn’t help.
They baffled me.
I’m ready to tell me
I can’t do it.
I’m impossible.
With another life two things:
I am actually human;
I can work on it.

I improve.
I get better at it.
Then the breakthrough came:
I can do it.
I began to celebrate.
Things go backwards.
Things go back and forth.
Finally I realize,
my attitude had to be perfect.
I don’t brag to the world,
and I don’t brag to myself.
I don’t practice any firm believers.
I’m a lawyer back.
She just asked for things stolen,
and now to remember
tears what happens.

Come ‘ere.
I was okay.
I was not a monster.
I was not an evil person.
This is lawyer.
I can.
I can do it.
With that I continue,
and in time there it is,
my freedom.

What wisdom I picked up along the way.
I got to know the world.
I got to know the reason we fall as human beings.
I understood.
To remember:
how close I am to fall,
and I keep from it.
Every place that used to be alright
to show my weaknesses,
I became strong instead.
You won’t pass this zero direction
without the knowledge in my material.
I’m a unique influence,
a map
of integral healing,
a soul process.

Auroville’s national trust,
let me have ‘em.
You read your name
you a journal.
The other group
you cast out.
Noway,
you don’t do it.
You don’t do it that way.
We turn this into a peaceful
under that gun you know.
I’m admitting Auroville and me at the same time.
Entered through a curtain of bring mind,
you stock the Earth.
You have integration key,
a harmony of all parts,
a natural healing method.
It works.

Something happened
that involved the world
at its deepest level.
It touched the Earth.
The spiritual path is the path to freedom.
Enlightenment comes,
but it’s not the main goal.
Don’t worry,
it’s always there
waiting to happen.
You have a temple of God
in your very life.
All things ensue from there.
It’s beautiful.
It’s wonderful.
It’s real.

We’ve spiritual’d this out.
We’ve put it in ground zero of the Earth,
and that’s the live event,
what counts in world terms.
A book,
volumes of poetry,
they could be read or not.
This is live wire
for fuck’s sake.
I’m gonna go
and be that land to the Earth you need,
and I love you,
regardless of what you’ve done to me.

I see the whole,
and we are a part of each other,
whether you admit it or not.
No, I paid for it,
all of my mistakes
on that ugly.
You’re such the terrible thinker.
I’m redeeming the world, you know?

Concentrate
on the needed change:
we love one another,
each and every one of us.
I’ve explained what that means.
Let’s just keep going.
Whether you read me or not,
this is world process.
I’ve awoken earth kind
at the dim roots
of world need.
This is what I have done.
Hear my report.
Human behavior
has got this key in its pocket.
Now anybody can draw it out.
Do you see we are not dependent on outer circumstances?
We are here,
all together,
all at once.
Here, have this knowledge.
It’s free.

Call 911.
Someone’s violated the world.
You’re looking for
a means for change.
It’s where you also process risk.
Oh you insecure people,
you can’t let that be,
and you can’t get rid of it.
You’re so afraid of it.
You remove it from us immediately,
if you have the hands to,
and there’s where you stall change.
There’s where you blot it out.
Remove the stimulus,
we’re fine—
the report you give to the world.
I’m tellin’ yah we’re not.
We’ve just been made to do no wrong.
It hasn’t come from ourselves,
where it has to come for change to happen.
You don’t see this.
You don’t even know it’s there.
You just react
to the possibility of risk.

It’s all along the line.
It’s everywhere we turn.
It’s in your car, your sleep,
your walking down the stairs,
your cross the street.
It’s on your bicycle.
It’s on the ground.
It’s everywhere you move and live and eat.
It’s all around us.
That’s why you’re so afraid of it.
We can work with risk,
don’t let it take us,
but come together with it.

Now there’s the risk to harm a child.
You take them to school everyday.
Do you understand what goes on at school,
how many teachers abuse,
how many children bully,
how much pressure there is?
Real harm happens there,
I would suspect more than children are molested.
You have some inkling of this sometimes.
You send them to school anyway.

Am I gettin’ through?
School’s a terrible place,
but why do they go?
You think they learn there;
that prepares them for life.
And they are damaged for life because of it.
Is this not the truth?

Why are you so stubborn here?
It has to do with convention.
We are herd animals.
I’m talking out of the herd.
I show you a different way of doing things.
I show you real.
It’s right here in our hands.
We learn how to use them properly.
We learn they are our friends.
Can I get you to see this?
Can I get you to try?

He offered it,
and the election is:
oh my gosh,
that’s weird.
It’s how we change ourselves,
putting will on the equation,
putting it there.
You inform your will you understand.
Knowledge and will do meet
at the crossroads.
Let’s take the world there.

