Lonesome Glory Publishing Co.

Maryland, USA

First edition, 2000

Second printing, 2001

Published by Lonesome Glory Publishing Co.

71 Elk Mills RD Elkton, MD  21921

Ó 2000 by Christopher A. Van Hassel.  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means without written permission from the author.

Text Copyright Ó 2000 by Christopher A. Van Hassel.

Photograph Copyright Ó 2000 by Christopher A. Van Hassel

 

To Rich

          For his wisdom and

          for his together understanding

          of that which simply cannot

          be spoken in words

          or written with ink.

          For exposing me to The Virtue

          And for breathing it with me.

          This book is the direct result

          of your teachings,

          Rich.

          Thank you for

          our solitary

          childish wanderings-

                   Together.

 

 

I do not know how to explain

the literature that follows.

I wrote it during my travels,

on the back of  horse vans,

traveling up and down the east coast. 

I started just writing senseless

phrases in a black book that

contained only blank pages.

After two or three hours into one van ride,

I had a story-line in mind.

With Jack Kerouac’s The Dharma Bums

fresh on my mind,

I found a way to put words to some ideas

that I had running around

in my head.  The story bounces

from one place to another,

from reality to fiction;

and is tough to follow at times.

 I guess it is necessary

for me to offer an explanation

to the reader before they embark

upon my strange tale.

I was nineteen years old when

I started to pound this story out.

On the long van rides to take race

horses to different

tracks and race courses up and

down the east coast, there is

a lot of  time spent sitting, waiting. 

Being bumped around by

the rough parts of  the highway and

the drivers’ die-hard hammering

down to get there and back

as quickly as possible.

There is a lot of  time spent on these trips,

 so I bought my black book along to

make use of  the time.

Needing to have some type of  dialog,

I  used one of  Kerouac’s

characters to interact with.

I had just moved from home for

the first time in my life about one

year before I started writing this.

 Just left my best friend,

Rich Fritzinger, back home.

  It was his idea to buy the black book

in the first place. 

So we both bought ourselves one black book.

They were hard-bound with just blank,

white pages.  And we would fill them

with our thoughts, pictures and

quotes that interested us. 

We bought them hiking with us.

Which is what induced me to bring mine along with me on my road trips.

Rich had opened my eyes to Zen Buddhism.

And that was our understanding,

what made us so alike.

We thought the same about many things,

 even knew what each other was

thinking at times.

 And this is true. 

We thought, in a way, parallel.

And I was isolated during,

not only the road trips,

but the whole time since I had

moved away from home.

I had made no new friends,

and my life was work, sleep; work.

The road trips, or the time on the vans,

 was time off of work.

So I wrote.

Jumping from real to not even close

to being sane,

My tale spits itself out.

Many readers will put the book

down after the first paragraph,

some by the fourth page. 

But there are some interesting

insights throughout the story.

Whether they be caught up in the dialog

or simply a product of the Zen Lunatic

 diatribes, they are there; and these

insights are the heart of my story.

So I urge the reader to read on,

to finish.

If you finish and are disappointed,

well, at least you gave it a try. 

If  you put it down and say

 “some parts are good,

but other parts are boring.” 

that’s okay.

But if you put it down and say,

“That was a masterpiece!”

Than, well,

There is something seriously wrong with you,

And I advise that you go get that checked out!

                                                                                                                                    Chip Van Hassel

The

Black Book

            I guess we could just sit here and smile, and shit in our pants; but where is the reason for shitting and sitting, or smiling after defiling?  God puts his finger on the spinning globe to watch inertia toss people forth. An abrupt stop; big bang.  No need for theory.  There’s chicken shit in the bird crapper.  No soap for their bath.  Banana sandwiches lie on the counter- motionless.  Can’t write on turbulent, horse trailer.

            Dharma upon this midnight ghost.  My boxcar, or yearning for one.  Chilly wind biting my feet, whipping my face.  No Bum, though.  No bum with a prayer to read or drink wine and have cheese and crackers with.  Race-day tomorrow.  “Ramblings.” the bum tells me.  “Those are senseless ramblings.  And I can’t even read your writing.”

            “It’s crackpot shit!”  I explain.

            “You make no sense, Boy.”  He returns to chewing his cud.  “Senseless ramblings!”  he mutters.

            “I’m too old to make sense.”  I tell him.  “Wait ’till you grow up; you’ll never understand.  You don’t need to; It’s simply finger food; it’ll never ruin your appetite.”  I take a deep breath.  “I wish I had a hot can of beans.” I tell him.  He goes into his pocket and pulls out an object.

            “This is a prayer I read.”  He tells  “I read it every night.  I cannot call it my own.  The idea is not originally mine.  Just as this story is not yours.  It’s Jack’s.”  He is right.  I hope for him to read his prayer, but he says it is not his; so he can’t read it. 

            “Your prayer is my can of beans.”  I tell him.  “Eat your can of  beans in front of me.  Watching you eat them will fill me up.”  I pause and throw him a look.  “Those beans were not originally yours.  Will you never eat them?  They pray for you to part-take of them.  Can you not call them your own?”

            “No!”  he exclaims.  “I did not make them, so why should I be allowed to eat them?”  He tosses the can at me.  I reach out and snatch it from the air.  “I wish I had a hot can of beans”  he tells me.

            “Aye,”  I begin.  “But these were not originally…”

            “YOURS!”  he cuts me off.  “They were never yours to begin with.  So why do you want something that you do not already have?”

            “Because you want the Midnight Ghost.”  I retort.  “You did not have it until the first time you jumped on it.  When was it borne yours?  Nor is that prayer.  Why do you read it every night?”

            “It is a prayer for people such as yourself.  Who search for reasons to frown.  It tells of how a wise man became sour and how a sad man became wise.  You see,  when I was younger, I remember how everybody always prayed.  Instead of praying happily, they prayed to end their unhappiness.”

            “I’m bored of your story.”  I pout.  “You look hungry.  I’ll eat these beans for you.”

            He closed his eyes and prayed.  I did not interrupt.  When he was finished, he looked up at me; watching me wrestle to open the can with my knife. 

            “I wish you had a hot can of  beans!”  he laughed.

            “When does this Ghost hit destination point?”  I ask.

            “Where do you think you are?  Most trains have three or four stops.  But the Ghost has none.  Doesn’t take a rest; just rolls straight through.  We call it The Zipper.  You look like a Beatnik.  Not a bodhisattva.”  he tells.  “I can tell, because you do not even try to make sense.  Bums never make cents, but you will. 

            I wrote this prayer on the wall of a cave once.”  He unfolded the piece of paper and read it.  “But I did not sign my name to it, though.  That was the first time I ever put words to the ideas.  Then is when I thought that I did not have to meditate upon it.  When I finished painting it, I read it a few times over and found myself in deep thought over it; realizing that the words were not the end, but the beginning to a thought pattern”

            “I can’t get this damn can of beans open!”  I yell, frustrated.  “You do it.”  I look at him, but he returns an intransigent glance.

            “You see, just when I thought I no longer had to concentrate on it,”  he went on,  “I learned that concentration is not wanting to learn how to know, but simply wanting to know how to learn.”

            “Well, I want to know how to open this can of  beans.”  I hassled.

            “Do it the way Homohabillus did.”

            “Cave men did not have cans.”  I said.

            “Exactly.  They had can openers, though.  But do you suppose they were frustrated by not knowing how to use them?”

            I stopped fussing and peered at him.  “You make no sense!  Boy, oh boy!”

            “It’s shitcrack pot.”  He said seriously.

            We were silent for a while.  The boxcar roared on, and my argument with the can continued.  The bum opened his rucksack and pulled out a canister- about the size of a coffee can.  He put some straw, some cedar shavings and some flax hemp in it.  Then, he arranged a little pile of wood beside it and threw a piece of char-cloth into the can.  He hit his flint two times with a metal striker.  Then, he quickly picked the canister up, held it at an angle and blew into it.  Flames spat out at him as he quickly put it down and carefully placed the pieces of wood in.  Slowly; one-by-one.  The warm, orange light glistened in his whiskers and cast shadows about his face, making me realize his age.

            “Why do you jump from present to past tense so?”  he criticized  Then, he threw a friendly look and said,  “Tough beans, Huh?  Don’t argue with a warm fire.  Come sit with me so, I can drink your wine and eat those crackers under cheese.”

            “It’s understood, anyhow.”  I say on my way over.

            “What is?”  he answers.

            “You.”

            “Maybe not,”  he reprieves.  “I still have not opened that can of beans.  You do not wonder why, because you understand that I want to treat you like a boy.  Make you learn the hard way.”  I don’t respond.  “This is how I usually do it.”

            He pulls out another can and pops it open with an antique can opener.  “You’ll laugh about it when we’re the same age.”  he says.  He puts the can into his hot coals and grabs my can and opens it.

            “No sense in cutting yourself on this jagged can.”  he offers.  “You have that one, and I’ll wait for this mangled, fuckin’ thing.”

            I search my mind for conversation.  My imbalance has become awkward.  The little can warms my numb, stinging hands.  I feel like I’m on a boxcar.  It even trembles and bumps like one.  The bum is not beside me with his cans.  I am alone, lost in my thoughts.  Remembering where I am, I look over at him and ask, “What is the prayer that is not your own?  Can it be for me?”

            “I smell horse piss!”  he mutters.

            “That’s it?  That’s your ever so wonderful prayer you have stowed in your secret over-head compartment?”  I am appalled.

            “No, I smell horse piss!”  he exclaims.  He goes into his pocket and pulls out a piece of paper.  “Awaking to a new day,”  he begins, “A broader horizon… open, like wings I’m flying on the real.  They know it happened… we grow, slow.  But we grow.”

            I think upon it for a bit, knowing that it isn’t anything spectacular or special.  But I know that it could be more if I really think about it.  But a Bodhisattva would not want me to think about it at all.  He knows we understand it, yet, only time without it can make us appreciate him.  “It’s Wood, motha’fucka'”  I think out loud. 

            “It’s a Rich thought.”  he says.  “A Dharma like yourself- not much different.  A Fritzinger, though.  Never tried to be a Hassel.  But those who put too much thought into his attitude misunderstood him.  He is a Do Nothing Dharma- the purest kind.  But most Beats are too involved in too much to appreciate him.”

            “…And you squat in boxcars and read that prayer every night?”  I ask.  “It may not be my idea, but are ideas borne to be owned?”

            “No.”  he stated.  “That is exactly my point.  The Fritzinger wrote the thought on paper, but he knows that the idea belongs to everybody.” 

            But the story has been getting old, drawn out.  The bum dissipates into the roar of the boxcar.  His beans are eaten, his prayer not my own.  The scream of the engine is noticed once again, and this turbulent box is apparently more noticeable.  The bum was right, though; It does smell like horse piss in here.

            They stomp and bob their heads out of  boredom.  One weaves; another stands miserable with his ears pinned, his dark eyes pissed.  ‘Tis a long ride on the Simoff van from Cochranville, Pennsylvania to Genesio, New York.  ‘Tis a long story to hold under such bumpy and lonely pretenses.  But, for a while, I was in that boxcar arguing with that bum.  I did eat his beans, and he enlightened and kept me warm, indeed.  I am Dharma in this box, too; for I remember my yearning to live in the woods and live comparably to Kerouac.  It is another nostalgia mood when I think of Jack, and, in turn, of  Rich (The Wood Boy).  But I’m not there anymore.  I’m on the real boxcar, now.  Instead of just thinking about taking a journey, I now physically embark upon one.  It is interesting how children dream of their future lives, and they want to live them now, but cannot.  The older they get, the thinner their futures seem; the horizon is closer that than formerly knew. 

            So I am still in the boxcar next to the bum.  Our beans finished, we pass our wine back and forth.  “Why do we want to grow up so quickly, but refrain from doing so when the time comes?”  I ask him.

            “Who has grown up?  You?  You think YOU are grown?     Funny.”

            “No.”  I say.  “It’s sad.  We yearn for the past that we can not have back, yet we fear the future that we structured yesterday.”

            “But you are on a boxcar.”  He looked at me with a solid, understanding demeanor and said, “Yesterday is gone; and when you jump onto the boxcar, tomorrow is neither feared, nor preset.  Tomorrow is great anticipation.  And, when tomorrow has been lived, look back on it and feel your appropriate emotion; but do not compare today to yesterday.  Feel anticipation.  Don’t  lose tomorrow’s anticipation by being disappointed with the past.  Be a child; dream and believe the unbelievable.  We can walk across the moon now.”

            “What good is being on the moon for anybody?”  I wonder.  “What use is there in that?  Who cares?”

            “See, that is what is so important.  You don’t care.  Even more importantly, Moon Men do not care if you find them to be irrelevant.  Thinking is too old to make sense.  It’s fuckin’ finger food.  The main course is physical activity.  Children want to be successful and feel important.  They work to be the Main; Flying on the real.  They are!  We are!!”

            “But the horses stomp and paw and bob their heads.”  I drop my head and mumble, “Miserable.”

            “Yes, but they will run (race) tomorrow.  Pounding their feet, living your dream.  Joy, sadness, muscle strain.  You can hate it- miserable; or you can love all of it- anticipate.”

            I nodded in agreement while I opened my rucksack and took out a black book.  I opened it and flipped through, stopping, and looking one particular page over.  “I wrote this.”  I announced.  Then, I began: 

          “I look out the kitchen window, watching the old man mowing his fields on his tractor.  I smell the freshly cut grass and think of the past.  Looking at the old guy driving around, I know mowing his fields makes him happy.  It gives him time to think.  But I feel sorry for him, peering at him- unaware that I’ve been watching him.  I do not know what ramblings occur in his head, though I feel sorry for him in spite of the past that I know he is thinking about.

            Comparative to the moan of an airplane passing overhead, the scent of freshly cut grass is always the same now as it was when we were kids.  When we hear the plane and smell the new lawn, every single time, we think about the past.  Just like the smell of that new lawn, we can enjoy it today, but will forget about it tomorrow; for the wind will carry it away, and the dew will weigh it down.  As the airplane displays its Doppler effect, our memories of the past fade with the sound.  Our yearnings for our childhood backyards disappear in the mornings’ winds.  We are to save them for the next plane and the next cut.  More importantly, the growling of the tractor proves that life is apparent even we are not meditating upon it.  The old man mowed these fields thirty years ago; and he mowed them seven months ago, before I came to work for him.  If I were to leave here, he would never stop mowing his fields.  His life could go on, as would mine, but the thought of knowing that this place is still running every day, and my absence leaves an unfilled space, is depressing.  This farm runs without me, but I want to be a part of its past.  I want them to tease me about what I do here now when I am grown up.  I love being a part of this place, but I am not a patient person.  The past happens tomorrow; that is why I wish I were already successful yesterday.  Regardless, he mowed his fields yesterday, before I even knew his name, just as they still mow at Windy Hill Farm (the last farm I worked at) where my name has been forgotten.  I never want to think about him mowing his fields being too far away for me to watch him, because I know that feeling when I think of what they are doing at Windy Hill right this second- without me.

          I ponder out at the old man, watching his quiet face he holds in front of his apprehensions.  I wonder if he is still happy with this life, content with his lonely house.  I feel sorry for him, because he is a good man with a true heart.  But I still wonder if he ever really is happy, for I can lie a smile for other people.  I can tell when he is faking his smile for others.  Sometimes, I cannot tell if his heart is in his smile, and that is what gives me sorrow.  The fields are done now, and he is genuinely satisfied.  I know that this is true happiness for him; therefore, I am truly satisfied.”  I palmed the spine of the book and popped it shut.

            “You wrote that?”  he said, amused.

            “I told you I did.  When does the Ghost stop?”  I remind him.

            “It will stop in six hours.” the bum tells me.  “There is a town called Port.  Then woods, Mucho Woods!  Where are you headed?”

            “I don’t know.”

            “You are luckier that I was when we were the same age.  I knew where I was on my way to.”

            I thought for a minute.  “Where did you go; and why did you leave?”  I wondered.

            “Funny question coming from a man who eats beans and wants a prayer.  I’m already there!”

            “And you’re still trying to get there?”

            “This is not trying. This is physical.  I am there, but, mentally, I’m on my way home.”

            “It’s crackpot shit.”  I remind him.

            “I’m going to sleep now.”  He states.  “Here’s more wood.   Keep warm by using more fire and less wine.  The Ghost is climbing in altitude; alcohol does not enjoy the thinner breathing.  Think that prayer after you go to bed.  Don’t jerk-off within twenty meters of my sleeping area.  The night is good.”  He retires to his side, rolled into a ball, and leaves the boxcar alone with me.  “Horse piss.”  he mutters.

            The Ghost floats past a small town that is still sleeping.  I cannot see it though; the metal case incarcerates my presence from it.  I have woken up, drowsy and cramped.

            “The morning is awake.”  the bum smiles at me.  “You must be good.”

            “I wish I had some coffee.”  I answer.

            “Yes, but Columbia is so far away.”  he reminds me.  “You ever think about the chicken or the egg?”

            “Which came first?”

            “No,”  he grinned.  “Which came last.  Which lasts longer.  Which tastes better.  Would they ever become carnivorous in harsh times?”

            “I just woke up.”  I complain. 

            “To set up what you like against what you dislike- this is the disease of the mind.”^1a   He took out his prayer and read it. 

            Pigeon shit coats the roof of the boxcar.  Light bounces off of it easily.  I am damp from last night’s cold sweat.  I look over at the bum; and he is sitting, meditating.  “Big Destiny^*1, number one;  Tyrandarra^*1 can’t handle the distance over timber.  Cut his stifle.”  he states.

            “What’s that all about?”   I ask.

            “Geniseo, New York.”  he answers.  “Chip Miller* up.  Long van ride; bumpy writing.”

            “I can’t read you.”  I tell him.  “Your stories don’t make sense.  Chicken is more filling.  The egg is the last step- a completed task.”

            “You are boring because of me.”  He denounces.  “I’ve gotten old.”. 

            He disappears. 

            “Can women urinate in a vertical position?”  I wonder.  I think about that bum painting Fritzinger’s prayer on the cave wall; and I wonder if he, himself, is Fritzinger.  Meandering about, climbing mountains is selfless solitude.  I know that is what Richard wanted; but has he become it?  If so, he is no bum, no walking-man,  He is Dharma.  The term, “bum”, means one without domestication.  Fritzinger was indeed domesticated, but in a free-lance sort of way.

            When I knew Wood, he was a lot like me.  We thought parallel.  We both yearned for the same type of hiking nothingness.  We both rambled our Dharma sayings to each other, knowing that other people thought it was a bunch of mystical bullshit; ie, us trying to be stranger than NORML.  But we understood each other’s Buddha; our Buddha.  That is what held us strong together.  We both wanted and knew how to hop onto the boxcar, but we never lived it out.  Too domesticated in modern materialism.  We knew that the dogs barked at us because we were bipeds and not machines of four wheels;^2a but we were always happy enough just knowing about it, never inclined to change it.  We were much alike with our Buddha idealism, though he believes in “Do Nothing, do nothing”; And I have always been a “Think nothing, Do much” person.  Somewhat physical contrasts.  Related principals, yet they are physical contrasts.  He always wanted to climb the mountain, get to the top and project his triumphant yell.  I am different:  I always wanted to DO climb the mountain, get to the precipice and project my triumphant yell.  “Do Nothing.”  he once told me.  But our ramblings were not literal.  More importantly, our “ramblings” were completely literal; that is the Buddha within them.  That is why I feel sad knowing that his mind is atop a thoroughbred, yet his body is a quadriplegic, in a “do nothing” wheelchair.

            The Zipper spat out of the arches and screamed past our shack.  We sat on the couch, our figures being tossed about on the wall by the candle’s light.  Vodka in orange juice, the tube(bong) standing proud, up on the table.  We talked nonstop, smiling our Dharmas, woeing our ungraspible past.  We consumed, knowing I would soon leave The Bridge (The small town we grew up in, High Bridge, New Jersey).  We both knew that nobody was left there anyhow.  He is no longer there as of now.  I doubt he’ll move back.  Children we still were, despite our number.  We were happy to know this.  Able to get sloppy and remain unorganized.  But those days have disappeared just like we knew they would.  And I can only hope for him to return a call or go on another hike.  Sad it is to dwell upon old Japhy (Rich), for he has not made the incentive to become the Japhy we both pursued.  He must be proud of me, though he probably despises my voyage through this materialistic ocean.  He understands, yet he knows it is my choice to be the hypocrite.  Success, money, fame:  all just a load of elephant shit; but goals must be obtained.  Hard work can be drained from my knowledge. 

            Our difference is what a man named Joe Gillette once described to me.  We were out galloping, and he said that a majority of the really successful people had a tough child hood.  And that people who had it easy cannot appreciate as much, therefore do not succeed comparably as well.  ‘Tis true.  Some people are happy right where they are, no matter if it seems like they are going nowhere.  But that is what angers/frustrates me.  Fritzinger did have a rough childhood, but he still remains content with his current path.  I, on the other hand, am still not content with my path.  And weeds, or weed, is choking up the path between me and Rich.

            So, uncontent living in The Bridge, I hopped onto a boxcar- the one that retards this current writing.  I am stressed-out, but I anticipate tomorrow.  I’ve set off three winners so far, and that don’t mean shit!  This Zipper ran steeds back and forth in the seventies- before I was apparent.  The thought calms me.  Looking back at the horses, knowing that the year is 1970; racing feels young to me.  That is the game, too.  It never ends.  Those three winners are back at the bottom tomorrow.  Lifestyles- not a latex condom,- a porous bag in which we manifest.  I have to defecate.  Long time before I can, though.  Ain’t as pleasing not on a pot.  No paper here to sheer my crack of the slag that would lag- stagnant and rampant, browning my pelvic surrounding.

            “I think I’ll have a crap.”  Geoff  Turnbull  said to me last night.  I hope he does not still have it!  But is it possible for women to urinate standing up?  I still ponder.  Men can sitting down.  People crap smells like shit!    

            Apologize:  had to have my crap; had no choice.  Not as pleasing as in the water bowl, but my ass no longer implodes.  Stench, though.  Covered by straw, but still, full of its own awe.  Upon my nose grabs its green claws- selfish and raunchy.  But the horses christen the stalls, though theirs smells sweeter, like coffee.

            And the cat meows, and I think, “Yeah, meow and shit.  That’s just great.”  I wonder though, when you walk up or down the stairs in the dark, and you step one more time, expecting there to be another step, and there isn’t one; which is a more fictional feeling:  up? or down?  Strange change of tone- from chicken shit to the bum- finally trailing off into this meaningless shit. 

            But which is better: sense or no sense?  Sense is simply a fence that reprimands influences’ demands upon your understanding of descriptions.  Discrepancy.  One word sentence.  STOP.  Dr. Gonzo.^3a  A reminder of senseless mind frying.  Like the egg in the pan, your brain becoming spam- not at all fulfilling.  Craving killing, but not fulfilling.  ‘Tis getting old, though.  The bum looks over at me and says, “Do chickens piss?” 

            I think that he is joking, but his face is serious, his look- stern.  “Don’t reckon they do.”  I answer.  “They got those little, white droplets they plop out.  Ain’t never heard of chicken piss.”           

            “That’s right.  And you’re a fuckin’ weirdo for answering such a question.”

            “People don’t make sense.  Look at you.  You’re…”

            “What?  A fricken chicken kickin’, cow twat licken’ fool?  Pretty gross for a Nick such as yourself.”

            “Have you no lines?”  I sez, baffled.  “You do not cross, for you are rampant, all over the place.  You spit out this shit that we both know don’t mean nothin’.”

            “It’s semantics.”  he says.  “Trivial.”

            He reaches into his pocket and retrieves a cigar.  He gnaws on it for a minute, then clicks a Zippo lighter.  The Zippo flame’s smell catches me as it mixes with the sweet first couple of puffs- pristine puffs- not comparable to the rest of the cigar.  “You think about it too much.  It’s an interruption to your own thought pattern.  Crackpot is not a riddle.  Crackpot shit is crackpot shit; nothing more, yet it indeed is much less.  This stogie does not say such things.”  He motions, using the cigar as a visual aid.  “Don’t matter, though.  We all used to shit our pants, once.  Piss ’em, too.  That’s what is apparent about people: they always do different as time passes.”

            I sit; knowing that he is right.  Thoughtless as to how to respond.  He is not looking for a verbal response, though.  “This has become my idea, now.”  I tell him.

            “Jack knows.  His characters, but he knows.  Your bum is different though.  A talker, not afraid to assert himself.”

            He raises his torso and tightens his eyes.  “‘Twas a fart I done.”  He proudly announces.  “Smells like shit, too.  Sweet to me, yet foul for you.  Stinks good, but you know what William Shakespeare said about the good and the bad.”  And he was sustained; the shit reeked!

            I wish I could talk to Japhy, though.  I call his ass on the phone, but he is out laying carpet with his dad.  He, like I, is stuck in the material world.  His void is now ripping up old and gunning down some new.  Material void in a literal sense.  But I phone him, though he has not returned a call in nearly a year.  I miss old Japh; but I wonder if he misses me.  Misses me too much to call or has forgotten about good ol’ Ray (me).  I, myself, am disappointed.  When I left The Bridge, I wondered if  he would never return to the woods at all, or if he would live in them every day, maintaining our long gone, senseful, childish wanderings.  (I since have learned that he never did return to the woods.)  It chokes me up- thinking about ol’ Japh.

            And now I have taken the trip home, to see my family, my home-town.  It’s disappointing.  I come back to the area that I journeyed away from to live this story.  It was all understood through a haze; a type of confusion that we all loved and made excuses for.  I enjoyed it knowing that I would part from it soon.  And I left it sooner that I thought I would, yet later than I could have.  And it was because of that purple cloud. 

            Every Dharma who jumps on the boxcar knows everything will be different when and if they come back.  But they do not worry about retaining their past.  They jump on the boxcar and travel worlds to find out why it actually is called “The Ghost”.  They finally realize that they are the Ghost, not the boxcar.            

            They leave a place and come back to notice that the horses still get “turned-out” (to pasture) even when they are not there.  People still smile and have a good time in their absence.  The old man still mows the lawn.  But that is a good thing.  Why does it make me sad?  Maybe it is because I am expecting change, but I view it differently that I am trying to teach myself to. 

            I am stressed-out though.  Racing thoughts that I should not even think.  I am angry at other people; I have a feeling that I do not like them, or do not like to interact with them.  I feel as though people are stupid, and that is where my anger stems from- frustration.  I cannot get this negative sing-song out of my head.  Regardless of the angry tone that I think and write with, I tell myself that I am happy.  I do know how to be happy, yet I enjoy being angry, spiteful.  Maybe that is how I learned to think from my cut short childhood.  ‘Tis pitiful to dwell according to such an arrangement, and I can offer an excuse, but the excuse has not yet been worded.  It is still just a noisy picture in my head, an idea.  But I had strived to rid of ideas when I started to mature.  Emotions were irrelevant.   Another reason why people are such stupid animals.  Now, emotions are that same thing to me, but I have not worked hard enough in these past couple of years to eliminate them from my thought pattern. 

            Emotion evokes me to continue, or finish, this book- I want to bask in its nostalgia when I grow up.  Emotions read this book, though it is great Buddha, too.  Ideas that mean nothing are dwelled upon.  A white spot in your head in place of noises and pictures and anger and emotions.  Crackpot shit to be precise.  Time to close your eyes so others can’t see you.  Ideas are pointless, as people are regarded for having them- ether stupid or intelligent.

            And that is why we are the Ghost.  People have to work to believe most of us.  Eyes are transparent.  Jumping on the boxcar, we leave the past we have built (to create a future).  And, when we return, we see that the past that we built has been altered by everybody else.  You have to share it with everybody and begin to build on to it again.

            But the Dharma throws all of that away when he jumps onto The Ghost.  It is not important to him until he wants it back.  That is why it is sad.  Your expectations cannot be reimbursed.  Change happens tomorrow, right now.  Ol’ Japh is the ghost because I was not there to keep his mind awake.   Now, after seeing him, (after these past couple of years) I feel powerless to help.  I have to get back onto the boxcar knowing that I will not come back to good ol’ Japh.  Japhy does not exist anymore (to me).  Now that I look back at it, Japhy never really did exist; that was just one of my hopes.  I have always been more of a “Japhy”  than Rich was.  I guess I just had hope, yet I knew that he would not change.  It’s the way Joe Gillette described it; he never thought he was in a rut; therefore, he’ll never climb out.  It is depressing, and that is why I have to jump onto the boxcar again.  Richard is a ghost to himself; how the hell am I supposed to see him?

            And that is why I had myself on the boxcar with that bum instead of  The Wood Boy.  It is because I know that he cannot become “good ol’ Japh”.  Good ol’ Japh is my imaginary friend.  And when I told about Fritzinger’s prayer, how the bum wrote it on a cave wall, I was simply hoping.  But the two characters are pretty opposite of each other and could never be intertwined.  And, like I explained, the prayer does not mean anything.  It is just an idea.  Just like the “Do Nothing” ideal.  Richard never tried to become a senseless wanderer; and , in turn, has become a ghost.  I, too, am a ghost, but I do not want to be; and  I won’t be.

            After this trip back home, I have come to the conclusion that I do not want to be back here, to live the past.  I am going to jump into The Ghost, because I do not want this back.  My original reason for leaving has been reinforced.  I will be a ghost to this town, but not to myself.  Happiness is only hypothetical (when you are not).  I want to be “Flying on the real…”  but how could the reader correlate the author of such an erratic essay with an understanding of what is actually “real”?   It does not seem feasible.  But, as I look over at the little bum, I think, “Dharma upon this Midnight Ghost.  My boxcar, or yearning for one.” 

            I blow into my hands for warmth, and wonder, “Where do I want to end up?  This is the journey, the beginning.  ‘Life is what happens to you when you are busy making other plans.’ ^1b How did I become so opposite?  Where did that bum go?”

            Learning life- wanting an everlasting, primitive camp, I aspired to live simply.  Flint and steal fires, governmentless wandering.  That has always been My ideal- always will be.  Against working with technical societies, I developed my negative pattern, my ultimate dislike for people.  Though, this type of disgust had always been the opposite of my utopia; True Communism had been my idea of sharing/working together.  Communism being more of an Anarchists’ paradise- a self-sufficient population void of written statutes and limitizations.  Too many people, though.  Materialistic animals.  Too many people- the original reason for my desire for a primitive lifestyle.  Simple life.  No new gadget man does not need.  No plastic devices or useless machines.  To sum it all up: Ect., ect., ect., Bla, bla, bla!!!

            Living life, I have chosen an opposite path.  As I spoke earlier about Japhy despising my journey through the materialistic ocean.  I want to ride the heroes and become one of the elite.  I have to become a hypocrite, but not in an arbitrary way.  Monetary stability, domesticated materialism, Slave to the Traffic Light ⁴ :  all ideas I have grown to despise,  yet I yearn for their outcome.  Like the bum who had to learn of the boxcar to want it, I want this career, yet I must learn more about it to understand exactly what it is about it (that) I love. 

            “Reality.”  the bum mumbles.  “You  know what such a thing could be?”  He does not even look up at me.  He sits fiddling with his boot lace, his eyes deep in thought.  “Reality is me asking you a rhetorical question, and you wonder for a brilliant answer.”   I watch him and see that he is sad.  I forget his bitter tone when I first met him and begin to feel sorry for him.

            “I know.” is how I answer him.  And with this, he stops fidgeting and becomes even more enriched by thought.

            “Ain’t no religion, really.”  he begins.  “Gods, no gods- all fairy tales that give people hope and teach how to be good and happy.  Just wonderful.  Don’t you hate it when people belabor subjects that are empty.”   He glances at me.

            “Yeah.  It’s like watching a talk show like Rikki Lake or Jerry Springer.  People are some dumb animals.”  We smile at each other; and that is enough.  This is the first conversation I’ve had in a long time when the pause is not uncomfortable.  Simply because a pause is a break, or transition, in a conversation; more bullshit will preside.  So this is not a pause, for it is not a structured conversation.  This is actual quiet and actual reality- people not inclined to impress or be impressed by each other.  QUIET.

            And that is what the Dharma gets from jumping onto the Midnight Ghost- incomparable quiet.  That is when we see clearly, because we need not think for a period of time- leaving time for our thoughts to think.  When I first jumped on the boxcar, the whole setting was a metaphor.  It still is, for I never have actually jumped onto a train.  But, riding across North America (mostly the east coast) in the back of horse vans, with the wind whipping around and the noises and bumps of the highway, I feel the Dharma.  The roar of the engine, the noises and bumps of the highway have strengthened my aspiration to free-lance.  On the road- a feeling of adventure.  Sitting on the floor, looking up at our horses, I am happy, because this was only a hope just one year ago.  Now, I sit here, looking up at their chests and broad, tight, muscled necks.  I listen.  They stomp and bob their heads out of boredom.  One weaves; another stands miserable with his ears pinned.  Their eyes are tired, seemingly angry.  They need not communicate by sounds; they are all frustrated, if they have the ability to feel such an emotion.  As I peer up at their massive muscles and ponder their amazing ability, I am enlightened, for I listen to their conversation. 

            One thing horses understand yet need not explain is their type of communication with each other.  I look into their eyes and smile- happy.  I am enlightened by the fact that need not be proven: QUIET.  And as I listen to the quiet, I am happy and proud.  One year ago, when people told me that I could make it, I believed them; but I questioned if they really thought that I would do it (as opposed to if I could do it).  Now, one year later, I am living the life that I’ve dreamed for.  “Flying on the real…”  My metaphoric boxcar roars through towns and woods, and I see worlds that I would have never seen in I had stayed in The Bridge.  I am living the life many thought I might not.  One year ago, they knew that this was just my hope.  Now, as I listen to this quiet, I look into my athletes’ eyes, and I smile.

            Rich Fritzinger was the only person I knew who truly believed that I was actually going to jump onto the boxcar.  He knew the reality of it.  He knows that I have the ability to climb to the peak, and that it will take a lot of time, a lot of  travel.  He knew that we were bored of  life in  High Bridge, New Jersey; and the only way to change that was to simply jump onto a train and jump off at another place- a place where we had to start from the beginning.  This is the reality I was so sure of, and this fact was the root of our equal frustration of senselessly dwelling in that town day after day. But what frustrated me quietly was the fact that he knew how I was going to change it all to be happier, but he has never been inclined to do it for himself.  And this is what we understood every night when we sat on the couch in front of our screwdrivers and our tube.  This is the idea that we understood during all of the quiet that we strived to enjoy.  It was a sad situation we forced our lives to understand, and we did not know what was to come.  “Do nothing.”  was what to come.  The quiet reaction from both of  us was simply derived from our perception of this reality.

            Which is why I had myself  on the boxcar with that bum instead of The Wood Boy.  Tomorrow is anticipation, a product of today.  We thought somewhat alike, but we were physical contrasts.  I am a hypocrite, because I have the flint and steal skills but choose to dwell in a technologically advancing career.  He must not be a hypocrite, for he is a Do Nothing.  But what he does not apply is the fact that “Do Nothing” cannot be exercised in this current society.  His Do Nothing exercise is metaphorical, because he is thinking about being on the boxcar with the bum of St. Theresa,^2c but he does everything but be that meditation.  And his hoping cannot turn his metaphor into a fact, just as my hoping could never bring me home to meet good ol’ Japh. 

            It is the opposition I face when I am jacking my stirrups up,  scanning the paddock for that familiar, home-town face.  Hoping that Richard would come watch me ride. 

            “Where is the ghost?”  I wonder. 

            It keeps disappearing.  Like the bum and my connection with Rich.  I yearn for the company and the lifestyle, but I ultimately want something different.  Like the bum of St. Theresa, I want to be a part of the Do Nothing void and live the rest of my life hiking with the Wood Boy.  But I only want to be part of it.  That is what Ray and Japhy’s Buddhism was supposed to be about- being part of the void, not being stuck in one void.  The reason is simple; there is no such thing as a void; therefore, how is it possible to think nothing of something that you think about every second of the day?   The idea need not be belabored.  

            Back inside the Midnight Ghost, I conjugate- some people think in one mode of thought.  They already are their ideal person.  I know I have to try to remember my Zen (the Zen), or some form of thought that I ideally want to learn.  Crackpot shit indeed is no riddle, no tangible idea.

            There is Buddha within everything- Even within not being able to see Buddha within anything.  There is Buddha within those people who only think in one mode (that is their Buddha).  And an equal amount within me for enjoying them for myself.

            Dharma upon this Midnight Ghost- my yearning for one.  This is IT for me, because I have weighed my possibilities.  Could never live in the woods forever; I would always want to come back to this life.  Both lifes are supplements to each other.  Can’t write on turbulent horse trailer.  I feel like being alone- being completely comfortable- QUIET.  Really, that is why I am in the back of the box and not up front with the man who does not want to have to take a piss.  The driver smokes pot!  I caught him on the drive down.

            I fell asleep out of pure boredom.  A good way to pass time.  There are times when you are outside or in school (anywhere, really) and you swear that you can smell pot.  You know it really is not there, but you smell it, and blow it off.  It seemed like one of those times.  It woke me up; I caught a whiff of it, enjoyed it as best I could.  Then blew it off as being imaginary.  I fell back to sleep.  And, again, I definitely smelled it; it woke me up, again.  I looked up, then over at the driver.  His eyes bulged through his circular glasses.  His left hand motioning down below his knee- a roach predominant within it.  Smoking, stinking.  There he sat; he stopped driving for about four seconds- Quiet in time.  There he sat- a deer in the headlights.

            “It’s cool.”  I said.  “I ain’t gonna tell nobody.” 

            I’m not sure if he heard me, or even believed me.  I still cannot believe he tried to pull it off.  It boggles my mind.  What; did he think that the aroma would avoid me?  I would think it was a cigarette?  It’s funny; an hour earlier, I was wondering if  he burns.  Strange habit for a trucker to have- backwards even.  Oh well.  What ever floats your fuckin’ boat, and shit.  Buddha within understanding it.  Same amount within not being able to understand it.  Hypocritical to understand it, yet disagree with it at the same time.

            It is a humid morning here- down South (South Carolina).  The air hangs sluggish over the boring, flat communities.  The morning air is like the southern people- ten seconds slower than up North.  That is one big difference.  Another is that you cannot get real grits (or even anybody who knows what they are) up North; and they don’t know what the fuck pork-roll is down South.  Southerners are typically more friendly.  It is easier to notice their culture.  Genuine.  Up North, people’s kindness is usually artificial.  You can see it in their tone and feel it in their eyes.  I’m from the North- which is why I complain so. 

            “Bird-shit in the chicken crapper!”  Makes no sense!  I must have pulled it out of my Ass’s ass!

            “Ramblings!”   the bum mutters.

            I look over at his grey face.  He continues to fidget with his boot lace.  I search for some type of anger, or coldness, in his eyes; but I can find none.  I feel his loneliness and find kindness in his old eyes.  He looks either sad or deep in thought.  I’m not sure if he feels me watching him; not even sure if  he cares if he knows that I am watching him.

            Taking a deep, unsatisfied breath, he says, “Aiken Steeplechase.  Apache Twist^*1 comes in second (place).  -Out run.  Patrician Power^*1 fourth- second to last.  -No good.” 

            I know the disappointment.  One thing you do feel when you’re watching them stomp and bob their heads, is that they most likely are going to win.  It is humbling when they do not win.  Most disappointing coming in second.

            “I never was Rich.  Was not intended to be in the first place.”  He went on.  “It is a close, hopeful parallel though.”  The stench of his fart still belabored my nose.

            “Shakespeare said that ‘There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.’ ^1g Well, I think that if he got a whiff of that fart, he’d make It the exception.” 

            He smiles admiringly and tells me,  “I got another bun in the oven.  A hot one, too.  You know what that means.”

            So, I sit and endure, disgruntled.  Just like the bum who will have a fart, stories continue- written or just in thought. 

            Thinking of thoughts that my thinking thoughts have thought, I think that I’ve thought of a lot of thoughts for my thoughts to think.  I think so, anyhow.  Didn’t think you’d underfuckingstand.

            “What are you thinking about?”  the bum asks.

            “Oh, nothin’.”  I hesitate.

            “Nothing is better than anything.”  he tells.   

            So I think about this finger food.  There is Zen about it.  It is one Chinese letter, or character, that represents many Western ideas.^5a  I glance at his ass and ask,  “Having nothing is better than anything, or is there no thing that is better that an ‘other’ thing?”

            “Hmm…  I never thought of it THAT way.”  He grins.  “There is a good way to explain it.”  He undoes the laces on his left boot and ties it tighter.  And does the same to the right one.

            “Anything is better that Nothing at all.”  I reprieve.  “Being on this Ghost, I am better than staying back in The Bridge.”  

            “It is YOUR can of beans then, not mine.”  The bum crosses his ankles, leaning deep against the wall.  “The Ghost was not borne mine.  I wanted it after I got on it.  If I never hopped on, I would never yearn for it, and, in turn, be content without it.  I have something; therefore, I want it.  I would never yearn for a can of beans if I never smelled or tasted the fuckin’ things.”  He pauses and scratches his beard.  The sandpaper scratches overpower the engine’s roar.

            He scratches his balls, pulls out one cheek to the side; his eyes tighten once again; and a fiery hot “BLOT” blasts out his ass.  He looks at me seriously and states, “REGARDLESS.”

            He doesn’t even look for my reaction; he knows the humor of the thick, green clouded situation.  He just takes pleasure in that crap that pressed out of his ass.  Sweet and powerful to him, yet uninhabitable and wicked to me.  Man, what a nasty, foul odor!  Not even comparable to something rotting; Anything rotting.  Chemical warfare it is.  The shit’s so rank, I think he did it purpose somehow. 