Have you ever heard this spoken so plainly?
Have you ever heard change done right?
Now hear this:
you are…
I’m an ashtray.
The butts of America
put themselves out on me.
What are you livin’?
Are you livin’ a horror story?
Are you really hurting people?
There’s danger,
but there’s also help.
It’s here.
It’s in this room.
Can what I do help you?
Yes, yes it can.

We are in serious business now.
What do I do?
You really engage yourself,
apply the method I’ve employed.
I don’t plan to take his side of it.
I’m here alone.
You’re valuable,
and help is right there close to you,
if you can see ‘em.
It is you open’s Heaven’s gates,
more so than the master.
Don’t sit there and entertain bad thoughts.
Call on the divine for help.
Call on God.
Voices hearing will not be a waste in your ear,
urging you to wrong.
You will hear the inner voice,
coming in on the situation.
Learn to discern the difference.
It moves you towards light,
doesn’t flatter you
or put you down.
It’s sweet and open.
It loves the world,
so you see
it’s what you listen to,
and it loves you,
firm but sweet.
Here I’m showin’ it to you.

Now come on,
no one has to kill anybody,
and don’t believe it.
You know you want safe.
You know it’s there.
Move into it.
Be there with yourself
and give that freedom to sin the number
you do not dial.
You’ve understood how delightful it is.
You’ve understood what no one can about it.
You feel a shape of God there.
You have some sense of mission.
You feel empowered,
excited.
I’m not really tired.
I just don’t want blood on my hands, you know?
I can’t help but feel bad about it.

Look, help is coming.
You can see it in yourself.
It’s not because it’s bad you stop.
You don’t want to hurt anybody.
You don’t want blood.
You see the situation,
and you see the way out.
Take the way out.

And Nature herself will help you.
Circumstances change.
It’s not so easy to slay.
It’s not so fun either.
Or maybe it’s all one big plan
you’ve played out so many times.
You don’t want to do it.
You want to be free from this.
Come, let’s go.
Let’s get out of this mess.
Let’s get on with our lives
freed from horror story,
and let’s do this everyday
for the rest of our lives.
Be in command
of what ails us.
Be free from it,
the horrible blood-taxed tears
of death
in the eyes of other people.
Come on let’s go.

Laugh at it
don’t touch it,
I know that from dream,
what a smart Bible.
I know a lot of things from dream.
I know my life from dream.
Finally,
I got that ancient knowledge,
your interpretation of dream.
It’s a representational channel,
showing the inner essence of things,
movements in your life,
this and that happenstance,
the nature of the universe,
what are you doing in it.

It will tell you about yourself
in no uncertain terms,
like show where you are,
what you are
at any given moment.
It can talk about the past it can talk about the future,
and most dreams are about the next day and the day before.
That blows your mind.
You can’t get over it.
Now let’s predict the future.
Your dreams do it everyday,
every single day.
How do you read that?
We are loved and cared for.
We’ve got a lot to be thankful for.

You don’t even know why.
Episode—
how horrible you are,
gunna be,
to another person,
to this flagship of people,
and it could be Nature’s gifts you know.
It was prefigured in dream.
You saw it
but did it anyway.

Amazing grace,
you’re shown to report to yourself how to change.
Seeing this over and over,
you get out of it.
You stop doing that to people.
It’s all in the book,
the fantastic book of dream.

You’ve got your own dream maker
put in light of the universe
a representative of the divine,
so you know what to change.
Incredible, isn’t it?
You won’t find anything on earth like that.
You won’t even know where to look.

It’s right here in dream,
and I’m beggin’ you for it,
so stupid with this world’s things.
I’m sorry I managed this.
Behind you look.
The stunning creature
put you in a spell and you did it,
but at least you didn’t do that boy’s ass.
You find boys won’t let you do that.
It’s a grace season.
Let’s get on with our lives.
I’ve given you a key to dream.
Put it in your pencil work and wrap your head around it,
and we’re all better for it.

You measure change
into whatever movie you’re watching.
And I’ve given you the interpretation of dream.
I’ve put it down on paper
in this digital format.
That’s the actual of dream,
telelink
to where you’re goin’.
Wait I hear negative footsteps.
There’s oil in that dream.
Don’t put it on a kid’s bottom and smash it in.
It’s not tellin’ you to do that.
Get out of this mess.
A probability has arisen.
Don’t shake its hand.
It’s not what you have to do.
It’s a probability has arisen.
Don’t make it anymore than that.
I’ve told you how to do it.

Look,
just be gentle with him.
That boy can love you so much without sex.
You needn’t cross rivers.
You needn’t take his stock.
He is so into you.
Look, he’ll give you himself.
There’s where you stay:
respecting himself.
I’d love to John but
he’s just delicious.
How many years has it been?
Nine years,
we started when you were three.
How many people say uncommon here?
This is all over the world.