            So, gasping for oxygen, I ask him, (knowing of the following disappointment),  “So, you’re not the Fritzinger?”

            “You answered that question yourself when you stopped jumping from past to present tense.”   he intuitively explains.  “You’ve always known that the Wood Boy would never become the Japhy you hoped he would.   It has to do with his Buddha; for his ideal self is one that makes excuses for temporary happiness.  His Buddha seems to be focused on His way- one way.  He knows Enlightenment comes when desire has been rid of, when ‘Do Nothing’ need not be exercised , but he WANTS to do nothing.  

            ‘Do Nothing’ is the beginning void (in his case).  First, it is his main focus.  Second, after that focus has been well exercised, typically, he would realize that ‘Do Nothing’ becomes second-nature (not instinct); and that there is more to focus on.  Only then, can he surpass his one mode thought void.  For he will experiment by intertwining the two focuses, indeed, use each focus to supplement the other.  What could become of this process can best be described by a Zen saying that has been interpreted:

‘Before a person studies Zen, Mountains are mountains and waters are waters; after the first glimpse into the truth of  Zen, mountains are no longer mountains and waters are not waters; after Enlightenment, mountains are once again mountains and waters once again waters.’ ^1c

            But he wants Enlightenment.  He desires to master the ‘Do Nothing’.  If he wants to rid of the desire, he must exercise ‘Do Nothing’ and understand its irrelevance, or its small capacity.  So he can physically look back on ‘Do Nothing’ as already been acquired and use it as a tool for Enlightenment, not the ablative of means.”

            I sit and concentrate on this insightful information.  I relate my own thought pattern to it and feel he hit Wood’s nail on the head. 

            “You know the Fritzinger, then?”  I ask.

            “Aye,”  he sighs.  “I know him just as you know him.”  He switches his ankles to cross them the other way and peers through me.  “But more importantly, He knows himself  better.  Just as you know me better than you know him.”

            And he is right.  He really never was Rich.  He is actually a parallel to me.  But Richard and I thought a lot alike.  Drinkin’ screwdrivers, carrying on our conversations, we had Buddha, but our focuses will always be different.  It is pretty frustrating.

            Our thought process is not that of words, but that of thoughts.  That is our Buddha.  Now, we are separate.  The frustration is intangible.

            The bum is sitting here- alone with me.  He has no action.  The setting is still of the same tone.  Dharma upon this Midnight Ghost, my yearning upon one. 

            I am happy upon this Box.  Like I said, I have weighed my options.  Strange- I was just thinking of how it was getting dark and how I would not be able to see to write.  Two seconds later (literally), the light flung on.  Many would see it as a type of luck, or an exercise of Karma.  Coincidence.  But it is not.  The light turned on by sensor or manual means.  My thought about it did not produce enough electrons to trigger its friction.  Karma: action to reaction.  So it is Karma, not coincidence, for karma is simply a word that represents TRUE THINGS.  Karma and luck being quite close, for they are somewhat parallel. 

            But a genuinely good person is never seen as having bad Karma; but they can have “bad luck”.  If an incessantly bad person gets a bad deal, his situation is not considered to be his own “bad luck”, but simply karma.  Regardless, the light flicked on because of the mechanical ramifications of the device, not because I thought to think about it.

            The bum gives me a bright-eyed look and states, “There is not Buddha within things, but within the way you perceive them.” 

            He is absolutely right, too.  Such as in Taoism- the study of what things are NOT is a focus in finding the true virtues of the comparison of mind to reality.

            “Man can see Buddha within anything.”  I reply.  “Even not being able to see Buddha at all.”

            He ponders my thought.  His expression is relaxed, but his ideas are rambunctious.  He reaches into a rucksack that he has had sitting beside him, and exposes a bottle of  wine.  My eyes perk up, and my stomach prematurely becomes warm.  He pops the cork and takes a long, healthy chug.  He gasps, pulling the bottle from his face and looks at me- Pleased; both of us.  He stands, stretches and comes to my side of the gondola.  Sitting right beside me, he holds the bottle within my proximity.  I grab it out of thankfulness and do as he did.  After gasping, I hand the bottle back to him.  I do not thank him.  Regardless, he welcomed me simply by handing me the bottle in the first place.  We both taste the wine good.

            “Communication, as a constant, is unnecessary.”  He begins.  “It occurs through simple understanding.”  He slugs the bottle again and gives me the offering.  “Communication should not be an obvious form of action, but a silent agenda.  For example:  a simple smile is the silent form of saying ‘Hello’.”

            “That is why people do not like each other.”  I state.  “We communicate too much in unnecessary forms, such as talking, that we neglect our ability to think nothing of  it.  The truth, to Them, is nothing.  They speak only censored forms of their true ideas.  Because people have such random, unfathomable thoughts, they have to disguise, or express, them through their conversations.  I cannot tell people I have a thought such as ‘crackpot shit’, because it is just a particle of mind garbage.  If somebody sees my eyes stunned, deep in thought, and they ask me what I am thinking, I can say ‘nothing’.  They know that is a lie, an impossibility to be exact.  But, if I say, ‘crackpot shit’, they think, ‘God, that makes no sense.  Is he stupid for thinking that?’  Or, ultimately,  ‘Is he stupid for telling me?'” 

            I take a gulp of wine.  “In describing such a situation, I demonstrate how people do not expect each other to be truly honest.  Through their communication,(talking) they become untrue, and, in turn, do not trust each other.  If that person looked at my stunned eyes and simply smiled at me, instead of inquiring of my knowingly irrational concentration, they would avoid expecting me to be dishonest.”

            He begins to sip the wine, as opposed to gulping it down.  And I do the same, for we hit the buzz; now maintenance is the factor in continuance of the bottle.  He continues my diatribe by saying,  “Being completely honest in verbiage is basically throwing a curve-ball.  Being honest in activity is simply being competent.”  And we are satisfied with our unnecessary communication.

            The train screams through a small town where trailer-homes are predominant.  Nothing wrong with that, though.  It’s just that those pitiful, aluminum boxes are unhappy to look at.  Ugly, even.  The locomotive pays no heed to the quiet, petty, alcohol reigning town.  It edges onward towards the endless, dank woods that isolate the town of  Port.  I am hungry, as to say that the bum is hungry, too.  The beans, wine and cheese and crackers are digested.  I go into my rucksack and pull out this Black Book.  I scan the pages- ones which I have filled with my thoughts and quotes that give me thoughts to think.  It is an honest book- much like a diary; but it is not quite as mundane as one.  It is not a journal either, for it does not account for every specific day.  It is basically a Black Book.  And I hand it to the Bum of  St. Theresa.  He takes it graciously and is genuinely astonished and pleased to see that it is my own handwriting in pen, and not edited transcript in print.

            He opens the book and reads intently.  Every once in a while, he lets out a “Hmm…” or a sigh of disgruntled agreement.  He reads quickly but thoroughly.  And, soon, he is alone in this box.  I am no longer with him. 

            He is alone on that boxcar reading the delinquent thoughts of a structured wanderer.  He has no companion to offer him cheese or crackers.  He sits there, content.  But he is somewhat lonely, for he has no person to Zen with.

            The Bum of St. Theresa feels the inertia of the box start to push his body forward.  The train is decelerating.  He does not look up from The Black Book.  “Port.”  he thinks.  And, as he reads on, he sees the words:  “…Then woods.  Mucho woods.  Where are you headed?” 

            After reading this line over a couple of times, he picks his head up.  He does not find himself there is deep thought.  He thinks, but is not in deep meditation.  He is moreso looking for the benefits of  his deep thought.  That kid he met on the boxcar did not know where he was going; but he had an idea of how he wanted to get there.  The bum knew where he was headed.  And he did not feel content in knowing from the beginning.  “That kid might be up for disappointment.”  he says out loud.  Then he thinks,  “I knew not to set myself up for disappointment.  I guess I have always expected less than what I could have and do.”  He buries his mind back into The Black Book and feels a familiarity with the kid’s tale.  The Ghost slowly comes to a halt.  The Bum looks up and says, “Then woods.  Mucho Woods!”  He slams the book shut and slips it into his rucksack.  He then slides the door open quietly, grabs his rucksack and hops out the hole to land on the huge rocks below.  Upon impact, he falls to the ground and tumbles swiftly over to the tall grass and crawls into the verdant brush.  He squats there, still.  Knowing that the badgemen check each individual car for him and other wanderers.  Many of the badgemen have caught him by surprise.  Some despise him and chase him away.  Others feel sorry for him and know him by name.  He watches them do their check; then glances to his left to see the thick forest standing as familiar as it did ten years ago.  He sees the badgemen disappear, stands up, and casually ventures into the woods.

            I sit on a log in front of a little fire.  I slowly build it up using bigger sticks and, soon, logs- to get a good bed of coals going.  Beside me, I have a burlap sack which contains a good chunk of buffalo and a hunk of  bacon I bought at an old-styled butcher’s shop called “Rambo’s”.  I poke at the fire with a stick I  have selected just for that purpose.  Man am I hungry!  Munchin’ on some peanuts mixed with raisins, I am set beside my fire; content with my thoughts.  I think of  the Bum of St. Theresa, and I wonder if these are the woods he told me about.

            I adjust the burning matter to let air get inside it better.  Then start adding small logs and leave it alone for  a while.  I remember that the bum has my Black Book.  And I think of how I parted with him upon that Midnight Ghost.  I remember,  I handed him this Black Book of mine, and I felt as though he could read my thoughts better than I could tell them to him.  I think of our negative tone before I handed him this book. The reason we look for the clear mind.  Negative singsong is not any purpose of Zen.  Taoism saying what is NOT simply the best way of seeing what IS.

            I place my small pan on top of the bed of coals, fetch the block of bacon and kneel in front of my log to slice it.  After slicing five thick strips off, I wrap the rest in its waxed paper and lay them out across the pan.  They sizzle, and the aroma reminds me of my hunger.

            I hear the leaves rustle in the distance.  I smell the healthy air and feel the warm, mid-morning breeze on my face and forearms.  I flip the bacon with my knife and just sit and listen.  The sounds of  Quiet are those of  birds chirping, the wind intruding the leaves and the animals scurrying about upon the soft, forest floor.  The crackle of the fire and the sizzling of the bacon are the same.  Dharma upon this naked day- no longer yearning for one.  I sit in the happiness and breath it in.  The sun beams throughout the forest; its straight rays obvious in the moist air.  And I hear the leaves crackling.  There is an animal out there.  I flip the bacon again and sit, waiting.

            The bum is tromping through the forest.  Like in a cartoon, arms of smoke guide his nose to a temporary destination.  He comes to the source and looks down.  He sees the back of my head and scans the area.  He sees my rucksack beside me, open.  And, on the other side, the burlap sack.  I feel him behind me, unaware that it is he.  “Man, I could smell that pig a mile away!”  he smiles.

            Startled, amazed and relieved, I turn around, gaping.  “Charlie!  How’re ya’ doin’?”  I ask.  “Shit!  I sometimes think I’ll never see you again.”

            He gives me his Buddha grin and takes a seat on the ground next to me.  He puts his rucksack in front of him and opens it up.  I stare at him.  His grey beard and mustache; his old bandanna around his balding, long,  grey head.

            “I’ve thought you might never see me again, too.”  He laughs.  “Just got off the Ghost.”  He begins.  “‘Twas a good trip.  Worth it, too.”  He is pleased with himself and with me too, as I hand him the bag of nuts. 

            “How’d you make out?”

            “The Old Man did it again.”  he says triumphantly.  “Carolina Cup.”  he sez, proud.  “Popular Gigelo^*1 a real good second.  Great trip.”  He pops some peanuts in his mouth, and I hand him a wine bottle I have filled with water.  He swigs it and is nourished.  “Lonesome Glory.^*1”  he states victoriously.  “Ran well off of it; about ten I suppose.”  I flip the bacon and move the pan to lower the heat.  “Assurance^*1 lead the field of six the whole way.  At the third (jump) from last, Blythe Miller started her circle.  If  you’ve seen her on him throughout his career, you know what’s gonna’ happen when Lonesome goes to the outside to get a look at the fences.”  I sit in peril, on the edge of my log.  He is a superb story teller. 

            “Second from last, he popped to second (place), and between that one and the last from home, you could see him circling.  Coming to the final jump, Assurance is not fading, but The Big Horse, Lonesome Glory, has fanned four wide and has a wide open view of the stretch.  Assurance lands first, and Lonesome pounded like we’ve seen him pound in the last decade.  Blythe went to work on him- the relentless team of dedication and precise agility.  He pulled away from Assurance by three or four; and Assurance was in front of the rest of the field by another two!” 

            He pops another hand-full of peanuts into his hole and finishes.  “Many told me he couldn’t do it; he was too old;  ‘a has been’.  But he is an amazing horse, and, for that, we genuinely have faith in him.  The Old Man did it once again.”  Proud of his story, he reaches into his rucksack and pulls out my Black Book.  Hands it to me.  “One good thing, too,”  he adds.  “It’s a $100,000.00 purse.  First race of the season!”

            Training a horse like that is the goal of a life time.  Many trainers live their whole lives without ever getting a horse like Lonesome, or they do get one, but they lack the ability to manage and utilize such an athlete.  Taking that horse to the paddock is an incomparable opportunity.  I want to have the ability to imagine what it is like to train the champ through the success; ride the champ to the success.  In other words, experience what ignorant people ask:  “WHY?”   And I have always wanted to be a part of that unexplainable racing atmosphere.  Nostalgia.  History.

            The bacon is done, so I put it on a log.  I immediately throw two small portions of buffalo in the pan.  I give Charlie two and a half pieces and eat the rest.  The forest is just as quiet. I review the story he just told me and smile of my present venture to this forest.  Both life-styles are supplements to each other.  And I think, “This is the shit!  For me.”

            “What kind of animal is that fuckin’ thing?”  He points to the pan.

            “Bufferlo.”  I tell him.

            “Hmm…  Don’t reckon I ever bit a buffalo before.  ‘Fuck ‘dya get it?”

            “Rambo’s.” 

            “Fine man, that Jimmy.  Best damn butcher I ever known.  Generous, too.”  He looks down at the meat and puts a log on the side of the coals.  “He’s given me some good grits before.  Never seen buffalo, though.”

            “I’m on my way back.”  I tell him.  “Been out here long enough.  I’m itchin’ to get back in the saddle.”

            “You gonna go back?”

            “Love it.  Just like I do this.”  I snatch the bag of peanuts from his ass and dig in.

            “You gotta climb a peak with me, first.  Four miles off, there’s a mountain that kicks all kinds of ass.”  Charlie picks his nose and flicks the sloppy mass away.  “Shit, Wings up there!  What good is being on the moon for anybody?”

            “But the horses stomp and bob their heads.  Miserable.  Locked in the stall, waiting to bust outta’ the gate.”  I look at him.  “Race-day tomorrow?”  I question.  “My dream!”

            He reaches into his rucksack and pulls out a pipe.  He explains how he whittled it out of an elk’s antler.  He produces a leather pouch, holds the antler over the opening and packs it.  He grabs a twig and shoves it into the coals to pull out a flame.  He torches the pipe and smokes graciously.  Handing me the antler, he smiles.  I puff on it and enjoy the acrid smell.  I hand it back to him and flip the meat.

            “Well, we’ll go to Rambo’s soon.”  he says with smoke pouring out his dragon.  “He’ll give us some shit to take up there.  He’s a generous man.  I tell you what man; he’s got this cabin out there in the middle of no fuckin’ where.  It’s the cat’s ass!”  He puffs and passes.  “Ain’t nothin’ like good grits!”

            “Got that right.”  I agree.  “Meat’s about done.”  I pour some water into a small pot and put it on the coals.

            “Years back, I used to climb this hill with a good friend.  We would climb up the waterfall; stop in the middle where there were rocks to sit on and we’d puff a glass piece.  Then, we’d get to the top and yell like you wouldn’t believe.  ‘Twas great fun.”

            “Where is this friend?”  I look at Charlie and watch his eyes moisten and his expression descend. 

            “He didn’t want to do it anymore.”  he sadly responds.  “Do Nothing.”

            “Not really the purest kind, are they?”  I wait for his rebuttal.

            “Ahh…”  he gasps.  “They’re Dharmas.”  He finishes the meat and reaches into his rucksack.  He pulls out an old tin cup and two tea bags.  He sees me looking down at the items, and he smiles and points at the tea bags.  “Sex!”  he sez.

            “Cat’s Ass!”  I belabor.  ” ‘the fuck ‘dya get that one?”

            “Same place I got (the expression) ‘It was off by a cunt hair’.  My old buddy.  A blacksmith.  He’s the one who taught me how to start fires with flint and steel.  He made this striker for me.”  He pulls out his striker and hands it to me.  I examine it and give it back.

            “Cat’s Ass!”  I laugh.  “That’s the cat’s ass!”  I entertain my mind for a bit using the phrase.  “What could ever be a good thing concerning a cat’s ass?  What if I liked something and said, ‘That’s the elephant’s dick!’  What would that mean?”

            The bum is humorously intrigued.  “Man, that’s the elephant’s dick!”  he laughs.

            “That shit’s the cat’s ass, elephant dick!”  I let out a healthy bellow.  “The Cat’s Ass, Sea Bass!”

            “Stupid humor is the best.”  Charlie says.

            “Can’t have humor without stupidity.”  So we back off the conversation and sit, content.

            He looks into his pipe with a bewildered look on his face.  He lights the twig and attempts to spark the bowl.  “Won’t work.”  he mutters.  “Broken.”  He pulls a metal poker out of his leather pouch and flips the bud.  He tries again, and his eyes widen.  His expression is that of  surprise, like something amazing happened.  He hands the antler to me, coughing his hit out.

            “Funny about this world, you know.”  I start.  “Seems charity is more of a chore than a journey.”   I puff and pass.

            He takes a hit and replies, “Good deeds gone unnoticed are either signs of ignorance or works of  True charity.  Ain’t no good compromise, though.  Too much money.  Items.”  He passes the antler to me.  “Kindness,”  he says,  “Neither profit nor expense.”

            And I agree.  “Compromise is not agreement; it is simple sidestepping.  You know…”

            “Knowing something is closing your mind to it.”  he abruptly interrupts.

            “I don’t know.”  I tell him.  “I’m not just a stupid kid, you know.  But I am just a stupid kid!”

            “Aye, but kids, like animals, are smart.  They do not worry about worrying.  They don’t think that it is alright, because it IS alright.”  And with that he lets out a belch and remnants of smoke sneak out his hole.  “Just a stupid kid, huh?  Well… never expect others to be intelligent enough to know how intelligent you really are!” 

            I get an apple from my burlap sack and cut it into five-tenths.  I offer him seven-fourteenths of  it.  He eats the whole half  in four bites.  “I gotta go back.  The horses stomp and paw.  One weaves.  Race-day soon.” 

            “Mountain’s not gonna disappear.  You Go back, but you must  COME back.  This is relaxation- good stuff.  That boxcar ain’t too relaxing compared to this shit.”  He stands up and announces, “I’m ‘onna take a piss!”

            And I am alone to listen to the trees and the birds and the wind.  The water is boiling already so I retrieve my tin cup from my rucksack.  I get a flat rock from beside the fire and put the two cups on it.  I drop the tea bags in the cups.  After I pour the water, I close my eyes. 

            I concentrate on these two cups of tea sitting in front of me.  Then, I consider the proximity of the Midnight Ghost to this campsite.  Then, I think of  Lonesome Glory- standing in his stall; and my one cup of tea far away, by itself on a rock in the middle of the woods.  There is a piece of straw in a corner of the Miller barn.  It is not wedged in or stuck to the floor; but it has been in that very spot for more than eight years.  It simply has gone undisturbed.  It is completely covered by dust, but, if you lift it up, the floor underneath it is unbelievably clean.  It is there.  I can visualize it, exactly.  And there is a steaming cup of tea thousands of miles away from it.  The Straw and the Cup of Tea are unrelated, yet a relevant dichotomy to describe how I strive to think in a circumspect manner. 

            Lonesome’s in there munchin’ on his grain.  He goes to his window and cribs^*.  The grooves in his window-cill molded to his cribbing grip.  Grooves that took ten years to form.  He- in his little stall in the middle of the endless rolling hills of Cochranville, Pennsylvania; that cup of tea- sitting on a flat rock in its tiny space in the center of dense woods; Mucho Woods. 

            Charlie returns and sits on his fuckin’ log.  “So, you’re goin’ back; Huh?”

            “I have to.”  I tell him regrettingly.  “You out here all alone, in the middle of nowhere.  You’re a square foot in one thousand football fields.”  I fix the logs so the fire burns more efficiently.  “Me all the way back there in Lonesome’s tiny space in this massive country- I’m a ghost.  But, like you, I am perfectly content.”  I look at him with a forgiving expression, and he returns a healthy pause in his face.

            “I don’t disagree.”  he assures.