Parents love their children,
and so many have sex with them.
It’s not something you want to see.
It’s so human.
Do you know how common this is?
Not so unusual,
and we’ve got a world to find out.
They walk around angry wound.
It’s their adulthood.
There’s only one way to stop it.
You stop it yourself,
and you’ve never licked the bottom before,
and to think you have to’s a trap.
There is no bottom here.
There is only continue.

Alright daddy,
mommy,’
you’ll win this war
if you try,
and I’m helpin’ yah try,
showin’ you the way out.
There’s only stop,
because you love them,
and all the knowledge keep
that informs your will,
and you stop because of this:
you love them so very much.
Please listen.

We’ve put this in the book to show you
we can change the world.
We know where the levers are.
Can anybody hear me?
Does anybody care?

Where I come from,
man I told yah,
I had sex from birth.
You know my mother stopped.
How hard that was for her,
how incredibly difficult.
I loved it,
though it was awesome scary sometimes,
her lust,
her woman’s lust.
Now you see why I like boys
and don’t like women.
We’d need a transition here:
really scared of a woman’s lust
deep down in my bones.
I’m showing you the copter,
and now we slide the transition in.
I’ve contact with God,
and there’s the way out.

Open that door,
and a hurricane comes through,
but what a gift she gave me.
She put stop in my plan.
You’re hearin’ it today
so you can stop.
That’s the master plan.

Can you offer such advice?
Can you stop them?
You see where I’m comin’ from?
That place of heal.
It’s got so much love on it.
Do you love?
You just to want to catch and kill,
or hold them in prison for the rest of their lives.
And we’ve made change?
You’ve just spit on us,
again.
You’ve spit on the whole human race,
and that’s just how you do things.
Who’s the killer here, anyway?

He lost Buckshot.
Oh God daddy. [Nitish’s voice, terribly sad]
Oh, my, God. [heard sung by Diamond Eyes, song “23”]
There was some dog there.
She was my Rottweiler companion,
glued to me like my shadow.
She was killed
by a veterinarian mistake.
Lisa Joy Rottweiler
we called her.
She was principle human,
so safe to be with
if she had you in her paws.
No death has rocked my world more.
I don’t know what to do about it.
It’s still hurts so much,
a year later.
She misses me.

You would not believe the contact we’ve had
with her on the other side.
It would educate you to the dead in our lives.
I don’t want to think about it,
but she presses on my mind all day.
I give her my grief.
We have a special mission together,
and letting her go is not an option
until it’s done.
I will rescue her
and give her
her sanctuary,
where she will wait
until I return
when I die.

Right now she’s in hazard,
a dark place between worlds,
caught in the trap of her love for me.
She will not stray far from the window to here,
and I can see that,
and oh how that hurts.
Silly puppy,
hers is a protection range.
I can’t tell you that demons rattle the house,
besiege my room,
and I fight with them everyday.
Only sometimes a form I see.
They speak in my muse.
They harass my boy in dream.
She’s a protection model,
my beloved Rottweiler girl,
and she helps keep me safe
against intrusion,
me and my little boy.
She’s an angel really.

This is field of my house,
and she’s focused on us.
Her presence comes to me so often.
I just cry,
embarrassed someone might see,
and look out the window.
She sees this,
and gives me visions of her great big head,
so close to mine,
that tongue of hers lolling out in smile
like dogs do
comfortable and at ease.
She is so strong.
She fronts evil with her paws.
She’s great.

Now what do I do with that?
Give you a vision of dog you’ve never seen before.
Oh how home they are to us.
They’re not just dogs.
They’re angels unawares,
and when you get one like Lisa,
you see the reach of dog,
but what suffering has brought this to you.
You think I’m bluffing,
but a dog’s worth
can equal ours
if they’ve reached their human,
and she has.

Now I’ll show you one more thing,
the love of dog and child.
It moulds their lives,
gives them love to play with
and loyalty
wrapped around that child.
They’re cleansers.
They’re such unabashed lovers
it makes the child’s heart sing,
and you don’t know the strength of this bond,
or you have forgotten.
Look into its eyes once more.
Now tell me God is not the cause of this.
And they are here to school our children
in love and fidelity.
Wow, what principle dog,
what holy sacrament.
It’s too common to believe,
but I’ll let Lisa show you,
that big wonderful dog
waiting on her master.
She’s here.

I’ve heard the angels sing
right here.
We each hold water for this dog.
You’re not human,
Bruno be quiet.
He’s a troublemaker,
that one.
He’s so shadow,
and I don’t know how
to get him
to stop botherin’ the female dogs.
We measure heartbeats,
not spankings.
I hold it for ‘im,
his paw,
a lot when I’m at computer,
just so he knows he’s safe and loved.
He’ll bug you to death if you don’t.
And we take care of children.
What else do you do with dogs?
And some dogs work too.
So what?
They’re still our kids.
They are our special angels.
A thought in the mind of God
that balanced our mind
with a companion of love,
that’s dog.