            The Midnight Ghost crawls into Port at the small train station.  It stops; and the badgemen emerge.  “You gotta wait ’till it’s rollin’ again.”  Charlie tells me.  We watch them systematically search each gondola.  It is a fine evening: warm, purple.

            “You commin’?”  I hope.

            “No.”  he says.  “There’s chicken shit in the bird crapper.  No soap for my bath.”  He smiles, and I laugh out loud.  He pulls a piece of paper out of  his ass pocket and holds it in front of my face.  “This is YOUR can of  beans.” he yells over the engine’s roar.  “I never wrote it; It is a Fritzinger Nothing.  It needs yet to actually, physically be written on the wall of a cave.”  I look at him as a tear jumps the fuck out of my eye.

            “When You get to destination point, you do me a favor.”  He pauses and waits.  “…You take that piece of  paper and bury it in The Big Horse’s stall- right on his favorite wet spot.  Then…  Piss on it!”  He shoves the prayer into my hand and sez “That’s the truth!”

            I look down at my hand, and a tear shits on the prayer.  I uncrumple it, fold it neatly and put it in my rucksack.  I look back at his eyes, and they are filled with anticipation.  Great Buddha within them.  A fire- not describable.  He looks over my shoulder as I feel The Ghost start to slide away.  Then, he looks back at me with that fire in his eyes: like he made a smart comment or just told a great joke and was in suspense for the laughter.  I turn and look at The Ghost, still crawling. 

            “Well, thank you, Charlie.  I WILL find you again.”  I start towards the brush beside the tracks.  “Climb that fuckin’ mountain for me!”  Walking backwards, watching him, I grin.

            “Don’t forget what I told you about that can of beans!”  he yells.  “Piss on the shit!”  And with that I turn and run about a sixteenth of a mile up-track.   As the train creeps by, I jump onto the ladder and wrestle to open the door. 

            To my surprise, there is a teenager already there, leaning against the vibrating wall.  He is shocked to see me, seemingly scared.  We say nothing to each other as I pick my spot, not too far away from him.  He has a leather rucksack similar to mine.  He looks tough and unhappy.

            And I think of Charlie.  How this is similar to how I met him.  The boy looks cold, and probably is hungry.  He does not look at me; he just stares at the floor.  He is a small boy, probably almost done growing.  His hair is tangled and ratty, his skin a little cleaner than mine.  “I’m Chip.”  I offer.

            “Colt.”  he belts out.  I open my rucksack and bring out some cheese and crackers I saved from Rambo’s.  Then,  I bring out one of two bottles of wine Charlie gave to me before I left.  I pop the cork and guzzle.  I wrap the cheese and crackers in a bandanna and sit next to his unhappy ass.

            “Pretty fuckin’ cold out here.”  I say as I push the crackers in his face.  He grabs a couple and stuffs them all into his mouth.  Seeing this, I cut him a nice block of cheese and give it to him saying, “You want my beanie?  It’ll keep your head warm; and, soon, you’ll be able to feel your toes.”  He takes the hunk of cheese and bites into it like it’s an apple.  I hand him the wine, and he drinks a fourth of the bottle.  He does not want to accept the favor.  So I get the hat and give it to him anyway.

            “Thank you.”  he says in a human tone as he crams it onto his head.

            “How come you’re on the Ghost?”  I inquire.

            “Huh?”

            “This train.  Why are you on it?”

            “Ah…”  he blows off.  “It’s shitfuck, guy.”  He crosses his arms and looks straight down.  “Ain’t nowhere else I am right now, so I’m on a fuckin’ train.  What difference is it!?!”

            “Or how is it different?”  I add.  “How come you so happy?”  I heckle.

            “Ain’t no reason to be;  ’till I git far from here.” 

            I don’t ask why.  I suspect a lot of negative things.  “We call this the Midnight Ghost.”  I explain.

            “Ain’t no nothin’ to call nothin’!”  he rambles.  He ungraciously takes the wine bottle back and slugs it.

            “You make too much sense, boy.”  I know calling him “boy” will get his attention.

            “Boy?”  He is pissed.

            “Yeah.  That’s what they call ME.”  And he is confused by this.  “Where you headed?”

            “I don’t know yet.”  His tone becomes easier. 

            “You ever work with horses?”

            “No.” 

            “You look like a jockey.”  I tell him.  And he does, too.  Some people just have that jockey look to them.  Like me.  One of the first times I ever sat on a pony, (when I was about fifteen) my boss’s husband (who became my good buddy), Charles, said to me, “You look like a jockey.”  I was not even serious about riding.  But, deep down, something struck me.  I did not know what it was.  But now, when people say, “You’re a jockey?”,  they are seemingly amazed and have a type of respect for me.  I knew, though, when Charles said that to me, it was a type of career, a possibility: a lifestyle.

            “Huh?”  Colt says.  And his eyes widen; his cheek bones stand taller.

            “It’s a tough life, but great fun.”  I look over at him with a dare in my eyes and add, “Too tough for most people.”  I snatch the bottle from his hand and selfishly finish it.  “Flat jocks, jump jocks- they’re all crazy anyhow.”  I sit.  And the Quiet I have grown to love enjoys us both.

            After being engulfed in our own thoughts, I stare one inch in front of my face, and I say, “Keenland- April twenty-third;  $190,000.00 purse.  Lonesome Glory ran in third the whole trip- five or six lengths off the lead.  Collected power in every stride, a magnificent athlete.  Jumped the last fence about three lengths back.  Came on to grab it again- clear of the second horse.  Again, easily.

            When I grabbed him after galloping back, I looked up at Blythe and yelled, ‘Once again!’  And she explained the trip to me- out of breath and struggling to talk through her smile.  I took the tongue-tie off and undid the figure-eight.  I looked up at the grandstands where the crowd screamed at the top of its lungs.  Can’t explain the feeling.  That horse is just unbelievable.  Twelve years old, and still, conclusively, the Best.  He’s got four Eclipse Awards already.  I’m hoping  this is his fifth.  God!  At the fourth from home, like always, I yelled ‘Come on Blythe!’  Then, before the last jump, with hope, yet confidence, I yelled, ‘Come on, Lonesome!’  Five strides after the last, like always, I yelled, ‘Come on Old Man!  You got it, Old Man!  You got it!’  I still hold back the tears just thinking about it.”

            I look at Colt, and he has been hanging on every word.  And I know, he has a hint of that feeling in his chest that I get when I think of racing.  He has a small taste of that feeling of anticipation and pride I get every time I look up at Lonesome’s tough eye.  “It’s a great feeling, because you have to work harder then the rest of  the world to get it.”  I say.   But I do not explain the other side- the disappointment that also comes (at times).  That is something that no appropriate emotion can account for. The Ghost roars backwards towards the opposite of destination point.  And we sit, half drunk and Quiet.  I pop the second cork.

                       

            But it’s been a long ride.  Working for Bruce Miller.  Shipping around with his horses all up and down the east coast.  Packing up every week; rushing from home to track and back.  To do it all over again next week.  Never unpacked, never packed.  And it’s tough when you try your hardest to be the best; working for the best (with the best).  But Bruce Miller does not see this.  Deep down, he is angry.  He is a very generous man who slams his bedroom door shut every night. 

            With this anger on my mind, I look up at  Colt and say, “Nonsense!”  It is hypothetical- a story.  It is time to get out there and be a jockey.  I am sick of the Miller barn- the Millerrology that somewhat enslaves its workers.  Having put words to the idea, I look up; and the boy is gone.  Was never there.  My boxcar, or yearning for one. 

            It is great anticipation; but, along with anticipation follows disappointment, or discord.  Happiness IS hypothetical; but the “Today-Yesterday” comparison is NOT.  It is simply apparent.

            My watch says “7:41p.m.”  I’m in Nashville, Tennessee, and the time here is 6:41p.m..  Looking at my timepiece, I think “That’s what time it is at home, or what I call home.”  Happiness, though.  It is where I want to become completely domesticated; content.  And I’ve always known this place would not be my future permanent home; I am just now serious about leaving.  Or arriving, actually.  Just like my last year in The Bridge with the Wood Boy.  I knew I was leaving; and I knew my immediate destination (Bruce Miller’s) would be the stepping (or corner)stone to the rest of  my career.  His teachings would be the basics to success. And they are!  I have never been completely content at Bruce’s, because It is not the end, but the beginning.  And the beginning is short-lived.  Hell, go back and count the pages.  The beginning was crackpot shit, but the heart beats the sense of realistic intelligence.  Regardless, Bruce Miller’s teachings, themselves, have been egging me on to move-on.  I wanted to be a part of the Miller experience, but, like Ray and Japhy, Be part of it, not imprisoned by it.  And him giving me the opportunely to run Lonesome Glory- a horse who is in the history books and will never be matched, has taught me that success is earned, but you never settle back and let the pace come back.  You Always have to stride on. 

            So… here I am in a Tennessee hotel room.  One hour late in life; one year set back.  And Lonesome stands in his stall, munchin’ on his hay.  He goes over to his window and cribs (Bruce did not put his cribbing strap^* on tight enough, so Lonesome cribs right through it).  And there is a flat rock out in the middle of nowhere, void of a cup of tea.  My old brown car sits dead at Bruce’s house, and there is an old piece of straw in the Millers’ unswept, undisturbed corner.  None of them related, but all completely relative.  That is what Richard and I toasted our screwdrivers to and what the tube stood tall, watching; proud about.  Never really content until I take this consideration into meditation.  Content.  So, Shit, I stomp and bob my head out of boredom.  My eyes pissed, frustrated.  My mind is angry.  Race-day tomorrow (like it is every day),  And I do not want to hope any more.  “He who lives upon hope dies fasting.”(Benjamin Franklin).  Race-day tomorrow: everyday.  It is a long ride anywhere in the Simoff van.  But, tomorrow.  Anticipation.  Patience is an adjective for HUMBLE.   

            And when I get back, I’m going to tell him.  I’m going to get out of there and tear up the flat track.  And, in a couple of months, I will miss the responsibility I have built at the Miller barn.  But I will be able to relax and do my thing.  Do good for the original reason.  It is a tough life.  Too tough for some.  Can’t write on turbulent, horse trailer.

            I found no bum and no prayer.  Not my own, because, happiness.  So I told Bruce the truth.  “I can’t stay here.”  I told him.  It had been a long time coming.

            “That’s fine.”  he said.  He turned the key to his BMW and said, “You can leave whenever you want.”  And he shut his door and pulled away.  I looked down the driveway and watched his BMW leave for my last time.  I read the license plate as he pulled out onto the road: “LONESOM”.  Lonesome, indeed.  He is too mean on a temporary basis to keep his help happy all of the time.  “It’s hard to find good help.”  His daughter (Blythe Miller) once told me.  And, when he has people like me, who do everything he says; and he still does not appreciate them, they have to run away.  Lonesome Glory. 

            So I packed my things and moved on.  That night, word spread that I had left.  And people came out of the wood-work.  Amy Taylor came to where I was staying and said, “Get into the truck.”  So I did, and she drove me to Mr. Sheppard’s farm where I talked to Jim, the assistant trainer.  It seems everyone was more excited than I was.  The strange part is that I did not lift a finger.  It was all set up for me.  I talked to Mr. Sheppard the next morning.

            Mr. Sheppard said,  “Bruce told me, ‘That bastard can’t come work for you!'” 

            My heart sunk.  I got that same feeling I had two years ago when Bruce told me he did not need me to come down. 

            “Just kidding.”  he chuckled.  And he told me to come to work the next morning. 

            I drove my 1979 Volkswagen Rabbit.  Uninsured and without plates or registration to his farm in Coatesville, Pennsylvania.  I rode Six horses that day, yesterday.  And that was that.  So I went to work for another historic figure in Steeplechasing (and flat racing), Mr. Jonathan Sheppard.

            Mr. Miller is one of the best trainers in the country; many are sure of that.  And that is where I belong; but I cannot sit and idle anymore.  “Why aren’t you out on the flat?”  People ask me.  One hundred and five pounds and I’m wasting my time with chasers. 

            “I want to learn.”  I tell them.  And learning through the steeplechase world is the most historic and cultural way to do so.  Working for old-timers like F. Bruce Miller, I see how it is done.  Typically, flat-trackers do it much differently than I would do it.  So I use Mr. Miller’s teachings as a supplement to my future.  There are ten times as many more small-time flat trainers in this country than there are total steeplechase trainers in the country.

            It is the flapping of the leather, the noise and confusion- the dangerous, tense muscle strain and the unpredictable fear of the situation.  And that is what I feel when I ride Mr. Sheppard’s horses.  They are a bit rougher than Bruce’s horses.  I have learned that you really cannot trust them.  Trust comes from knowing what they are going to do next; and you NEVER know what THAT is going to be!  With any horse, anywhere.

            But there’s times when I think I do not know anymore.  Sometimes, I think working for Bruce made me sour.  I gave him “my all” right from the start, but it never slowed down.  He never stopped throwing ’em at me.  Or he expected me to be able to hit ’em all.  It is the example I learned three years ago- when I was closer to the Bum of St. Theresa.  It is momentary; the future will let me settle.  But I did not make that possible for myself.  When I gave Bruce my all, I expected to be in front a little- not worry about slowing the pace down.  And, now, it feels like I’ve never been in front- just close to the pace.  And I am struggling not to drop back.  Positive that I will get in front and pull away.  Pulling away being the part where I can slow down; settle, relax; I earned it. But, when you want to be the best, you have to be better than the rest All of the time.  Don’t be cocky all of the time with that “come from off the pace” mind-set. 

            But, looking at my watch, it says “4:20”.  And I wonder.  I know it is all a great equation.  Not one miracle cure to win many races.  It is the combination of my knowledge, my ability; and my ability to apply that knowledge.  And, every day, at 4:20, I think, “Could it have already been?”  It takes time and stamina though.  I’ve hung on to this dream long enough to understand the lifestyle.  People think I have a lot to learn.  and they’re right.

            “The more you know, the more you have to learn.”  I look up, and there is Charlie sitting there on a tree stump.  The wind tosses the leaves about.

            “Charlie!”  I laugh.  “I thought I might never see you again; that you were gone, imaginary.”

            He returns a devious look and replies, “Never was Rich.”  He scratches his head.  “It takes a good imagination to be happy, you know.  Three years ago, this was just a dream.  Now, you’re out here, doing it; and it does not seem to be that big of a deal.”

            “Yeah, Charlie.  I’ve lost a lot of hope.  The novelty of it has worn off.  I know what to expect now, and THAT is the disturbing part.  I have lost my motivation, yet I am confident in running so far off of the pace.”  I pick up a twig and start to twirl it around in the dirt.  “I don’t know, Charlie; I don’t know.  Maybe I haven’t played my cards right.  I have a lot to learn, but my ability has reached a crucial point.  I am ready to start riding races.”

            “Jumping the gun, though.”  he humbles me.

            “Yeah, I guess you’re right.  It’s easier to be a kid anyhow.”

            “The expression compares that it is a ‘dog-eat-dog world’.”  Charlie begins.  “You’d think so, too”  He stands up and approaches the dying fire.  With his glowing, blue eyes he peers up at the heavy clouds creeping in from behind the mountains.  And; QUIET! 

            The leaves scurry about the tree tops like leaves tied to their tree tops.  The air smells damp, and the breeze feels relaxing.  Charlie continues to admire; and takes a deep breath.  “The children are taught that.”  He states.  “It is what is thought to be known as the patient sues the medicine man; the doctor sues the supplier.  So it seems ass-backwards.  The rat can poison the feline.  The children learn this.  So they know that, when Dr. Suess puts his pen down, the Cat in the Hat eats a fuckin’ rat.  To survive.  And the Doc knows that his product is what is self-sufficient; his product (itself) is its own supplier.  If the Doc did not have his cat, he would not be the Doc.  And if the Cat in his Hat did not have himself a rat, shit, then the kids would not think ‘dog-eat-dog.'” 

            I gaze away from him for a spell and ponder this interesting allegory.  “Isn’t workin’ out the way I thought it would at Sheppard’s.”  I tell him.  “A lot of farm work and waiting around to be done.  Made me angry- visibly.  So his assistant, Jim, lost interest in me.”  I manipulate the depleting coals.

            “Sheppard ships these riders in from England and Ireland and Scotland and France.  Every summer.”  I go on.  “He is actually English, so figure out who gets the rides.  He does a lot for them: shipping them to America, giving them a place to live and giving them a good job.  But I do not feel in debt to him.” 

            I pick my nose and am deeply satisfied.  “Jim pulled me into the tack-room one afternoon and told me that if I did not change my ‘attitude, there’s the door.’  He said I do not know how to be a horseman.  So the next day, (my day off) I hitched a ride to Delaware Park.  There, I walked around from barn to barn asking if anybody needed a rider.

            Bruce Jackson put me on a chestnut colt and had me do a mile and a half on the main track.  My first time (ever) on the race track, and the MAIN track, nonetheless.  And that son of a bitch ran off with me and yanked me all over the place.  Needless to say, he did  not have any more rides for me.  That night, I called Mr. Sheppard and tactfully asked his ‘permission’ to go the track in the mornings and come ‘ride-out’ at his farm in the afternoons.

            He said, ‘It’s a great idea.  You can get run off with on somebody else’s horses there, then come ride mine.’ 

            So I phoned Jim and gave him the run-down.  His reaction was:   ‘Well if you have rides at Delaware than you have rides at Delaware!’  He slammed the phone down.  He still is not happy with the arrangement.” 

            I look at Charlie and say, “The Cat is established.  Self-sufficient.  There is a dog trying to eat another dog, and I laugh as I sit with my hat, eating my rat.  So it won’t work out with Sheppard.  I do not bust my ass to gain nothing.  I work to be successful.  Progress.  And that is the point.”

            I open this Black Book and flip the pages.  I look up at him, and he watches me intently.  And I begin. 

            “I guess we could just sit here and smile, and shit in our pants; but where is the reason for shitting and sitting, or smiling after defiling?”  He nods his head as I squeeze the book’s spine, slamming it shut.  “We are all kids that are grown.  It’s easier to be a kid anyhow.”

            “It could be a shame, too.”  Charlie sits on the ground and starts fidgeting with the twig that I had.  “Being a kid is not something we grow out of , or the type of thing we learn not to do.  It is something we forget about.  And, sometimes, forget HOW to do.”  He draws patterns in the dirt as a plane passes overhead, And I think:

            “Bruce Miller still mows his fields.  Even though I am not there to watch him.”

            “I wonder what Fritzinger’s doin’ right now.”  Charlie says.  “You know, there are many caves out there; somewhere. Graffiti- it is an art to some, but a crime to others.  At least it keeps kids out of trouble.”  The plane disappears, and the sky is empty. 

            “Story’s getting slow and old though.”  I tell Charlie.  “When I was out on the Midnight Ghost, I was always guessing; adventuring.  I loved it because it was a good way to taste the lifestyle.  I had domestication, and I always knew when I would return to it.  I was supplementing.  Simply finger food.” 

            “Fuckin’ finger food!”  Charlie interrupts.

            “And that was part of the beauty of it- I was not caught in one void, but comparing many to each other- for my optimum ‘void’.  And sometimes, I think you are the same age as I.  Like me and Rich; our thought patterns comparable, yet opposite in ways.  And that is what this story has become about.  How I miss the lifestyle I had and how Rich opened my eyes to it.  He exposed Zen to me.  Just kids with ‘old souls’.  But there’s chicken-shit in the bird crapper.  No soap for the comparable bath.  We have forgotten each other, and our Buddha only exists because of our knowledge of it, not our together-understanding and exercising of it.”

            “And it has become negative.”  He adds.  “Because you only now see that it is NOT there, and how it WAS there (or could be there).  When you two physically saw it, it was positive, motivating.  Now, you see how it is two separate parts; one person holds the completion, and the other holds the realistic beginning.  It made you sad upon the Midnight Ghost, but it has always been the basis of your yearning for one.”

            “I just can’t get this damn can of beans open!”  I frustrate.  “How did they invent the can if they could not open it?  or how did they invent the can-opener if there were no cans to test it on?” 

            “Chicken or egg.”  He says.  “Who’s idea was controlled fire?  Ahh…,”  he sighs.  “The Main Course!”

            “And I wonder.”   I go on.  “Can women stand, peeing up?  Men can piss upward.  Into their own eyes, even!  They can hose themselves off if they want to.”

            “That’s a fucked up thought!”  Charlie sustains.  “I always wondered if women could piss standing up.”

            And, I guess this is what has been going on forever.  It is endless; therefore, it might not be considered to be a journey.  The ramblings go on and on;  farther than human sensibility can translate them.  And, I guess going to work for Bruce Miller was a portion of the “beginning” of this thought process.  Me and Richard Fritzinger toying with the Dharma experience, not being physically serious about living it out.  He was, though; but he has been sucked into the materialism; Aware of it, too.  He, like I, is intuitive in understanding that both lifes are supplements to each other (which is the reality I failed to convey when characterizing him).  As am I.  Caught up in the materialism.  Which is why I went to Mr. Miller’s.  Like Rich, I want to push my materialism to the max, and find Buddha within my self: QUIET.  That could be why it is not a journey.  Because there is no ending point.  There are, indeed, goals; but those goals (or that goal) are not the precipice.  They are the next number in Pie.  It is enjoyment.  “It is good to have an end to journey towards.  But it is the journey that matters in the end.” ^1d

            All of the stories about the horses running were true.  All of the horses: actual animals.  It is the type of story that you could not just go right back and read again.  But, like The Dharma Bums(Jack Kerouac), you will read it some other time.  My ideas, though; unless explained otherwise or footnoted.  And the prayer- It was a passage Rich entered into my(this) Black Book.  It has no real sentimental significance, but I used it because it is finger food for some and a bunch of crap to others.  (I actually find it to be irrelevant.)

            When I started out, I had no plan.  It was just a passage of senseless ramblings.  Somewhat of an influence of  Kerouac.  And the whole story has been, but it is, in actuality, my style.  I have derived some of the influences from Raymond Mancini, Samuel Clemens, George Orwell, Hunter S. Thompson, Charles Dickens, Jack London and Ernest Hemingway.  It is great fun to look back and laugh at the purposely-made grammatical errors of this story. 

            And as I flip back through the pages, I find pieces of hay preserved in the book’s seam (blown there from the whipping wind of the van rides).  And I will leave them there, for there is a piece of straw in the corner of Mr. Miller’s barn; and Lonesome cribs on his window-cill, while there is a cup of tea out there, on that flat rock in the middle of  the woods.  All undisturbed.             

The

Second

Black Book

            Why does the river move?  Or, what does it move towards?  ‘Course, it don’t go nowhere; it stays right where it is.  But the water in the river is moving.  Not just undulating, but actually migrating.  And where does it come from? 

            A tiny waterfall created by a large rock sustains- every second of the world.  And it never stops.  Every millisecond, new water slides off the rock.  Even when you are not standing there, observing it, It still exists.  Just like the saying:  “When a tree falls in the woods, and nobody is there to hear it fall; does it make a sound?”  Nature is the answer.  “Yes” would prove acceptance.  Answering “no” or “I don’t know” or even “Hmm…” indicates unawareness. 

            Which brings us back to my initial question in this passage.  It would not be asked by the person who asked about the tree.  For the person who asks the tree question is not asking a question; not looking for an answer.  They are simply synopsizing your mentality.  Entertaining themselves with their perception of your answer.  Coming up with a come-back regardless of how you choose to answer. 

            The river moves.  And the answer knows that it does not have to explain itself.  It is the answer; not a play on words.  I do not ask about the river for an answer, for no scientist could provide the definite answer.  Molecules cannot be sufficiently described by using words.  Atoms cannot be represented by models.  All are intangible, for they are simply understandings that we have.  We cannot physically demonstrate, “Well, this is an atom; and this is a molecule; and this is what the atom and what the molecule are thinking.” 

            Why do I think this way?    Does water ever just stop moving?  New water slides off of that rock every second of every day.  Can you imagine what sound it is making right now?  Of course you can, unless you have never heard the sound of a river.  When someone asks me “If a tree falls in the woods, and there is nobody there to hear it fall; does it make a sound?”  I answer:

                                                                                                                                                       “BECAUSE.”

            Back sitting at home, sitting at my desk, I think.  My desk is cluttered with papers, receipts, bills, books, cassette tapes and my candle.  The candle that I burned religiously when I was at Bruce Millers’.  I would light it when I was writing in this book or doing my bills, or just sitting and thinking.  The candle burns the past and warms up my unseen future. 

            I sit here and sip my coffee, which has gotten cold, and I think.  I really have lost touch with my original mind-set.  The one I held in The Bridge and rediscovered on the boxcar.  I sit here and look at my cluttered, but never used, cork-board, and I think; sadly.  All I wanted was a place to have my desk where I could write and live without anybody to interrupt me.  I have so many thoughts; I could never sufficely rehearse them on paper in the proper order or with the proper descriptions. 

            That is part of my problem, or what I see as being a problem.  I have stopped hiking.  Dharma is now within all my modern-day interactions.  Being a jockey is not a partial life, though.  My yearning for the woods has suffered because of my complete involvement with my career.  Besides, my buddy, Frank Trotta (Jr.) told me that The Dharma Bums could have been a fictional story.  The characters were real people, but the events in the book might not have actually happened.  Such a comment triggers many emotions.  I told him, “I got the book, but I never read it again.  It makes me sad.”

            “Yeah.”  he said.  “…Yeah.”

            Which is what has infected me.  I have actually become sad; lonely.  I don’t know if it is because of my expectations, my inadequacies or if the winter air has set in and reminded me of the airplane and the freshly cut grass; children playing, and screeching.  Zen says there is no such thing as problem; which is how I have been able to maintain.  God does not fix or make; but Zen is mine.  Nothing; Bullshit! 

            I gotto pack my shit up soon, though.  Change has always revitalized my yearning.  “You need to get some more Gypsy in you.”  Debbie Simpson (an exercise rider at Delaware Park) said to me.  “You don’t need to drive that old truck to Florida.  Hell, hop on the van.  You can get a job anywhere!”  The Midnight Ghost!  TRUE.

            She told me to do what I have always dreamed about doing.  Free-lance and unbound.  Moving around and working in different places has given me a taste of this dream.  But being a jockey has always been a dream driven by my desire to be stabily domesticated.  Not materialistic, but domesticated.

            And I am doing it alone.  Which is why I am sad.  Nobody to see eye-to-eye.  All older.  Teaching me about “life”.   I have not hung-out with a true fiend (with the exception with my three, short trips home) in over three years.  Sad has become my tone; so I must conjugate the real reason for this Second Black Book.  Nostalgia should not be a synonym for “sad”.  It is a range of  emotions, not just one.  Only part of the void.  I want to take control.  My boxcar, dammit!!!

            Back on the Midnight Ghost.  On the boxcar, tires roaring down the road.  Bumpy floor retarding my writing.  Sitting here with a lead-shank^* in my lap.  A groom across from me.  The type who does not like the horses.  Yells at them and doesn’t understand.          

            Took off of Sheppard’s today to run two in Philly (Philadelphia Park) for Ray, Mr. Smith’s assistant trainer.  Kiss Puddin’^*1  (the bitch mare who always hangs me on the outside fence in the mornings,) kicks the wall.  Her eyes bugged out of her head.

            A chilly, Fall morning.  The sun creeping orangish-pink, illuminating the naked tree-line in the distance.  A dense breeze carries the dry, nostalgic air to the tip of my nose; and I breath in many memories, as I get that warm feeling in my heart, aspiring about this future.  A cold morning on the busy back-side.  Of course, this time of year, up North, the barns are almost all emptied out.  The northern tracks close for the winter, and the trainers ship down to where it is warm.  It is somewhat depressing, but it is simply that time of year.  Here, at Delaware Park, it sounds like a ghost-town.  But at Tampa Bay Downs and Gulfstream Park, the backside is booming.

            Sheppard offered to send me to Camden, South Carolina-  the same track that Lonesome Glory bought me to.  Things are starting to happen for me.  Not really regarding the people, but the feeling I get in the saddle; the way I touch the horses; the way they respond to me.  The thoughts that I do not have to think anymore(in the saddle).  Me sitting in this roaring boxcar with that groom sitting across from me- him unhappy, waiting to yell at the horses (or maybe thinking of something to say to me).  Me humble, sitting here, writing in my book.  Dharma upon this Midnight Ghost- my boxcar, fulfilling my yearning for one.

            Ray said that he knows a trainer who might take me down South for the winter, Tampa Bay Downs.  Trains for the Detroit Mafia.  He might give the kid a shot.  “You ain’t looking at no ten bucks-a-pop down there, though.  You get maybe six or seven-a-head.”  Supposedly, “He’s got some live horses and should do aright in Tampa.”       

            I wake up at 4:30a.m.. Go out, start my car; then make my coffee.  Put my watch on, wallet in pocket, chain hooked to my belt-loop.  Throw my wind-breaker on, lace up my boots, grab my bagel, and I’m out the door.  5:20a.m.: Delaware Park.  Average eight “head” a day.  10:30a.m.: off  to Sheppard’s.  Walk in; take a piss; Grab my tack.^*  I put it in the court yard and immediately start rolling polos.^*  There all day.  4:00p.m.:  go home.  I am at Sheppard’s for about five hours, and I ride about two horses.  Six days a week: $149.10.  A waste of  time.

            “Where are you going for the winter?” he asked.  He caught me by surprise.  I choked a little.

            “I’m gonna stay with you… I guess.”  I hesitated.  My tone- unsure.

            He told me I’d be getting on, mostly, two-year-olds.  I asked him about the accommodations.  “I think we’ll be able to fit you in somewhere.” he told me with his clever eye.  “Some time after Thanksgiving or Christmas.”

            “Sounds good to me.”  The whole thing excited me for a couple of days.  Then I remembered the real picture. 

            He is only ONE trainer. He is in The Hall of  Fame.  But with all the riders he ships in from all over the world, I simply “fall through the cracks”   I guess I kind of have him right where I have always wanted him.  He has taken an interest in me and realizes that I could be of  benefit to his business.  Timmy Wyatt tells me Sheppard will give me a shot.  “Loyalty.”  Timmy tells me.       

            He took me off of a horse the other day.  Told me “I think that he might be a bit much for you.”  He had seen me gallop the horse before (well within my ability).  He just wanted to see how I would react.  If I had the mentality to be one of his indentured servants.  I acted accordingly.  Said “Oh, okay.  Who should I get on next?”  smiling.  I knew that day would come, and now that it has, it is time to move on.  I do not play games.  So I have him right where I want him.  Whether or not he is planning to give me a shot, he knows that I can ride.  But don’t tell me that I can’t ride a horse when you know I can.  You will be in your real-world, running your growing business, and I will be Lonesome Glory- standing in his stall, cribbing. 

            Everything you get, you have to work hard enough for it.  I say I have Mr. Sheppard right where I want him; but I know moving on will not have a profound effect on him.  The old man still mows his fields.  My leaving will only make him think when he sees me up-sides with his horses.  My presence will be felt: win or lose.  I do not want to have anything over him, because I know that I cannot.  My presence is all I want.  Win or lose, through my presence, I have Mr. Sheppard right where I want him. 

            His eyes will despise me as they scan my colors creeping along the far rail.  Most of all, he has no choice but to appreciate the animals that I am riding, their ability and caliber.  And my ability and perseverance to get to the level of riding them. 

            So I have choices now.  Which is why I’m on The Ghost and not rolling polos at Sheppard’s.  A chilly, Fall morning for me to breath.  The smells I will love ten years from now; smelling twenty years ago.  Dharma upon this Midnight Ghost.  My boxcar.  My Boxcar! 

            Sitting at my desk, I open The First Black Book.  I remember the forum I used.   I would write on one side when I was “straight”, and The Other Side when I was fucked-up.  I would flip the book, so that I wrote only on the page to the right, (according to my mental condition).  So, on the left, the writing was upside-down- the “other side”.  The end of one side was at the beginning of the other.  I called the one side “The Straight Side” (wrote in it when I was “straight”, unaltered.)  I called The Other Side “The Other Side” (wrote in it when I was fucked-up).  I stayed true to this forum.  The first page on The Other Side reads:  “There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.”  (William Shakespeare)  I sit at my desk, looking; marveling at every page- completely filled with writings and/or drawings.  I open the book to the first page- The Straight Side.  And I read:

          PROFILE

I should be just one side,

But that side could be abridged

by too many:

The school would arrest me

And my workplace and the courts

would toss me aside.

I could be just one front with one face,

for so many emotions can one face emit!

So nobody would feel

that my personality’s split.

It would be so conceited-

a sojourn to just one place!

People could see me and read me,

But they can only hear what I see

and do not see what I hear.

They could and would read

two sides into one,

for I hear what they do not,

and see what they don’t see.

I am cursed to fabricate my actions,

Because the scholars

and judges would spy,

So my words would all be selfish lies.

I would be counted in

with all those selfish factions.

I should and could go

to those many places

Where people are animals

and animals, people.

First, while I must chase that steeple,

I must exercise the irrelevance

of all of these faces.

But the horseman could see,

in an instance,

That those faces are in vain;

just pride.

So, now, my faces are showing

through just one side.

What you see on the other side

is none of your business.

                                                                                                                        2/27/97

            And, sitting at my desk, I think of my choices.  This IS IT for me.  The shit.  I am out here, doing whatever.  And I realize that I have forgotten that I’ve been on the Midnight Ghost.  ‘Ve been caught in this void.  Which is necessary to become my optimum self.  Out in the middle of nowhere.  I am on an emotional roller-coaster; for times go by when I am in complete anxiety; and there are times when I remember.- Tranquillity!  No back-drop: the barn is in front of the sky, though I only see it because of reflected light.  Not two separate objects.  The back-drop is actually my eye-lenses.  The sky is in front of the barn, too, but all blended- one solid color.  (I like to see it as black): tranquillity being the motivator.

            Midnight Ghost- oh, yeah!  Now I have become one side.  The Other Side will be written on my way back down.  So now it is Just One Side, for I do not have two different minds.  It is only one, regardless of its chemical balance.  pH level.  If you’ve ever said “I was fucked-up last night!”  then you are fucked-up (for you can think “fucked-up”, or in a fucked-up way).  It is The Way of  Zen.

            “Better” thinking, “better” knowledge.  It has been quoted that “There is wisdom in wine.”^2d And this is true.  But if the consumer of that wine lacks the ability to learn, do they gain wisdom; or lose sight?  I ask Zen what it thinks about this comment, and it says nothing.

            “So it is true.”  I answer.

            “What is true?”  Zen asks.

            “So.”  I reply.

            “So what!”  Zen reprieves.

            And I say, “That is exactly what I was thinking!”

            I’m so drunk right now; I’m going to write nothing but shit.

            Back on the Midnight Ghost, I ramble- sensibly in regards to my mental maturity.  Fuck that nostalgic air of the setting.  Novice:  A new approach.  Anew.  Never old.  Life is continuous. 

            You say “Begin with the end in mind.”  After years of meditation, you realize that there is a “…”  before “Begin” and a “…”  after “end”.  And that is what life is:  one, big meditation.  …begin at the end…. 

            Retrospect to the first Black Book’s Midnight Ghost.

            “No!”  the other half of my mind tells me.  “You should just be one side.”  And Zen says that your mind can impossibly be two.  Mind has not its own mind to control it.  If  Body and Mind are two different, than what controls the body?             

            Literarily, or by theme/structure, this Second Black Book is just one side.  I am not divided to write Straight on “The Straight Side”  or upside-down when I am fucked-up.  It is an important detachment that I have become attached to; which has opened up my true heart, as I drag it through this material void.  Really, though, this is not a Second book, but the first book still writing itself on.  Because I ran out of pages in the first book does not mean that it has ended, begun; or even become a transition.  Dharma upon this Midnight Ghost!  My boxcar, or yearning for one! 

            If the Fritzinger were here, he’d join me in my agreement and my soul’s progression.  Don’t drop back into the sad, nostalgic setting.  One mind; don’t tell the reader that you’ve heard that the Fritzinger is out there burning spoons. 

            And that is why I am here- in the middle of densely-populated, inbred, hickville.  “I did not want to live that life again.”  As Robbie Davis (a jockey) once stated.  I had my taste of that life, which is why, physically, I have moved on.  Mentally- Ah, what the fuck is that?  Like the time on the Ghost when I was in the hotel in Tennessee- I am at that same precipice now.

            In a hotel: Boyde’s Motel.  Actually, I do not know if I’m in Delaware or in Maryland (Maryland, I suppose).  And that is Buddha right there!  Ah,  The Midnight Ghost.

            I packed a bat (a metal pipe disguised as a cigarette) on the night stand that had crumbs from a granola bar on it.  I thought “I don’t want to pack a piece of granola!”  Think about it.  Don’t you agree; would that not suck? 

            So I’m sittin’ here; my shit is packed; stacked in two different storage spaces- one in Clinton, New Jersey; and one in Avondale, Pennsylvania.  I’m fuckin’ hungry two!  (two?  what; are you stupid?  it’s “too”!)  Nice Capitalization there, second mind punk.  Woah, did you see that!?!  I just divided in to two minds! 

            “Ramblings.”  The bum tells me.  “Those are senseless ramblings.” 

            “I’ve never written about you when I was fucked-up.”  I tell him.  And it’s true.  The Midnight Ghost has always been written on The Straight Side. 

            “That’s because you have always used two minds.”  he says.  “Regardless, you’re pretty fuckin’ stoned and drunk right now.” 

            “How do you know?”  I interrogate.

            “Two Minds.”  he says.  “You’re thinking with them again.”

            “That’s the whole droint of being punk!”  I slur.

            “You have done the speaking in the first Black Book.  Now it is my time to speak in The Middle Black Book.”

            “What middle?”  I question.  “This is The Second.”

            “See how you’re writing?  You’re so fucked-up!”  he says.  “You’ve had two beers and two shots (“glugs”) of Leroux, Blackberry Brandy.  That weed is dirt, too.  That brown shit they cram into tiny dime-bags on the floor of some crack-house in the city; littered with dirty needles and broken crack pipes.  Probably sprayed hair-spray on it, and shit!”

            “How do you know?”

            “Why don’t you come to the damn door instead of the window!”  he pissed off sez. 

            “What the fuck is that?” (me)

            “That’s what the hick, named (get this:) ‘Bob’, next door said to some miscellaneous person.  It applies to Zen; does it not?   It’s only one mind now.”  He scratches his hand.  “I gotto take a piss.” he sez. 

            I hear the waterfall.  Well, there ain’t no water fallin’, but I hear it.  I do not like to listen to it, but human ears tend to pick up sounds of that frequency.  It would be nice if  it were so high-pitched that I could not hear it;  but, what am I talking about?  Belabor?  No; fuckin’ finger food.  I open The Black Book and search for something I wrote that synopsizes this particular situation.  I turn the pages and push my finger down on the bottom half of one page.  And I read:

“I hate defecating when others are within audial proximity.  Noises: ‘Poot’s’, ‘Blirt’s’, ‘Weep’s’, ‘Fargle’s’.  Stench follows.  Might as well write ‘I was here’ in shit- on the door.  Nasty, squeezed out, green-apple splatters.  Skid marks!  9/12/98”   I laugh out loud as I think of the condensed power of a toilet-fart.

            Charlie comes out of the bathroom.  “Spit on the floor!  Missed the toilet!  Yeah.” he kind of says. 

            “What’re you talking about?”  I ask.

            He looks at the book-  a page that I have scribbled some Dharma nothings on.  He lets out a grunt of interest.  “That don’t make sense.”

            “Naw.”  I sez.  “I’m the one who ain’t do it.  Don’t you?”

            “Aye!”  he says.  “Not two minds, but one!” 

            And I used the bum of St. Theresa to explain the other part of my mind.  My mind rationalizing with itself. 

            That’s not how you spell it!   I tell the bum. 

            Look!  no more quotation marks!  One mind of these two!  Spell what?  Who said that?  “Did you put him on to her?” ^3b

            “One mind” I tell myself.  That’s why the bum said “Middle Black Book.” 

            Bum- I like the character.  Divided self talks to each other.

            “You’re drunk.”  The bum says.  “Try again later.” 

            I’m so drunk that I’m about to go over there and say,  “Hey, what’s up, Bob?”!

            “Bob!”  the bum laughs.  “Don’t put too much time or creativity in naming a kid, ‘Bob'”.

            “Disease of the mind.”  I say. 

            “Like against dislike.”^1a  he adds.  “I do not poke  fun because of unhealthiness.”  He scratches his beard.  “If me making fun of somebody is bad, than I must be a bad person.  After all, I am not two different people.”  He hocks a loogie and spits. 

            “Aye.”  I agree.  “I do not make fun of people because I am an asshole.  I make fun of  ’em because people are stupid.  It is not the comments’ literal translations that are funny.  What is funny, is the irony that I truly do not believe the things I say; but the understanding that some people do believe by these snide comments, makes me laugh.  I do not laugh because your clothes are funny to me.  I laugh because I think you’re stupid for wearing them.  But, actually, I am laughing at myself for making such a stupid suggestion.  That is the irony that is funny.”  I look at him, and he looks at me as if I am not finished.  This makes me feel awkward.  After a few seconds of conjugating what communication his eyes are inflicting, I realize something.

            He is staring at me as if he is waiting for me to make a point.  And my mouth gapes open.  Him looking at me like that, I feel no need to elaborate. I am content, regardless of that piercing look that would usually make me uneasy.  The way to best describe it?  I listened to the Nothing. 