A catalyst for change,
you know it,
that’s the history of this book.
It’s a divine love laughter science with a twist:
it brings you home.
It’s got everything in it
in the need to see.
It’s a holy book entails
so much interpretation.
We wouldn’t treat it that way.
A lot of interpretation’s already in it.
These are your divine glasses.
They help you see.
They help you be real.
I could use some reality myself.
I am an integer in this book
just bein’ myself.
I’m not in divine form yet.
I’ve just got to where I love you,
and I do that like myself.
I’ve just go to the point I love you
just like you are.
I see the whole
frequently.

I try not to step on your feet.
I just spent the evening with my little boy.
We loved dog together.
We got crazy
with his homework.
Potty humor spell it out.
I think we belly laughed.
And the way that boy looks at me,
oh wow, it’s got stars in it.
I know we have fleeting time.
Boys grow up,
wouldn’t you know it.
He looks at me for keeps,
tells to shut up about growing up.
He likes it just the way it is.
That’s our life,
and it’s good.

Do you know the meaning of the book?
It’s bigger than stars.
We would go out of the universe with it,
and we would be ourselves.
There’s an on high,
a riding car
regarding time.
That’s us in there,
making our lives matter.
It’s the principle person we are.
It’s who made the universe
as a field for its self-expression.
We become that self.
It’s higher than thought,
higher than Mind.
The Gods both help us and oppose
our moving beyond them.
You would think I’m the Devil said that.
It’s just virgin territory
for religion.
It’s who we are,
that self on high,
who we are becoming.
It’s a new interpretation
for the book
of man’s journey through time.
It’s bound to raise some eyebrows,
religion or non.
It’s the shape of things,
explains why we’re here,
and there’s just so much to that,
more than religion can figure,
more than the human mind can know.

We are a free ship
in our truer selves.
We ride there
a vehicle of God’s love,
an expression of His force.
Great the angels sing.
We hear Supermind
beyond angels,
bigger than any God
in the cosmic sea.
That’s our real self,
the true individual
that we are.
It’s bound to come sooner or later,
the advent of Supermind.
It’s here among us now.
We wouldn’t gauge it rightly.
I see it in my room.
The form doesn’t show—
its all eyes presence.
It’s everywhere at once.

God’s presence is there
the sustainer in the room.
Supermind is our true self.
God is the whole thing.
Supermind is small in comparison but God nonetheless.
I meet Supermind
my Godself
stand and sing.

Tales,
that’s what you read here.
What do you make of it?
It’s real it’s live it’s happenin’.
I put it on your block corner today.
You will not for me let anything enter your house you don’t know.
You block the unknown.
I’m a blog unknown,
and I listen to you I’m sorry.
It’s evident in my speech.
Kunji, kunji, kunji,
why does it go so high?
Why is it the main meal of the day?
Why do you have to do it?
Can’t you just do something else?

Animal,
that’s where it breathes.
You can’t arrive there without it.
It’s hungry.
The animal nature sucks.
It’s perturbed.
It just wants to eat
and guard its territory.
How do we get rid of this
animal nature?
We evolve,
and evolution will take us to a higher type.
That’s direction enough.
I’ve put it down on paper
how to resist
in digital words.

That’s ludicrous:
we can’t keep from doing that.
We are ordered animal creatures
we can stay awake.
An informed will
bids time
it’s rock solid.
You’re lookin’ at it.
I take your hand.
It’s need,
just how whole you are in a big bed.
I have written the vocabulary.
In the future,
I think you’ll use it.
Can I just see?
I really do have the vocabulary.
Are you gonna wait until I’m dead?
It would help you now,
boy would it ever.

We have crossed the world
in the entire of a book.
I just don’t know about the read thing.
You don’t seem to want to.
Okay it’s out of my hands.
It’s written.
Bye.

Agent provocateur,
come back here.
Uncle,
grandfather,
we’re listenin’.
We’re really readin’ it.
We just don’t say a whole lot.
I don’t know if thank you’s the right word.
What’s you’ve given us
defines the world.
I am so excited to read it.
I’ve read it done.

You just never know
what those views mean,
and right now,
they’re few and far between.
I’ve published a book
online,
and writing it while I post it,
well not completely.
It was finished some.
If this were an experiment in reading,
like that alternative format,
the results were dismal.
I think we’ve processed delete,
and we can get rid of it today,
so easily.
No, not this baby.
It’s here to stay,
grounded completely in time.
And that’s the storybook.
You hear me Houston?
Okay world,
I’m done.