            Content.  Realizing, from that expecting type of stare, What it is that I am content about.  This feeling of being content is the realization that my mind has not slowed down, sped up, or paused.  It is neither beginning point, nor end.  Poised by hope.  Waiting for Enlightenment to simply come to us as we sit easy, looming boldly upon it.  Content that life is continuous.  Sleeping is not ending a day, for you do not stop living every night.  You live continuously.  If waking up were a beginning, than you would never feel hung-over in the morning.  Or, more precisely, you would never remember a dream.  No stop and start.  If you stopped, you would not experience that dream.  If started, you are yet to dream your first dream.  That is why there is no two different minds.  The mind never stops.  It is always in contention.  Of  what? 

            That is WHY it is “in contention”.  It is never way behind.  Never just “starting out” or just “finishing up”.  It is simply content.  If the mind were not content, it simply would not function.  It is continuous; which is why meditation can be correlated into every-day life.  The meditation is of  life’s (your own perception of) basic goodness.

            “Nothing is either good or bad.  But thinking makes it so.”  (William Shakespeare)   If something is not good, and it is not bad; what is it?  It is that QUIET that came over me when the bum looked at me like that. 

            After thinking all this, I focus back on him; and I accuse, “I heard that!”  He continues that stare, unbroken.  “See!”  I throw my arms up and let my hands come down to slap my thighs.  “You can’t hear it, too!”

            I pick The Second Black Book up off of the table, and I hand it to him.  “This is The Complete Guide to Thinking in Zen.  The Unabridged Version.” 

            He opens it and says, “The pages are blank!”

            “Exactly.”  I say.

            “This really is not trivial.”  He palms the spine, slamming it shut.  “I am not a student.”

            “No.”  I agree.  “But you can study by filling that book with Zen.”  I hand him a pen.  “After you have filled every, single page with your thoughts, it will then be The Abridged Guide to Thinking in Zen.” 

            He is quiet.  “Is Zen too much to be unabridged?”  he asks. 

            “The only way Zen could be unabridged,” I tell him, “would be if human minds did not function at all.”  And he is pleased by this.  He sits down and looks at the pages, meditating.  I sit and take a swig of my tea.  Lost in my thoughts. 

            The Zen mind is jumping on my head.  Like a boy jumping on the garbage bag, trying to stuff it into the can.  Good thing about Zen, though; is that smelly air don’t blow out my head.  No garbage juice, either.

            It’s hard to locate the Midnight Ghost when you’re all the way out here.  No domestication.  I would think that this IS the Ghost; but I can’t always find it in my brain.  I feel it intermittently. (Sometimes I’m on my roller-coaster; and other times, I remember- Tranquillity.); but I cannot substain its ora.  Aura?  I don’t know how the fuck to spell it!  But I know that The Ghost is not a physical force.  It is a mental label for “emotion”  or “Emotional Awareness”.

            “Emotional Awareness is an oxymoron!”  The bum tells me.  “Don’t make no hundred cents.”

            “Quit chewin’ my cud!”  I yell.

            “That’s disgusting!”  He laughs.  “You cannot find the Ghost?  (He gestures quotation marks.)  Is it because of your emotional roller-coaster?”

            “Dude,”  I sniff my finger. “What do you think this IS?” 

            “You should wash it.”  he says.

            “I do!  I meditate more and more now; and I remember it at different points throughout my day.  It just has not become completely continuous.”

            “I guess, if you washed your finger, you’d never finger out what that smell is.”

            I sniff it again and say, “Yeah, but what the fuck is that?!?” 

            “You don’t wanna know.”  he says.  “And, for real.  If you do not smell it for pleasure, than is its nature not pleasing?”

            “No, it is the mental legacy of deciphering it.”  I iterate.

            “And, if you washed it, you would eventually forget about it all together.”  He looks around.  Then spins around.  “Where the Hell are we?”  he asks, puzzled.

            “Somewhere.”  I remember.  “I did not give us a setting, did I?”

            “A hotel room?  The Ghost?  Are we in the woods; at our camp?  Or is it just us two characters with black all around us?”

            “Is it important?” 

            “Just as important as your fucking finger!”

            “This is not my fucking finger.”  I point.  I raise my other hand and say,  “This one is.”

            “Hope it don’t smell like ass!”  he jokes. 

            “So, I guess I’ll never finger out what this smell is.”

            “Good.”  he concludes.  “So, when you meditate upon it, you will actually forget about it.  Then, you’ll remember it;  realizing that you’ve forgotten about it, you will meditate without it.   QUIET.”

            “Meditate without my finger, huh?”

            “You would wash it.”

            “And never figure out what this smell is.”

            “What smell?  If you dipped your finger in peanut butter, would your finger not smell like peanut butter?”  He kicks at the dirt out of  boredom. 

            “Until I washed it.”

            “Then what would it smell like?”  He continues to look down at his activity.

            “My finger.”

            “So, it is not: ‘what does my finger smell like?’  It is: ‘what is this smell on my finger?'”  He looks up at me.

            “I take it you don’t care for my finger anymore.”

            “No, dude.  Fuckin’… Sit and Spin!”

            “Unnecessary dialogue about my fuckin’ finger…”  I say.

            “See, you lying sack o’ shit!  That IS your fucking finger.  I knew it!!!” 

            “Yeah!”  I tell him.  “And I’ve got peanut butter breath!”

            Sitting outside, I sit.  Feeling like a sage.  I am not positive what a sage actually is, but I sit astute, clean; feeling like one.  Sitting outside; I sit. 

            Where is Charlie?  Where were we last time?  He was pawing at the dirt, but what dirt?  Where were we?  There is a sing-song that outlines my writing on the boxcar.  I go into crackpot shit and do not come out.  Charlie and I- always trying to out-mind me.  And it is a futile task, for one cannot truly trick one’s self. 

            “You say that it is futile, but is it not entertaining?”  Charlie asks me.

            “Contrary.”  I blurt out.  “It is not completely futile.  I have composed a useful dilemma for myself.”

            “Sounds deliberate.”  he remarks  “On purpose.”

            “Mind cannot figure itself out.”  I go on.  “There is only one brain in my head.  Sleeping mind and waking mind are not two separate states.  Nor do they have different objectives.”

            “How so?”  Charlie pets his mustache.  “When we sleep, we think abstract, random thoughts.  All products of what we have already experienced.  When we are awake, we do not trick ourselves into thinking that the abstract ideas are real.  Whereas, when we have a really vivid dream, we wake up surprised, thinking we were actually there, doing that.”  He sits on a chair, leans back and crosses his ankles.  “It seems as though the sleeping mind has the objective to create abstractions, whereas the waking mind has the objective to differentiate abstractions from the truth.”

            I sit on my log and throw another stick in the fire.  “A very relevant synopsis.”  I say.  “The sleeping mind and the waking mind have two separate agendas.”  I watch him as he shuffles the papers on his desk.  “If so,”  I reprieve, “what are those agendas?”

            I poke at the fire and explain.  “As explained, Westerners (as a generalization) think in an abstract mind.^5a  They take into view, a situation by creating possible scenarios that could become of that situation.  They try to predict events in their lives, and, in turn, they anticipate these events according to these predictions.  And, because the future is not a memory (or simply cannot be a memory), it is impossible to perceive it.  But people attempt to predict it.   (An example that the waking mind uses reality to create abstractions).  If the sleeping mind uses abstractions to create a ‘reality’, and the waking mind uses reality to create abstractions, where is the different agenda?”  I look over at Charlie. 

            “You’ve lost me.”  Charlie peels some bark off of his log and throws it into the fire.

            “You see,”  I continue, “The waking mind uses predictions to come to an ‘understanding’ of the situation; and you act upon that understanding physically.   In sleep, instead of just thinking, ‘I am resting- asleep.’,  your mind operates very rapidly. You are at rest, but your mind orchestrates a (usually) energetic story-line.

            The waking mind uses your memory to attempt to understand possible outcomes.  Your memory is abstract, for your view of the past is always distorted in some way (not always crystal clear.)  And you use your memory to predict situations:  If I do this; this will happen.  But if I do this;  this will happen.  Both use abstractions to create a ‘reality’.”  I scratch my head and continue:

            “You said the sleeping mind has the objective to create, whereas the waking mind has the objective to differentiate creations form the truth.  If your waking mind, itself, uses predictions to decipher that which cannot be predicted,  how is it doing so without using abstractions?  I stand up and turn towards my chair.  I pick it up and put it in the fire.

            “So,”  Charlie begins,  “A dream is current knowledge being intertwined with our creative abstractions.  And those pictures that we conjure up is the sleeping mind’s way of  physically acting upon our natural impulse to come to an ‘understanding’ of things.”  Charlie spits into the fire.  “In thinking,”  he goes on.  “We are always mixing abstractions with other abstractions.”

            “So to speak.”  I say.

            “Oh, I will.”  he affirms.

            “That don’t make doesn’t sense.”  I fart out my mouth.

            “No?”  he dares.  “A past experience is simply the memory of an event.  The memory itself- just an idea.  Memories are abstract- intangible; therefore, a past experience is an ‘abstraction’.” 

            “And it is a selective memory of the past.”  I add.

            “Yes, but it is not memory that is selective, but our emotions that do the selecting.”

             “So, am I sustained?  Do not the sleeping mind and the waking mind have the same objective?”  I sit on the rug and look up at him.  “We only have a brain in our heads, Charlie.  ‘Brain’ and ‘Mind’ are not two separate objects.  Why is our understanding that they are two different?  One, a tangible piece of matter, and the other an entity that is divided by itself?” 

            “If there are not two minds, than who am I?”  he asks.  “If the mind does not figure itself out (or cannot), what role do I play?”

            “You don’t know.”  I tell him.  “Is it not entertaining, though?”

            “Where the fuck are we?”  he says.  “Why are there chairs and logs?  Since when do I have papers to shuffle?  I feel like a cartoon that doesn’t make don’t sense!” 

            “Not two different minds, Charlie.  That is where we are.”

            “One fucked-up one, too.”  he says.

            “Too fucked-up, too!”  I say.  “Ya wanna hear a funny thing to say?”  He waits.  I try not to laugh as I say:  “Slob my knob!”  We both bust up laughing.  “Slobber!”  I bellow.   And I abruptly wake up; falling out of  bed with my dick in my hand.  “Whew!”  I think.  “Glad I didn’t wake up with Charlie’s dick in my hand!”

            “Yeah.  Me too!”  Charlie says.

            “Is that what the Midnight Ghost brings about?”  I ask him.

            “Spontaneity.”  he says calmly. 

            “Like the truth.”  I say.  “The truth is spontaneous.  No?” 

            “How so?”  he wonders.

            “For instance, if you tell a lie, it is something planned, and you must remember what you lied about in order to reinforce it (so people will believe it).  When you tell the truth, you need not be creative; it just comes to you.  The truth is readily available, whereas a lie is a hesitant creation.”

            “True…”  he says.

            “So you agree?”  I inquire because of  his meandering tone.

            “No.”  he laughs.  “And that is a perfect example of a spontaneous lie.  It is the mind not taking time to preset it.  It comes out spontaneously.  Not arbitrarily.  I did not hesitate; did I?” 

            “No.”  I am discerned. 

            “You ever talk to someone, and they lie to you about something menial (something stupid)?  You think, ‘Why did they lie about that?’  Chances are, they surprise themselves by thinking, ‘Why did I lie about that?’  It was spontaneous.  So;  Truth- (spontaneity); and; Lie- (hesitant):  Neither is neither.”

            “Yeah.”  I smile.  “I guess if an ugly chick asked me if she was, indeed, ugly, I would hesitate to tell the truth.  Spontaneous lie.”

            “But the truth is mentally tangible; and a lie, even in this case, reduces your credibility.” 

            “Yeah.”  I say.  “If you ever wake up with my dick in your hand, than you shouldn’t have done that shit to me when I was sleeping!”

            He looks at me and cracks a grin.  “One fish looks at another fish and gasps, ‘Spawn me!  Oh, yeah!  Spawn me!  ooh… like that!'”

            Police sirens in the distance.  Either some person is bad, or cops Be dick-heads.

            “Can you smell water boiling?”  Charlie Koans me.

            “No.”  I tell him.  “Not unless there is some water boiling.”

            I sit outside, sitting.  I had a notion today.  Naturally, we have these every time we blink.  And, I was quiet to hear.  To here.  I say it is a preposterous impossibility.  Which is this:

            I had been sitting, meditating.  A deep self-sufficient natureallity.^*  I had the notion, “I guess I’m done now.”  But I was not done, for this notion induced me to think, “Done what?  Done thinking?  But I never stop thinking.  The meditation should be my every-day thinking process.  If I am ‘done’ doing it now, than am I not correlating it into my every-day life?  If I were ‘done’, I would just go limp and flop onto the floor!” 

            And this notion is preposterous, because I start out by saying, “I had been sitting, meditating”.  If  I do it in the past and am not doing it right now, (while I am writing this,) than what is it that I am doing right now?  Just sitting here; writing this- I guess.  Is this not a type of meditation, though?  Preposterous, for one does not have to meditate to keep from going limp and flopping onto the floor.  It is automatic.  Not turned on and off.   Meditating- good luck finding a switch!  If you have trouble finding the switch, than what should you do?  You know where it is.  Yet you have to search for it.  When you do find it, if you leave it on; you no longer need to flip the switch.  The light is already on.  If you turn it off, you will have to search for it again.

            “So, just leave the lights on all of the time?”  Charlie asks me.

            “No.”  I say.  “Thinking, like I said before- you NEVER stop thinking.  It is not a switch you turn on and off.  So you are not leaving the light on or turning it off.  Funny enough, you are just looking for the switch!”

            Charlie clears his throat and says,  “Looking.  But it’s dark.  So not looking with the eyes.  Not Looking; Searching.”

            I nod.  “When it is on, you do not think about it.  When it is off, you search for it.  The many times you have to search for it, you develop a second-nature for where it is.  And, then, you can find it without trouble.  Flip the lights on inadvertently.  Like shifting gears in a car.  You look down, and you’re already in fourth gear.  And you think, ‘Man, I don’t remember going through the gears!’  You know where the switch is, and you turn it on, not because you have been purposely searching for it, but because you automatically have done so.”

            “So, you are not flicking the lights on and off?”  Charlie says.

            “You don’t leave them on all day!”  I sez.  “You turn them on and off inadvertently; when you need them.  Shit, if you worried about finding that damn switch every time you entered the room, you would, so to speak, have to think to breathe.  And if you were able to leave the lights on all day, you would never develop the second-nature of switching them on mindlessly.” 

            “What’s the point?”  he inquires.

            “The point is, the Fun is in searching for the switch; because, after a while, you turn the lights on and off inadvertently.  Only after the search for the switch is no longer important, can you go on living, not worrying about turning it on and off.  Like you said about the Fritzinger and his Do Nothing.  How his focusses will change.  ‘Mountains are once again mountains’^1c.”

            “Yes.”  Charlie sez.  “Automatic.  For a minute, there, I thought you were just going to go limp and flop onto the floor!” 

            And the on and off  lights are the Buddha; and they are not.  Is that possible?  Must be; it has just been thought; now, written.  For Buddha is thought.

            “Must not be.”  Charlie says.

            “Here.”  I hold out an imaginary piece of paper.  “This is a naked picture of me.”

            He takes it, humoring me.  And says, “Hmm…”  He turns it and looks at it upside-down. 

            “Pretty good, huh?” 

            “Who took it?”

            “I did.  It’s a mental picture.”

            “Can I keep it?”

            “What, are you a fuckin’ faggot!?!”  I grab the paper back from him.

            “Isn’t it… Art?”  He refers to it.

            “Don’t tell me you’re a faggot, man!”

            He looks at me puzzled and says, “I was just playing along with your little Zen game.  What’s the question to the Koan, man?  ‘Cause you’re really freakin’ me out!”

            “The answer is:  ‘I see the picture of paper with your picture on it.’  Then, I’m supposed to take off my clothes and say, ‘The picture of the picture!  Your mind, now, is the paper.'”

            “Oh,”  he says.  “That’s good.  Too bad you’re not a chick!”

            I look over at him, and he continues to kick at the dirt. His eyes blue against the blue sky backdrop.  We stand with the wind carrying the clouds over our heads.  The birds chirp.  The leaves clap at the good show.  “If  I am meditating, and the crow shrieks, should I not even notice it (should I be able to tune it out), or should my senses be evoked by it?” 

            “That depends.”  he answers.

            “Depends upon what?”  I further.

            “Well,”  he finishes,  “That depends.” 

            He looks up at the air.  The moon is visible during this day.  He gazes at it.  “We look up at the moon.”  he states.  “Funny:  a man on the moon looks UP at earth.”

            “Where is down?”  I think out loud.

            “Yeah.  Florida ain’t ‘Down’; and Maine, ‘Up’.  Where is this direction?”  And he is right.

            You do not fall all the way down to Florida when you trip.  And, no matter how high you jump, you could never touch your finger-tips to Maine.

            I stomp out the already depleting fire and kick dirt onto the smoking coals.  I pick up my rucksack and put it on my back.  Charlie does the same.  We say nothing.  Funny:  I made the decision to leave this campsite; but, as we walk off, I follow him, rather than him following me.  And we trek. 

            The leaves crackle beneath our feet, their smell, crisp and enjoyable.  A fine breeze carrying our scent to the animals in the distance, causing them to flee before we even become visible to them.  The forest is so quiet!  So relaxed!  No need to be anywhere.  We inhale the air, filling our lungs with Virtue. 

            ‘Tis a good hike.  The woods- dense.  No sign of  people.  Back in The Bridge, when Rich and I hiked the wooded lands, every once and a while, one of us would stop short; and we would both stand, quiet in time.  The abrupt stop meant something.  Either a cool rock, a mountain, or, sometimes… a house.  It was disheartening to come across civilization in the middle of the woods.  It reminded us that the world was still so close, and we really were not out in the middle of a dense forest.  Felt like it though; because we wanted it to.  We were Buddha, though; because, regardless of the occasional house-sighting, we WERE out in the middle of nowhere, living our primitive desire. 

            After walking, not saying a word for about forty-five minutes, Charlie stops short.  And I walk right in to him, stepping on his heels.  I bump back off of him and see that he is gazing up and around.  I step aside to see what he is seeing.  And there it is.  The mountain he wanted me to climb with him.  We both take deep whiffs of the air.  Looking up at the rock.  It is completely quiet for a minute, completely engulfed in our own thoughts, until he moves his foot; and the familiar sound of the crunching leaves snaps us both back into together-thought.

            “Wings.”  I break the silence.

            He looks at me and slings his rucksack onto the ground.  He retrieves a plastic bottle of water and drinks.  I chug a bit of it.  He says that I can keep it because he has another one.  He slings the pack back over his back.  And we start for the foot of  the rock.  When we get there, he points to the middle, half way up.  And I see a vein of  rocks vertically climbing part of the mountain.  “There it is.”  he says.  “The Land of the Gnomes.  When we get there, we’ll christen my new glass piece.”

            “Hmm…”  I grunt.  And we set foot on the hillside- where the forest becomes the rock. 

            The mountain starts out as the same type of sylvan floor which we have been hiking through already.  After about a half of a mile, though, it becomes less dense.  There is not a full carpet of leaves anymore.  There is a dirt floor and patches of  grass.  The sun beams through the tree-line and it reflects off of the dew drops that cling to the tops of every, individual blade of  moss.  These trees taller, seemingly older.  It is less dense, but still thick woods.  The air- moist and cool.  The birds converse nonstop.  The ground is soft and feels good against my feet.  I feel as though I could just lie down anywhere and have a nice deep sleep.  A plentiful sleep. 

            As we get a mile up the hill, it becomes steeper.  There is another full carpet of leaves, and large rocks begin to become a predominant obstruction out of the ground.  Never in the way, because we climb over them and jump from one to another, even when there is a way around them.  That is what Japhy would do.  Then, after climbing the first, mini precipice, we reach a road-like path.  All dirt.  The forest is suddenly darker, thicker and more moist.  Cooler.  Charlie takes a right and travels horizontally across the mountain, walking on the path.

            “I read this part in your book that interested me.”  He says.  “You spoke of  meditating.  You said something like,  ‘…begin at the end…’.  Reading that, I was… I don’t know.  I don’t know how to explain it; but it made me think.  I stopped reading for a couple of minutes.  It’s funny:  I’ve had a lot of these thoughts; and you put those same thoughts in your book.  All in a context.   A little on every page.  It’s like a compressed version of… I don’t know.  I think it’s really good.”

            “Really?”  I ask.  “You think it’s pretty good?  Is the format okay?  I mean, is it easy to follow?”

            “Yeah.”  he says.  “Completely.  I like it.  Anyway, when I read this ‘begin at the end’ thing, I had a realization.  My exact thought was:

‘You do not start over after Enlightenment.

Enlightenment seen as the beginning

of the Zen journey.

            You do not start over.

            You begin- indifferently.'”

            “That’s really good!”  I am pleased.  “You just took my words and put them into the context that I could not explain.  That is exactly how I was thinking.  It is always Continuous!”