A laughter love story,
it’s yours for the takin’,
divine word.
We laughed at ourselves for an hour,
and then just went to sleep.
Divine providence reads it.
I am so very careful with seer.
I don’t hit you over the head with
I am a chosen preacher,
and I am a the prophet;
God will destroy your city if you don’t;
He’ll make you eat your children.
Oh, I’m going too far.
Let us return to peace.
It’s a book about me,
but it’s not centered on me.
I am infallible,
that’s not me.
Look it’s God I want you to look at.
God is free.
Even in Supermind we adore Him.
Just wait and see.
Goodnight people.
Snorin’ dogs will put me to sleep,
and I’m complete.

The prophet speaks.
Will you shut up?
Align with me.
I am a seer see,
a poet-seer,
and there it is.
Will you shut up?
Rage puppy,
oh I forgot about that crowd.
How to burn a book
if it’s online?
Hackers,
they won’t let you read,
or they try and stop you.
Not the brightest crowd,
damn right dumb if you ask me.
What are they tryin’ to prevent,
manipulate public opinion?
Hey look,
they are so manipulative,
block you from reading material
that would make you think differently than them,
and that shows their superiority?
They just hate, you know?
She was singin’ bye bye Miss American Pie. [heard sung, by Don McLean]
If you leave me now. [heard sung, by Chicago]
Uh oh, we’re windin’ down.
See yah later.

Teacher, leave those kids alone. [heard sung, by Pink Floyd]
Shut up.
You’re just a Hostile power
mixin’ in my music.
I can recognize you,
see?
And we wrote it down,
the whole nine yards.
We’re done.

We’re ready to happen with society.
Brain pickings
five hours from now,
but that’s gonna last
so happily through the ages.
So long.
He reveals himself
that part of man’s mind that thinks of Him.
He reveals himself as a God link,
and that’s the driving of this book.
The author’s stuff,
his worry,
is just a vehicle to get there.

Totally devoted to You,
that’s where we’re goin’.
That’s the icing on the cake.
It doesn’t get any larger than this.
Do you understand my balance?
It’s a vehicle for this Earth.
Beings are a dime a dozen.
We get to know God.
Public spirit
we got there.
Supermind was just a stepping stone,
tremendous,
really, really big.
Come on let’s get going.

The stigma of the pedophile,
that’s not read today.
The stigma of the pedophile,
it won’t let anybody believe it.
You are not supposed to speak,
you’re feeling the taboo yes.
It’s a better book that way,
more real, innocent.
I would not be cosmic:30.
I would be a wharf in your room
where you can dig for deeper fishes.
I am so led by history you have no idea.
You just say no.
And no shelf
of no read
will keep this book from being read forever.
You’re intendin’ me some just by bein’ here.
Adios.

I peed in my pants.
I clean it all up.
Now showing in the depths of Auroville,
the liberal elite.
They don’t got any stakes higher than that.
As besieged as they are,
I’m on their shit list.
Now you wanna landmark?
There it is.
I ask you to read my book and pass it on to Auroville,
a pick me up,
right about now.
I remember thinking
what can you do?
Too angry to set fire to my words,
Aurolow is in a bad position.
We need to get them off the ground.
We need to get them started again.
The ways and means committee decides how much politics,
how much voice.
Everybody’s staying here tonight.
We’ve got a lot to go over.
That’s your package.
I’ll see yah in the morning.
Goodnight.

What do we do for air flyers?
You’re writing on her book.
Didn’t know she’d do that
after questioning the law from destruction,
and it started everything:
and help me I’m super.
We’re not gonna use your word.
Don’t just stand there and shoot human unity.
I’m sorry,
I stood between you and Tamils.
I am not that now,
and try not to be in on this shot:
the secretary will try to kill me,
once she gets a load of me.
I barely remember that from dream.
Dream exaggerates,
but you see the threat.
Now she’s a pole employee,
and that pole can be removed.
It’s all in the book.
Are yah hearin’me?

I’m on my way.
Here, make a story different,
make the whole thing different.
I’ve got your love at heart.
Piece me together, will yah?
The history of a lifetime
gets you a private school.
I’m lovely to your cold tablet.
Just pick me up.

You read it.
I can feel the shift.
To be interested in the best and the rest reading,
Auroville give me a glow.
I don’t think you understand I’m your seer,
and cities like you have always had one.
Why wouldn’t it be now?
Modern times exclude them?
You just don’t know what you’re looking at:
divine intervention
that a seer expresses to his world.
I didn’t get a chance to show you
years ago:
my mother and sorrow and with other man to eat,
the one I was years ago.
First thing do gonna take medicine,
what this book is on its most basic level.
Have it course,
have it now.
Stand for the movie.
You’re likely to get inspired by it.