            It feels good knowing that somebody can relate to my book.  Somebody actually understands and appreciates it!  It was always the type of writing that I do not think other people would relate to.  That it was just my own mind journey.  But, after Charlie tells me that he thinks that the book is good, I am delighted;  I feel hopeful.  And, someday, I might even publish it.  But who would read it?  Who cares?  Moon Men.

            “Moon men!”  I shout out.

            Charlie treks on.  We both walk in tangent.  “Slobber.”  he chuckles.  “Is that a noun or a verb?”

            “Neither.”  I tell him.  “It’s an imperative….  Slobber!”    And this is funny.

            “Man, I haven’t been to The Gnomes in about three years”  Charlie remembers.  “It’s fuckin’ cool.  You’ll like it.  Always smells the same.  Reminds me of hiking up there years ago and puffin’ glass.  That’s what we used to do.  Whenever one of us got a new glass-piece, we’d go to The Gnomes and christen it.  It was a good ceremony to hit ’em for the first time up there.  We figured that they were a piece of art (which they are).  And what better way to celebrate them but to take them up to The Gnomes and christen them!”

            “Yeah.”  I say.  

            We walk for a good half-hour.  Then, Charlie stops short.  We have come to a spot where the path has been cut through by erosion.  I look down, and the cut goes as far down the mountain as I can see.  Looking past Charlie, I see it:  The Land of the Gnomes.

            He said that it was a water fall; and it is.  But not what you picture when somebody says, “waterfall”.  It is more large rocks than anything.  Only about fifty-five feet across.  You can hear the trickle of water, and there are places throughout the climb where there are pools of water.  It is pretty steep, but easy climbing.  If you go straight up the middle, it’s pretty easy, and, on the sides (and parts in the middle as well,) there are great walls to scale.  That is the beauty of The Gnomes:  there are places where you can rock-climb if you want, and there is an easy way to scale up the formation.

            We gaze up at it for a while.  Charlie is thinking of all of the different routes he has taken to climb it.  And I am observing, picking my route.  The challenge is to pick a line and take it all the way.  That way, when you get into a difficult situation, you have to scale straight through it, instead of changing your route.  Another way is to jump up at random, as fast as you can.  Usually, that makes for the best climbing, because you get into a rhythm, and you climb parts and make jumps that you would not even attempt to if you took the time to think about it.  Then, you look down The Gnomes at your path; proud.  Climbing back down is the same, accept, faster.  You just jump and land to pop off again. Pop pop pop… pop.  Effortless.  Man… Wings!!!         

            “Impossible to fall off.”^2e Charlie says with glowing eyes.  And we pick our paths.  He picks the right side, which is the steepest:  there are completely vertical slabs that are green and slippery; water running down them.  I choose to go at random.  Jumping my way up, stopping and looking for different walls to scale.  I scale a wall and jump at random again.  Sometimes, you jump your way into a spot where you are stuck.  It is an impossibility.  “How did I get here?  There is no way out!”  And The Gnomes are dangerous.  Hard rocks.  Not any really big, straight-down falls, but those rocks are hard and slippery.

            Pop pop.  Pop… pop.  Pop pop; pop.  It gets tiring, too.  The good kind; fulfilling.  We get to the half way point.  Well, Charlie gets there about two minutes before I do.  It really is a race every time, too.  Up and Down.  Who can scale the toughest the quickest.  Who jumps the most insane gaps, from one huge, slippery rock to the next huge, green, slip-slidey rock.  We reach the half-way point completely out of breath.  And man do my muscles feel Good!  My lungs feel Good!  “Whew!” 

            He is standing atop a monstrous rock, looking down The Gnomes like a sailor searching the sea for land.  And he lets out a  long, deep “hoot”.  Majestic- that boulder.  Many faces upon it to climb; just that one boulder.  There are so many faces that Charlie “takes-on” a different crack every time. 

            So I reach him, taking the most vertical part of the boulder I could see.  And I have just enough energy to be able to pull myself up and over onto the top of the rock.  Right there at Charlie’s feet.  He stands there, motionless.  I stand up and am face to face with him.  The rock does not have a small surface, but it feels as though it does, because it is just so high up!  You can see for miles!  You always have the feeling in the back of your head that you could just fall right off of it.  Even when sitting down in the middle of it, away from its edge. 

            And Charlie yells in my face,  “There’s chicken shit in the bird crapper!  AYEEA!!!”  Almost blows me off of the rock.  Scares my shit out! 

            And I yell.  “Hey!!!  Waooo!!  Ouh-ooo!!!  Yae yae yae yae yae yae yae!!!”  The echo- doubled by itself.

            And we both take a seat.  Amazingly, this boulder is very comfortable.  There is a place for both of us to rest our backs, resting up against a wall.  The water trickles on either side.  And you can tell that, after a good rain, water carries right over the top of this huge rock.  It is nice and cool, shaded.  Quiet and tranquil.  The only intrusion are the many gnats and mosquitoes that find us most interesting.  We sit for a while.  Charlie takes his water out.  Then goes to the side of the rock and fills it. He drinks, then wedges it in between some rocks in the water to keep it cold.  And we don’t talk for some time.  It’s like, if either of us opens our mouth, the silence would be ruined.  And, the second one of us does say something, because it is a human voice cutting through the chirping of the birds and the trickle of the water, it would be most annoying. 

            CONTENT- we are. 

            “Ahhh…”  Charlie sighs.  He goes into his rucksack and pulls out a colorful, flannel pouch.  He sees me eyeing it.  “My buddy, Frank, made this for me.”  He says.  “He made the outside (which is quilted) then the inside liner.  Put cotton in between to make it nice and padded.”  He takes an object out of it that is wrapped in cloth.  And hands the pouch to me.  I inspect it admiringly.  It is a nice, soft pouch, too.  With a string in the top to pull it closed.    I watch Charlie as he unwraps the object.  And out emerges a shiny piece of glass.

            It has a pink translucency.  A couple lines of  pale color.  Beautiful and shiny.  Clear when held against the sky, but a pinkish hue when held up against the cloth.  “Nice!”  I implore.  “It’s fuckun’ bute-ee-full!”  He hands it to me, and I turn around it in my hands to view it as the sunlight hits it at different angles, closely inspecting it.  “Is it a Howey^*?”  I ask. 

            “Yep.”  he sez, proud.  “It’s a triple-layer.  One of the first triple-layers he ever made.  And he did some inside-out work in it, too.” 

            “Man,”  I exasperate.  “Look how pink it is!  It’s gonna be crazy!!!”

            As an insight to what we are talking about:  A glass piece is a hand-blown pipe.  During the blowing process, the blower pulls different molten metals through the glass.  Depending upon which metals he uses and how he pulls them through, he creates numerous patterns and color schemes.  The resin that is left behind from smoking out of the pipe sticks to the glass; and light reflects off of the resonated metal particles (or maybe it is actually a chemical reaction between the resin and the metals).  The reflection displays the shapes and colors that the glass-blower intended to make.  The metal is completely invisible before the piece is smoked out of.  You can never tell what shapes are going to form when looking at a new piece.  When a new piece is pinkish, Look out!  That is going to be one intricately, beautiful piece.  The glass-blower is so precise in the way he in-lays the different metals, that he (for the most part) knows what designs he is putting into the glass.  He can form mushrooms, honeycombs, swirls, polka-dots.  You name it: a glass-blower can do it.  (A good one, like the infamous, Howey.) 

            A new glass piece is transparent.  After smoking out of it, miraculous shapes appear in the glass.  They seem to form out of nowhere.  And every time you smoke out of it (as the resin collects and builds up), you always see something new in the glass:  A new color, new shape.  And, after a while, you can make out the over-all shapes and color schemes that the artist put into it.  And, even after you see that scheme, every time you smoke out of it, the scheme either becomes more complicated, or turns into something completely different than you imagined.  Colors that you don’t even expect come in.  Metallic golds and greens; coppers, blues, purples; sky blues, dark blues; dark, metallic oranges.  It is just amazing.  After the piece is smoked out of enough to see every, single detail that the artist put into it (and that’s a lot of  fuckin’ puffin’!), it is what we call a “finished” piece.   The way the light hits it, it looks like a beautiful, shiny piece of metal.  And sunlight, as a matter of  fact, with it’s pure rays, makes it look even more astounding.  Not at all see-through.  Just a spectacular piece or art.  Intricate designs, majestic, deep colors.  It is just amazing:  looking at a new piece, then at a finished piece.  You think, “How is it possible?”  And this is why the glass-blower is, in all actuality, an artist.  For it is an art to be able to do this.  A very complicated procedure.  An in-depth art-form.

            I hand the piece back to him.  He takes out his leather pouch and produces a small, square, silver “dish”.  He takes out a small, green, glass jar and unscrews the lid.  He then carefully pulls a fluffy bud out of the container and places it in the dish.  Then, he takes out a miniature Swiss Army knife and extends the tiny scissors from it.  He religiously prunes the bud of the sticks and the few seeds it has (this bud only had one).  The sweet scent of the freshly cut green lingers under my nose.  I savor the wonderful, pungent, fruity smell.  He then carefully snips the bud into quaint nuggets and begins to pack them into the piece.  Then, he puts all of his accouterments away.  And Charlie, being the ever so gracious person that he is, hands me the piece.  “You want to do the honors?”  He says.  I take the piece and study the buds, admiring his tight, yet fluffy packing job.  I look at the piece from the side, then take a deep whiff of the buds.

            “No.”  I tell him.  “It’s your piece.”  And he takes it without a word and sparks it up.  I watch the smoke swirl and thicken in its glass surrounding.  He sucks slow and intermittently takes his finger on and off  the carb.  Taking his finger off of the carb the last time,  he pulls it away from his face, covers the bowl with his thumb, and wipes the mouth-piece off with his shirt.  He hands it to me, and I take it, putting my thumb over the bowl.  I watch him as he sits up straight and exhales out his nose, opening and closing his mouth; using his tongue to fully taste the Christmas Tree Bud.  I do just as he did.  And, after my turn, we do not have to light it again.  It stays lit on its own.  After four rounds,  he holds it as we talk.  After bullshitting for a couple of minutes, he puts his lips on the mouth piece and looks down at the bowl.  He opens and closes the carb quickly a couple of times.  Then holds his finger steady on it.  He pulls the piece away from his face, and, holding his breath, he says, “Still goin’.”  We sit for a good hour.  Letting the piece rest, and then sparking it up again.  We do this until it is “kicked”.  And, really, we smoke way too much.  Unnecessary, even.  But is a new piece!  Christening it is a good thing.

            “It makes me a little nervous.”  I say.  “Having a glass piece on top of all these rocks.  It is a contrast.  Glass against rock: the thought makes me cringe.”  He agrees as he very cautiously holds the piece, twisting the cloth inside the bowl; making sure to wipe the bowl-piece clean.  “I’m fucked-up!”  I tell him.

            “Yeah.”  he says.  “We didn’t need to smoke that much.  We wasted it.”

            “But it’s a new piece.”  I remind him.

            “Yeah.”  he changes his mind.  He wraps the piece back up in the cloth and puts it  back into the pouch that Frank made.  And he puts the pouch into a compartment that he sewed onto the inside of his rucksack just for this purpose.  We both stand up and stretch.  I go to the edge and appreciate The Gnomes.  As I look down at the rocks, I feel different than I did before.  And, Buddha!  Charlie, too.  Smoking out of a glass piece makes you feel differently than you do when you smoke out of any other type of paraphernalia.  It is a clean feeling.  Clear.  An intelligent feeling.  I go over to my rucksack and take out The Black Book.  I search it for a particular passage that I wrote.  Finding it, I put my finger on it and turn to tell Charlie:

             “Just taking a shower makes you         feel clean.

             But, when you think crystal clear,

             with a quiet mind,

            Man, what a clean feeling!”

              He returns a smart expression and is pleased.  He holds out his hand, and I give him the book.  He flips the pages and finds an entry that arouses him, and he reads out loud: 

            “See a good man.

            Smile;

            Make a good man better.”

            I nod.  This is my own.  Now, it belongs to Charlie.  He is very fond of this one.  He continues to flip through the book.  I go back to the edge and look out.  Lost in my thoughts.  A naked day!   Ahh… Now that I’m out in the woods, I think to myself that,  “Ahh… Now that I’m out in the woods, I think to myself that,  ‘Ahh… Now that I’m out in the woods, I think to myself that…’  Ahh…  Now that I’m out in the woods, I think to myself  That.”   -QUIET-

             I take a piece of paper out of my pocket, unfold it and read to myself:

            “Awaking to a new day. 

        A broader horizon.

         Open, like wings.

         I’m flying on the real. 

        They know it happened. 

        We grow.

          Slow; but we grow. 

                          Rich

                                                    –                              today                                                       &

                                     tomorrow”

            I hold the piece of paper in my hand for a while.  My eyes are down on it, but my mind pierces right through it.  I forget the woods altogether.  Not to say Charlie is not here; not to say that the woods are not here, but I am not here.  A deep, healthy, comfortable Quiet.  A growing experience.  Not wanting of anything.  Not urging to be anywhere.  Happy in its entirety!  And I stand here in this mental state for an undisclosed amount of time.  It’s like laying in bed on your day off of work, knowing that you don’t have to get up at all.  Just laying there, comfortable, content, secure; completely unbothered by anything.  It is the Quiet that has grown to enjoy both me and Charlie. 

            And, soon, the tranquil sound of the trickle of the water fades back in.  Then, the chirping of the birds.  I see the cover of  leaves and the grey rocks again.  And, finally, I am back standing on this rock with Charlie, who is still flipping through the pages of  The Black Book.  What a state to live in!  The true shit.  No more need to yearn for the Ghost; or even try to explain or understand what The Ghost actually is.  I am The Ghost!  And, man,  it feels good!  A tingling feeling.  Like my head is one foot higher than it really is!  And, finally, I remember something:  I’m stoned!  Had completely forgotten all about it!  Buddha.   I focus again, past the piece of paper and talk to Charlie over my back. 

            “I got this can of beans here.”  I say.  I hear him slide the book into his rucksack.

            He knows exactly what I am talking about.  “You still have it?”  he emphasizes.  “I guess chickens Don’t piss!”  We both get a good chuckle out of this.

            “Yeah.”  I say.  “But, you know…”  I hear him scratch his beard as he walks up beside me.  “Me having this piece of paper is not physical.  It’s just a prayer.  The piece of paper,- a thought;  finger food.  And us, all the way out here…”

            “The main course.”  he finishes.

            I hold the prayer as high as my arm will extend and open my hand to let it fall.  It flutters to the water below.  It lands.  The surface tension of  the water suspends the paper atop; afloat.  Soon, the paper darkens, and the letters start to blotch up as the ink spreads and the water usurps the paper’s molecules.  And it floats along, over a rock and down a fall.  We see it in a pool two levels down from us.  Both watching it.  “It is a Rich thought.”  I say.  And we watch the prayer as it gets stuck on a rock.  Just sitting there, like a rock, itself; for  water pushes against it, yet it is stubborn to stay where it has been planted.  Doing nothing. 

            I turn around and get some granola bars out of  my rucksack.  I hand Charlie one.  He goes back and sits, resting his back against the wall.  I take two sodas out and give him one; pop mine open.  “It is so easy to retain out here.”  I state.  And Charlie agrees.

            “It is a great meditation, these birds singing.  The sound of the river staying right where it is.”  I am now more comfortable on the rock.  I do not think of falling off of it.  I look up The Gnomes.  The top is not visible because of the jagged climb.  Charlie was right about the smell; it is wondrous and reminds me of hiking with the Wood Boy.  Charlie goes back into his rucksack and pulls The Black Book back out.

            “You know how I was sayin’ before, that you wrote a lot a’ things in this that I already have thought about?”

            “Yeah”.

            “Well, this is one of my favorites.”  And he reads:

            “Two ideas that coexist in the absence of each other- is there anything that is not this example?  It is a rhetorical question that requires a “yes”.  It is the simplest of dichotomies which I phrase to explain.  There is no end to one mode of thought, nor is there a beginning to suffering or joy.  It is a constant- like gravity.  It is always apparent, but is more easily understood when studied and experimented with.  When we cry, we meditate upon all that can keep our minds at woe.  When we giggle, we search for reasons to be jubilant.  Both are a constant; we always try to retain each when we want to be in that mode of our mood.

            The steam poured out of the manure pile this morning.  Through the pungent, humid body, I saw the moon- full, high in its sky; surrounded by pinks and purples.  Behind me, the sun escalated in the heavy, cold air.  Morning smelled nostalgic; the sounds around me reminded me why I came to work for Mr. Miller.  Of course, When I aspired to work here, I had forgotten these joys.  I only thought of the rambunctious noise and of mud pelting my face- leather flapping, whips snapping; arms pushing- rapping upon the door that lay beyond the far-turn.  It was the great confusion and stress of the moment I wanted.  The scary tension of danger engulfing the air that breathes me.  Simple ideas that I will laugh about writing about one year from now.  But, knowing that the ability comes slowly with time, I take notice of the wonders of the mornings and am relaxed by the finalities of every night.

            It is a writing that has no definite beginning and is void of a substantial closing.  But that is what writing is about- thoughts never end; they simply coexist in the absence of each other.  Thoughts themselves are rhetorical; there is no answer to them, no beginning, no end.  Thoughts are simply a concentration camp for each other- one shelters another from interacting with the outside world.  Some agitate, or evoke, others to infringe upon our social embarkment.  Just like the Moon looking down on the Sun, for both are always “out”; My idea of this world coexists knowing of the absence of common sense.  Though I am uncommon, eccentric to some.  But, of course, just like everybody else, I am the only person in this world who has common sense.”

            He closes the book and looks down at the black cover.  “I like that one.”  he says.  After putting the book back in his rucksack, he stands up and swings it over his back.  I grab mine, and we both peer up the rock.  “There’s a pond at the top.”   he tells me.  “Frank used to call it ‘Sunfish Pond’.  You can skinny-dip in it.  Can set up camp there.  It is so far from civilization, you don’t gotto worry about seein’ people.  Can walk around naked.”  With me still looking up, he turns around and goes back to the edge of the rock.  He whips his dick out and pisses down on the prayer.  Going back and forth, lifting up one edge, then persuading the other corner, he works the stubborn piece of paper off of the rock.  He pushes  it off the rock just as he has nothing left.  And he watches the paper make its way down the falling parts of water.  Doesn’t see it get caught-up again, but knows that it most definitely will.  “Senseless ramblings.”  He thinks.

            He turns back towards me and sighs.  “It is impossible to fall off of a mountain.”^2e he says.  And, with that, we study the last half of  The Gnomes, picking our lines.  I choose the left side.  Charlie jumps the rest of the way at random.  Pop.  Pop.  Pop pop, pop; pop.  Refreshed, clear headed.  Finding the sweet-spot because of the glass piece.  Quick and effortless.  A rush of adrenaline.

            When we get to the top, the ground is soft.  The air, no longer as moist; more warm.  A cool breeze.  And it is quiet, like we stepped out of the forest.  The birds’ chirping is down to a minimum, and we are too far away to hear the trickle of the water.  The most predominant sound is the breeze in the tree-tops.  We walk, down, actually.  It seems as though the top of the mountain is actually a dish.  Charlie, continuing to walk, points forward and says, “There it is.” 

            A pond, clear, completely still; not a ripple in it.  “Sunfish Pond.”  I state.  And we walk over to it.  Along  part of the outer rim are large, smooth rocks that are a beach to the pond.  We go over and stand on one.  I look down into the water to see myself in its plasmic, glass surface.  Charlie talks to my back, “Ain’t no money up here!  Nope.  No use for it.  That’s what I like.  But, you’ve missed some days at work.  You don’t get paid for them; Do you?” 

            I continue to look down at the pond’s portrayal of me.  “No.  But money is not the centerpiece.”  I say.  “You can train a horse like Crafty Sandy who ducks the quarter-gap and pounds like a rat every day.  He won $75,000.00 last time out, but would you ride him over jumps?  No.  Because you cannot trust him.  They say, ‘He’s a nice horse.’  because he wins expensive races.  But he is a scary ride.  Money is something that you should try to save, not something you try to make. 

            Then, Mr. Smith has a claimer named Stockton Star.  She is one of the kindest race horses I will ever meet.  She’s like a kids’ pony on the ground.  But on her back, she just gives you that certain confident feel.  She takes a smart hold that just locks you into your position.  She is a Real race horse!  Always wants to do more.  Always wants to do good.  Just an athletic, healthy attitude.  He takes her through his monotonous schedule (Jog one; Gallop two- on the training track.  Once a week:  go one, one and one: {jog one, gallop one; two-minute-lick the last part}.  He works ’em when ‘the spirit moves him’ to).  He drops her in ‘over her head’; and she tries her hardest every time, but just is not strong enough for the competition yet.  This does not even alter her mentality!  (Which it does with some horses.  Like people, they have a level of confidence.  Getting beat can lower it.  Winning can heighten it.  You can tell by the way they act; they know when they’ve won a race.  Some sulk after losing.)  She is still happy and trains well.  Doesn’t feel sorry for herself.  He finally drops her in at the right condition (for a lower price- easier competition; at the right distance), and she wins.  But it was a hard and unnecessary journey for her.  Instead of winning easy, she uses up all she has. 