He was so impress us.
His cells early had the light.
We gave him our middle finger.
Come and doubt
what make me visible again.
Is that yours?
I am, really, truly, here.
Can you forgive me?
Our museum,
no it’s crazy:
everywhere you come you die.
We just don’t know how to listen to kids.
We don’t know how to listen to anyone.
Alright Auroville, alright,
you have so much of my stuff.
He hung up,
and now it got weird.
You might say he had some friends.
They helped him—
Auroville live up to your charter.
Hide away,
here we go.
Ooh grandmother,
you’re serious.
That’s the Mother,
and she’s here,
sending modern letters to the captain
because of Brian.
Get ready.

Computer this is,
computer teaching,
your fault.
You’re acting the whole comes out,
and forget it.
It’s far from you.
People don’t understand the need to read human things.
We just hand-me-downs.
Hey buddy,
you’re not the only one
provide answers to humans.
A little tired baby,
a little headache braid,
that’s what it does to you,
the computer medium.
In heaven,
even if they die,
we’re gonna feel their aftereffects a long time.
They dangers in using them
put us all at ease.
Computers generate hostility.
There’s your Internet.
There it is plain.
Let’s get back to microphones
to call one another.
They mysteries of the airways have us all on our feet.
Are you listenin’ to this?
You don’t know it, do yah?
Now this book is processed
a room to say you’re sorry in.
Give it to people.
Alright everybody,
I’ve said enough.

A Medieval adventure,
why they after the camera?
A Hindu camera,
Islamic State in religious observation.
Fear this.
Nobody wants it,
especially the people who think they do.
Get it the Matrimandir,
they’ll eventually control India,
tougher even
than any Moslem fundamentalist regime.
Come on,
Auroville’s where we meet.
Every able-bodied person in the world
converge on Auroville.
Free it from government hands,
and bring it
to the uplifting of the world
a human unity center
and the place we create the new human being,
where love holds the door,
nothing authoritarian.
Come on let’s get out of here.

It is time for me to say
goodbye.
Who am I fool?
I can’t get read today
because of the tightly controlled races.
A computer never allow me.
Hero fantasies,
hero wars,
that’s what you’re doin’ online.
You don’t have a clue what’s goin’ on.
You’ll stop and tweet
to say somethin’ profound:
I don’t know what to do!

Manny you’re next,
but you’re naked.
Now I’ll tell yah,
just like there’s right action there’s right speaker,
and you’ve found him.
Here I am.
It’s that dog.
Yeah, it’s that dog.
You don’t have to worry.
I’m afraid you’ll never see me—
everybody’s censorship.
Put those on a month.
In less than a month
I’ll be in your garden.
Mornin’.

9/11 came from conflicts in Israel.
It happened there—
and you understand it.
Israel’s got the foreign policy of sharks.
Okay and we see that.
Now let’s go
channel her to humanity.
You know the flavor of this book.
It calls for peace in all settlements
in the land of Israel.
We’d need to help them do that.
You hear me?
Don’t fudge on this.
The Jews have to accept humanity, period.
It’s the only way out of this mess.
And we’ve got a sovereign State of Israel
learnin’ how to love the world.
Okay I gave you the book on that.
I mean we begin.

That will certainly relay the cosmic guitar
you get in Heaven.
It’s not a dust model.
It’s clear open and honest.
It’s good.
Throw the dust toy a limited view.
This is more about models,
sky history.
Paint it red and orange and gold.
Let’s get on with it,
building our reality.

My talking to the announcing editor also helps.
Who’s sleeping all in they’re a baby, isn’t it?
Nature added up the original score by banging it.
You see what I just did,
shaking it for to our understanding.
Memories of leaven filled the pie.
Seconds of the processing center,
listen to my voice,
you are still illegal in man’s eyes.
We get there from here,
to a whole lot of redemption.
Then it will have
live poetry reading.
That’s what you said.

Luna,
what are you doing?
That’s not your bag that’s Lisa’s.
Human awareness,
that’s your ordeal too.
Let’s bake this bread,
take this show on the road,
get right down to changin’ the world.
Would the world hear me?
Would it even care?
And we get the equipment,
regardless.

A monumental change
is happenin’.
You know what they say about the missing link?
That’s his file.
Wow, hallelujah.
That was hung over.
Look at that process,
a success.
They’re all over the place,
world ideas.
You can’t find them
on a regular news stream platform.
Now look behind you.
You’re going out of business.
Look they network.
They get to humanity despite you.
Blue line,
from orange to some practical gold,
ask anyone,
it’s the dream of humanity vision.
Oh my God it’s you.
See yah in the morning.

We’re thoughts on the line,
every picnic basket,
every universal human.
They’re in every principle place on the planet.
A milestone
this book is formed.
It reaches you anyway,
even if you don’t read it.
World process is not dependent on books.
They give rise to things already done.
They’re just a record.
What has bubbled to the surface for our keep?
Now I’m a national anthem,
and we employ a world chant too.
Peoples of the world unite.
We got a lot to do,
boy have we ever.

Sorry,
you’re hearin’ my boy in my arms,
sleepin’ away,
and a five-year-old
I let him be with me.
A ten-year-old would be big and little at the same time.
What I love you takes care of them.
They are so sweet and little, you know?
Look I’m tired.
We go to the lake in the morning.
We must be there
the finishing of the book.
That’s all I’ve doing, writing,
just about nonstop.
So long.

A five-year-old,
he hangs out with me.
I love my golden retriever,
and that’s the storyline.
We got it.
What are we doin’ here?
My God that’s bigger than answers.
You see?
And we’re ready to go.
We’re on world terms.
We’re where they happen.
We’re in sync with you.
I’m right here to inform you
a world is on our table.
Half exists
as a physical motion.
The other half’s comin’ out of the water now,
right before your very eyes,
bright world ideas dripping with change.
Gather ‘em up, move ‘em out.
We're in the light of time.
We’re there, you know,
a world round at your feet.

This is ridiculous.
Gotta get some sleep.
I hand you the world
for your good keeping.
Take and disrespect it no.
A world is at your eyes,
and like a child watch it grow.
That’s the large part,
and that’s our expression now.
A bell for humanity,
I’m showin’ you the way home.
I’m showin’ you
the large degree.
Keep it safe and warm.
It’s your very child.
He has such soft skin,
and I could hold him in my arms all night.
I usually do,
those nights he stays with me.
Goodnight.

Bruno,
stop pawin’ the boy.
Gimme your paw.
I’ll hold it too.
Dogs and kids,
the dogs are a little jealous.
Luna where you at?
Right at my very feet,
and we’ve got ourselves a convoy,
takin’ night to a good night’s sleep.
Sweet dreams.

Leelow stop beating your tail against the bed.
You fat dog.
I love you too.
I think we’ve counted everything
in the world’s bed
we need to draw attention to.
Stop flappin’ those ears Luna.
I know you’re here.
Please bear with me.
I can’t turn this off.
Ah, there it is,
the lever.
I hold you in my arms tonight
world.
He said he’s going to Cleveland.
Who pulled your chain?
Now goodnight.

He’s slept through this whole muse envision—
kids.
Oh God is that the fires of dawn?
Muse, let me go.
And we go.
Thank you.

I’m ahead
of where you think you are.
Okay that’s litter.
I’m in the beginning stages of man.
Try again.
I’m at world process, you know?
I think we’re comin’ along.
We Grasp the World Now.
I do. I do.
Good answer,
those risks
are quality,
and I’ve been showin’ you that all night long.

Oh the importance of dawn,
even birds sing it.
All the animals sing it,
it’s so good to see.
It lights up our world
with the responsibility
of daytime.
Now before we get out of bed,
let’s fly this room
right into dawn.
Done,
the book is finished.
Nitish sleeping with a jealous Bruno beside him. Photo by me.

Next post:

Epilogue of Ideas

Between Jerusalem I’m Sorry, Introduction

Lars Nørgaard, from Denmark, my hunger striking partner, made this flyer in March 1995

Introduction

I am the non-Jewish traveler in Israel, that one [1], that did a three-week hunger strike for peace in Jerusalem and afterwards taped poems of mine on holy sites in the old city, on the top of Mt. Sinai and inside and around the Great Pyramid in Egypt. This is the story of after Jerusalem and before the mountain and pyramid postings, a five month period in 1995 when I was in-between actions, when I was a vagabond sleeping outdoors more than in, when the Internet was yet too young to be the world wall or whatnot I posted my poems on. Those actions are told in a series of stories entitled, “A Journey of a Thousand Tongues”, posted on the world wide web, a stand in for honest to God face me reality, where we are yet but stand ins for human beings and not actual living and breathing people a world unto ourselves, or at least that’s how we act with one another on the net, where value is not put in terms of quality but in how great a diversion something gives. Nonetheless, it’s where I’m publishing this book, because of the absence of the usual censors, who most likely wouldn’t let this book pass. I doubt you’ll find a book that’s that hits us in the quick of our social selves more. Netizen, you’re in for a wild ride of a read.

You know about memory? Number one, no two people will remember the same event the same way, and even the same person will give slightly different accounts of it as time goes on, because memory gets things mixed up over time, puts this after that when this came first, forgets what a location was wearing, can’t remember this name but remembers that one (oftentimes more the name that did you wrong than did you good), adds things that weren’t there (usually things that make you look better), gets rid of things that were there (things that make you look bad), and it exaggerates events to make them more interesting or you more the hero or victim. Yet the mind is sure the story’s true when told. Dialogue is especially difficult, impossible really, since you basically just have to make it up when relating what was said (why I use it sparingly), trying as best you can to capture the gist of the conversation, if, that is, you are trying your best to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, and many of us aren’t. It isn’t only Hollywood that embellishes stories to make them sellable. We all do that a certain extent, even when we don’t want to.

That’s just the way memory works, unless you’re under hypnosis or something, or the whole thing was filmed, the conversation taped, and even then there’ll be debate. It makes narrative nonfiction part fiction no matter how you slice it, why I imagine the genre autofiction has come about in the first place: just to admit at the get go you’re not letting the facts get in the way of the story, to quote partly Farley Mowat, author of The Dog Who Wouldn’t be and Never Cry Wolf. You might wonder if he’s not doing that with his attitude to the truth. Getting the facts as accurate as possible gives the story more reality, and that’s what I’m doing, showing you, as best I can, as much of reality as I can. If you haven’t seen sides of it I’m going to show, then I’m doing my job. My muse however, which gives the inner perspective on the happenings of the outer world, has been insistent on adding the following: “I don’t think facts life earth.” Since it’s basically also the inner that remembers events, it seems the deck’s stacked against a 100% factual narrative of any event in the whole history of us.

It’s all so normal, so everyday, but, when you look at it, it’s out of this world. I’m talking about the fact that we are only here for some seconds before here becomes a there you cannot go to again save by a faulty, elusive memory. It’s a little scary too. Did that really happen, I mean, anything that we’ve experienced? Past experience has a will-o-wisp feel about it, can make you doubt the reality of reality itself. When you top that off with the fact that you only hear your inner life and not that of anyone else’s, as if you’re the only real one around, even though you know you aren’t, know with the same sense you know you’re real, you get the strangest world, impossible to capture with so many words.

Now let’s just get down to business. What’s at the bottom of racism and bigotry? I explore that, with an eye on how to heal it, but I’m not looking at it through the usual lens, the Black and White card of racism, although I do look through that lens quite often in this book, as a way to see more clearly the main focus here, which is something that is not officially allowed to even be named, much less examined, without you yourself being charged with racism. It’s a no name situation. This book exams the bigotry I experienced being a non-Jew in Israel, not only by religious Jews but also by Jewish American university students and graduates, and it was so ‘don’t sit at the table with us’ it felt like the lines weren’t being drawn on religious lines but on racial ones, like there was a fundamental difference between us in our very humanity, and I was the inferior type among them. Many Jews will tell me I’m being anti-Semantic just by saying this, but I’ll tell you what I felt: I was the Black American trying to be seen not as nigger but as a human being. You know, maybe it’s here, in this unwieldy, unmentionable thing, the bigotry of Jewish people, not all Jews by any means, but enough it was the main course on the table, humble pie, when I was a gentile in the land of Israel, and I seriously doubt I’m the only person that’s ever experienced this, that we just might find the heart itself of Western racism, and in so doing, have an eye yet to heal the world’s.

Yet this book isn’t about racism, and it doesn’t put Jews low on the rank card in terms of being human (if you’re not Jewish you might be offended where I do place them on the totem pole). Racism’s the tool I use, the jumping off place, in order to get at world origin and human meaning. Can you think of a better one? And if those two inscrutable, cabalistic things aren’t enough, I will take this book all the way to spiritual enlightenment and beyond, all the way to God, mentioning even devils in-between, and I’ll do that with my very hands and feet, not just my mind and mouth, and, believe me, you’ve never read anything like it in your life.

You’re sitting right there a you. The complexities of the relationship between us preclude any real knowledge of me, I mean that you taste me as substantial as you taste yourself, and, like me, you taste yourself bigger than you appear, much bigger of course than me at this moment. That’s just human nature. But read this book, and another person will become real to you in taste, become a taste of your very self. That person is this author. You game?

Because curd rice
is a healthy alternative to chicken.
Center for where things go alone.
Are you anti-Semitic?
I think you see the healthy alternative:
examine racism in all its forms.
That's the hero of the day.
We get rid of racism that way.
Now let's go.

You’ve added onto barley.
This smells the world.
Tell me about it,
a feature of muse.
Come on let’s go ride the mountain,
a lonely seer’s voice in time,
the exclamation of the book.
I’m modal thinking.
I’m reachin’ for everything
that will knock your socks off.
You’ve got the book.

Chapter 1
Where White Puts Supremacy Last

Title of tomorrow’s post
I’ll be publishing this book serially, daily, or thereabouts,
unless circumstances don’t allow that.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________

[1] The writing of this book resulted from the efforts I made over a period of months to get Ari Mahler to speak to me after he accepted my friend request on Facebook. He never did, although finally a personal friend of his did and told me basically to be quiet, that he was a public figure and to leave him alone, and I did but began this book, which has been some three years in the writing, put down, picked up again, and now picked up to finish and significantly edit all I wrote before. Ari wrote the famous Facebook post: “I am The Jewish Nurse. Yes, that Jewish Nurse. The same one that…

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.

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.

hunger-strike-mapThe flyer Lars made

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.