            She broke from the five-hole, clean.  Three off the rail and five lengths back.  The quarter in twenty-three; and the half in forty-eight flat.  She was four wide three-eighths out, and those fractions would never bring the speed back.  The pack began to lengthen, and she came to the Quarter-pole in rhythm with the horse that was on the deep inside.  She began to stretch out as she continued to grind down on the tactically paced leaders; with many challengers emerging from behind her.  Coming to the Eighth-pole, she was full out; completely extended.  At the Sixteenth-pole, she was still grinding, but seemingly hopeless.  It was so painful to watch.  I bet five across on her, which added to the humbling tension.  And, when she hit that wire, stubbornly going away, I remembered my love for this life.  The jockey bringing the athlete to the victory.  Me, being her exercise boy, I am confident that I helped her to get there; and she taught me how to get there.”

            Charlie takes a seat and opens his rucksack.  He takes The Black Book out and searches for a page.  He finds it and runs his finger down the seam of the book, flattening his reading surface.  And, he recites:

            “The horse is powerful.  Whether he is contorting to bite at an itch on his flank or just standing there looking cute.  There is a power about him that is just unexplainable. As is man’s ability to shape metal.  Because of their weight, size and muscular ability, they are powerful.   They are a bullet in front of the hammer- harmless, yet respected.  Like the bullet, they are amazing, yet carelessly misunderstood.  You look at the slug; and it is harmless, but you feel that aggressiveness; you know what it is capable of.  You pull the trigger, and you love the atmosphere that is created.  You know you are safe; you take the precautions, but, in the back of your mind, you know of the grave danger.  Both seeing the bullet on the table and  looking at the horse in the stall, give me that same feeling. 

            It need not be put into words, for it is impossible to accurately describe.  You are better off just nodding your head and enjoying the fire of the eyes.  The human knows it; and the horse knows what explosion life is about.  BUDDHA.  The horse simplifies it more accurately than we do, though; for (he doesn’t know it, but) he does not have to simplify it.  Like the greasy mechanic who’s under the truck; with parts all over the place, the horse is amazingly intricate and precise.  The truck-  up on the jacks, the mechanic under it, ‘all out’, determined to succeed- is the horse in he paddock watching the jockeys as they stride forth.  Whether or not the mechanic is under there- just taking a nap,  with his legs sticking out (looking as though he is working;) or if the horse’s mind is on the filly on the other side of the paddock: they both possess a great power.  They both are an unfathomable RpM of potential energy.

            The horse is the tractor-trailer on the highway among the cars.  The little automobiles less bulky yet cock, as they maneuver in and out.  Those cars respect the semi’s power, yet they buy their time, their space; careless.  The trailer has more momentum and holds more weight on its back as it watches the smaller motors take advantage.  The trucker knows he can crush them.  The car is afraid of being crushed, but the car trusts that the trucker won’t make a mistake.  The same dichotomy is with the horse and rider, for the horse knows of his power, but he has his blind spots and must not be held accountable for what occurs within them.  He has the power to crush the rider, but the rider trusts that he will not.  The horse is power- the man, in grave danger.  The mechanic has power and knows of the dangers.  What they all have in common is that ‘gut feeling’- their love.  It need not be written of.  It could NEVER be accurately described.”   

            Charlie pops the book shut, and I am truly impressed with the passage.  It is one of  those times that I do not even remember writing the piece, yet I am very impressed when I go back and see it, years later.  My own thoughts (written on paper) Enlighten me.  I learn something new; but I have already known it!  How is this possible?    I look down at Charlie and tell him, “I don’t even remember writing that.”

            “Just ONE of my favorites.”  he answers.  I sit down beside him as he continues to flip through the pages.  He comes to a page that I doodled on and wrote miscellaneous quotes on.  He turns the book side-ways to read one of the quotes. 

            “‘All ya gotto do is jiggle the handle!’… Bruce.”  he laughs.  It is a funny page in The Black Book.  In the center, there is a horse’s body with a man’ s head on it, wearing an elf’s hat.  He has a D-bit in his mouth with reigns and a set of draw-reigns running down to the yoke.  He has a bent skyscraper for a tail.  And the skyscraper has a steeple,  a man hanging down from it with one hand, holding a Confederate (Rebel) Flag in the other.  The horse has three normal legs and one human, pant leg with a human foot and shoe on it.  

            “Ha!”  Charlie blurts out.

            “What?”  I ask.

            “This is good….  ‘Telling me that horses kick is like telling a fat man that people eat!’  That’s good.”   

            I hold out my hand, motioning for him to hand me the book, and he does.  I close it and open it again, turning to a certain page. 

            “But there’s lost in the pages.  It is a participle.  Dangling are the feelings that hold us astray.  Everybody knows where the grass grows from.  The whole world watches where the sun comes up.  Lost, they are when they question ‘who do these come from?’  It is not as profound as I think, because I will die someday, and this thinking will stop.  But somebody else will see it my way, without ever understanding it the way that I do.  So it is lost in the pages.  There’s a participant hanging on what they read that I feel.  And their mind goes astray, seeing the green grass more verdant and the sun rising in their mourning.  ‘Who do these ideas go to?’  I wonder.  It is only profound because you are a thinker.  Will you still be marveling at what you have found when you die, leaving it for someone else to misunderstand?  Will they misunderstand it all the same way that you loved to do?  Or are you just there, in the pages, a participial of dangling thoughts?  Can you feel what I have lost, or are you hanging on what you think that I have just said?  Morning is a happy day, for it has not gone away.  Night is a brighter time, for the wise man looks forward to tomorrow- regardless of the lost day.  Hungry are the pages that feel nothing but eyes.  Lost, as you are, they lie, waiting for the truth.”      

            I hand the book back to him, and he sits there holding it out in front of him.  Looking at it, contemplating.

            “It’s Clear- the mind I want to have.”  he reads.  “And I’ve wanted to make meditation an everyday adventure.  I think about it often, but I am always busy trying to complete the task at hand.  I figure I could do it while I’m out hot-walking^*, but I forget to.  I am afraid that I will space-out and stop paying attention.  That’s how mistakes happen (when working with race horses).

            It is not doing/thinking nothing, but doing and thinking simply one thing.  When you rain, you should pour.  But I have not made the time to, lately.  I want the clear mind, but I enjoy this distracted feeling in my head.  It’s like I’m tweakin’; I can see and feel the world living right through me.  But I should clear my mind, so I won’t have to scribble out words spelled rong.  My mind is racing through my happy, little game- too fast for me to clearly comprehend.  I guess that is what being fucked-up has done to people; that’s how they enjoy this showcase of crazy sight.

            I saw a red-headed wood pecker today- on the ground, or out of  its place.  I sat and enjoyed it, so happy and free of sorrow.  I enjoyed understanding the endless ramifications of It, on that grass, in this world- an unexplainable occurrence.  Molecules, all energy, creating color, sight and vibration.  How are they bound together?

            How do dogs think?  I cannot fathom the idea of thinking without countless words and explanations.  Do they think just in pictures and sounds?  Or do they have their own thought language to link every second of  every day to a rationale?  I guess it don’t matter.

            Why do I feel so fucked-up?  I have taken neither drug, nor fucked-up thing to take.  ‘High on life’ is a real feeling.  I love to see the Buddha within it all.  Smiling eyes- glazed over by happiness.  That’s the fucked-uppest thing.  I feel weird, But why?” 

 He closes the book and squats, looking over at the water.

            “Where should we go, next?”  I ask.

            He turns around and looks at me with a solemn look in his eyes.  “Don’t they stomp and bob their heads?”  he alludes.

            “Yeah.  But out of boredom.  Life must be its own supplement, otherwise, it would never provide itself with the necessary nutrients of  happiness.  Anyways,  I gotto write The Black Book.  To clear my mind.  This is the shit!  Out on the Track or up on these rocks, The Midnight Ghost boils within me.  Like I said, both lifes ARE supplements to EACH OTHER, but desire has caught me in between the two; whereas I should be Just One Side.  That is okay; because I can puff  glass, here; today, and still ride the winners, there; tomorrow.  It is just a matter of equilibrium.  Yin and Yang.  I view in circumspect:  chicken shit and realistic intelligence.  My mind is clear.  What a shower I take everyday, wherever I be!  When I look through the window, I see what the color of glass is.  The color of glass is all in your head!  Hypocritical materialism or Do Nothing idealism:  always waiting for something“

            “Waiting is not an action.”  Charlie interrupts.  “Waiting is preoccupation; Anticipating  that which is intangible.”

              “I guess, to call myself a hypocrite, It WOULD  have to be because of some sort of arbitrary characteristic that I have.  But where am I harmfully arbitrary?  Two ideas coexist only in the absence of each other.  Believe in Do Nothing but live among people.  It is not opposite.  It is relief.  I know who I am, because I count the fingers on my hand- over and over.  And, every time, I can only count one finger at a time.”  I hold out my hand, and he offers the book back.  I select the page.  “I wrote this at Bruce Millers.  In ’98.”  I tell him. 

            “The Black Book has gotten dusty sitting here, holding my alarm clock high enough for me to see.  I’ve meant to use it, though ‘the smallest deed is better than the grandest intention.’^6a  I meditate, knowing that happiness is always hypothetical, therefore, always attainable.  Understanding is Buddha; that’s what makes it possible for four hundred and twenty people to laugh at the same idea.  Laughing being just one of the limitless forms of happiness.  Is just as fun and fulfilling as it is character-building.

            Last night, before I reluctantly burned the trash for Bruce, I sat out in my car and did satellites(using the shooter of a bong as a bat).  I rarely alter myself in this way anymore; my career sits just beyond the pink horizon.  It had poured all day, and it was still thundering, but the sky’s confrontation with the distant earth was only partially visible to this farm.  I had been induced to enjoy this moment in this way by my interest in the power of the lightning that tormented the towns in the far distance.  I watched the sky’s ramparts and meditated in a couple of ways:

            The wind did not push these clouds here.  Rather, the wind is the reaction of those huge, compressed masses of water swooshing across the sky.  So the clouds force the air molecules to push each other.  The sound you hear is not the air smashing against the leaves, but the friction caused by the leaves’ refusal to let the more loosely-packed air molecules to pass through.  A rain tear rides the wind as it pulverizes the air.  The clouds are falling apart; the rain is slipping out.  Clouds: Too heavy to carry their own weight, or too weak to hold strong?  Why not just one, big bucket of water?  Why spread out instead?

            The clouds crash together, and static-cling has become powerful enough to burn dinner.  Bolts off in the distance amaze me.  But they feel as though they are right above me.  They scare my shit out!  Their rumbles are understood by me, yet I cannot comprehend their ability.  The storm stands wicked above my cowering heart; my mind fights to perceive it, and I smile, happy in spite.

            The earth has drank the storm right up.  The farm has become more verdant; the yellow wild flowers preserve the rain’s nutritious heritage.  The rain has wet my head, and I am glad for this.  The horse stands bored, or sleeping.  His ears- not forward, not back- scan the earth’s small tantrum.  His sleeping ideas are enhanced by the loud booms.  He moves staggeringly- perturbed, undecided; or maybe bored.  He is wet, his rug getting rinsed of the cake of mud.

            My black book, wiped of all its dust, now rains, for Its pet has remembered to scratch in it.  It knows that its child will forget what he has thought, so It remembers and reminds the boy when he is interested.  Night.  Black Book jumping about in celebration of its holiday- this writing.  It is tired now, and will be granted its time to sleep.”

            A small wind comes and sends ripples across the water.  I take out two more sodas and distribute them.  Charlie takes his glass piece out, and we part-take.  This time, I hit it first.  After three rounds, Charlie puts it down on Frank’s pouch under the bushes that border the rock- in the shade.  And he stands up and walks back onto land, looking around.  I stand up and meander over to him.  We both appreciate together.  He looks down and says,  “We’ll have a fire here.”  And, with that, I walk in search of some small rocks. 

            Going back and forth, I gather quite a few.  They are easy to find in this plentiful environment.  I put them all in a pile and select one to dig the hole with.  I dig a little less than a foot down and two feet in diameter.  Then, I set up the rock border neatly.  After completing this, I gather some sticks and logs; then, some leaves and kindling.  Anxious, I start to lie down the kindling.  “Ain’t no one gonna’ see the smoke.”  I reassure myself to Charlie.  Then I take my lighter out of my pocket and put my hand down in the hole.

            “No!!!”  Charlie yells as he rushes over, looking down at me- disgruntled.  “If you’re gonna do it at all, do it the right way.” 

            I look at him baffled as he goes back to the rock on the pond and retrieves his rucksack.  He puts his arm deep in to it and pulls out his flint and steel kit.  “This is where we are.”  he says.

            He lays each piece of the kit on the ground.  “Oh.”  I remember.  “You do it.”  And he does.  “Where d’ya learn how to do that?”  I question. 

            “My buddy, Charles.”  he says.  “We go to primitive camps.  They’re called Rendezvous.   It’s all pre-Civil War:  all the clothes, tools.  Everything down to your underwear!  He has a tipi that sleeps twelve.  He’s a good man, Charles.  You should go with me next time.”

            “I will.”  I say ambitiously. 

            So he gets the fire going proper-like.  I go back over and get my rucksack, picking up the glass piece to bring it over to the new site.  Charlie has gotten his sleeping bag out of his rucksack and sits on it Indian-style, eyes closed.  I put my rucksack down and place the glass piece safely on top of it.  I venture out into the woods to find a log to sit on. 

All the way up here, there are no man-cut logs; so I have to search for a fallen tree.  It takes me quite some time of meandering about to find the right one.  And, when I finally find it, I realize that I am far away from the site.  I don’t even know where it is anymore!  I have lost my bearing.  So I let out a “Wha-oo!!!”  And Charlie returns the yell.  We go back and forth until I finally find the location, dragging my log with me.

            Like I said, no man-cut stumps out here.  So, naturally, (Yes, there is a pun intended.) this log is pretty fuckin’ big!  A tree, really.  About nine feet long.  Charlie sees me crouched over, inching backwards, dragging this huge log; and he is pleased.  He doesn’t help me, though.  He just sits there, entertaining himself- watching me struggle to pull this log all the way back. 

            And, when I reach him, he says, “Jeez!  You were pretty fuckin’ far out there. Did you drag that thing all the way from there?!?”

            I look at him, out of breath, sweating.  “This thing’s fuckin’ huge!”  I exasperate.  I stand over the log for a while, with my foot on it- like a man who just shot a bear and is posing for the photo.  After recovering, I look at my rucksack for the glass piece.  And it is not there!  I panic for a second before I see it over by Charlie’s sleeping bag.  Charlie saw the tension in my eyes and laughs,

            “Scared the shit out of you for a second there, huh?  I hate it when that happens!”  I walk over, and he hands me the piece.  I sit down and puff.  And, man does it taste good!  I go back over to the log and drag it over closer to the fire.  I position it, and sit on it.  Unhappy with its position, I reposition it, and sit on it again. 

            “Ahh… Perfect!”  I say with relief. 

            Charlie sits with the piece in his hand.  He inspects it closely.  “This is gonna be fuckin’ nice!”  he brags.  He lights his lighter and hits it.  I watch him – lost in my thoughts.  The fire has depleted quite a bit.  Charlie did not tend to it much while I was on my little venture.  I put three, good-sized logs on the fire, then go over to my rucksack and pull my water bottle out.

            “I’m all out of water.”  I tell him 

            “I almost am, too.”  he answers.  He takes his bottle out and spins it, swirling the remaining water around.  He unscrews the lid and drinks the last of it. 

            “Here.”  I offer.  “I’ll fill it up.”  He tosses the bottle to me, and I catch it with one hand.  I start to walk towards the pond, but Charlie stops me.

            “No.”  he says.  “Go to The Gnomes.  The water is better.  Running: fresher.”  And he is right.  So I  take the small hike to The Gnomes.

            Charlie looks over and notices that I have left The Black Book on top of my log.  He goes over and retrieves it, to sit back down on his sleeping bag.  He looks at it, and takes another puff of the piece.  Then, he carefully places the piece on top of his pouch; and he flips the pages.  He finds a page and reads it.  He laughs out loud numerous times.  He turns the page again, and he reads:

            Chicken shit splatters on the wall like Kung-Fu paint.  Are there Leprechauns at the end of a rainbow- guarding the pot of gold?  Is that how it goes?  If so, how do they find the end of the rainbow?  Or do they simply just find the pot of gold?    If you go to the end of the rainbow, you’ll find a pot of gold?  If you find a pot of gold, you’ll be at the end of a rainbow?  How do they know it’s gold?  I could be pyrite!  I met a Leprechaun once and said to him,  “Hey, Leprechaun, where is your rainbow and all of your gold?  Where are all of your riches?” 

            He smirked at me and said,  “I have always had a pot of gold.  I have always been rich.  It’s just that,”  he took his top hat off and spun it between his fingers; plopping it back on his head.  “When I see a rainbow, I remember how rich I really am.” 

            “Can I have some of your gold, then?”  I asked him.

            “No!”  he laughed out loud.

            “What?  Are you selfish?”

            “Not at all.”  he said seriously. “You already have your own pot of gold.  It would be impossible for you to give me some of your gold.”  He pushed the back brim of his hat to tip it forward.  “You can share your rainbow with me, though!”

            I peer down The Gnomes.  Today’s climb was a good, long one.  I look down, proud to be up here.  Relating to three hours ago, when we stood just at the foot of this rock.  I think of the vastness of this one mountain and am amazed by the remembrance of the vastness of the forest that surrounds it.  We had trekked for at least three hours before even reaching this mountain, and we could have trekked much, much further.  Vast, it is;  We Are!!!  “Wings.”  I sigh.  Happiness is impossible to measure, as it is impossible to explain how I am feeling right now.  Moreso, it is impossible to (purposely) feel the way that I am feeling right now.  Unless you attain Enlightenment- but then, of course, you do not try to feel this way; you simply DO!  Dharma upon this “whatever floats your boat.”  And shit. 

            Pigeon shit is here, somewhere; everywhere if you think of how many birds have flown over-head in the past million years; and how many times they’ve shit- the probability that they have (cumulatively) covered every inch of this mountain with their little plops.  I must be a strange person to think these things.  But are they not relevant?  Can anybody find humor and/or reverence in these monstrosities of mind diarrhea?  Well, fuck a god-damned, mother-fucking duck and shit!  That’s what I used to say. 

            I fill the two bottles.

            I reach the camp and chuck Charlie his bottle.  He picks The Black Book up off of his lap and starts.  “You got some pretty fucked-up shit in here.”

            “Yeah.”  I agree; waiting.

            “Man, if I had a book like this, it would be pretty fuckin’ obscene!”

            “You should get one.”  I aspire.

            “Na.”  he says.  “I can’t write.  I sit down, and my mind just goes blank.”

            “That’s a good thing.”  I assure.  “Course, if my pages went blank, I think I would go crazy.”

            “Yeah.”  he laughs.  “Even more crazy!”

            “Ah.”  I hassle.  “We’re all out of our fucking gourds!”

            He looks down at the page.  Then, he flips back one page and says,  “Here’s one.”

            “So who needs an elephant anyhow?  I don’t want one.  And, now that I think of it, I never wanted one.  No one has room for an elephant in their house anyway.  But there’s no elephant in this story, though.  It’s about a man who is fruitful and bears much spirit.  He never wanted an elephant; so why are you thinking about one?  His work is banging out metal and nailing it on to hooves.  A dull, though, muffled sound- the tone from the nails when he hammers them into the soft foot.  His grey hair is long, held back by a faded bandanna.  His mustache characteristic of his warm, Buddhist smile.  Hey, get that elephant out of the way!  I’m trying to tell a story here!!  Where was I?  …Oh, his forearms are like Popeye’s.

            His creativity is overwhelming- his insight astounding.  His wisdom is that of an old man, but his superior happiness is that of a child’s.  A child riding an elephant!  He has such stories and memories- his memory like an elephant’s.  His motif- natural and true, has rubbed off on me, as has his honesty and kindness.  He tells me exactly what he is thinking, uncensored.  He is a good teacher and actually learns from my insights as well; for he is open-minded.  But he has been oppressed by his unfulfilled aspirations- like a circus chain being locked down by an elephant.  There is a farmer in him, but he is a blacksmith in High Bridge, New Jersey.

            There aren’t any elephants in High Bridge.  The circus brings one once a year, but it is smelly; and it is an elephant, not a circus animal.  There are no elephants in this story, though; even if they are the pink ones!   So, banging away, Charles has found his happiness.  It is when he is banging away that he teaches me about “what ever floats your boat.” He has trained me to be truthful to myself, which means being true to everybody and everything.  He teaches me the reason why elephants do not live in High Bridge.  They are neither indigenous to the county, nor to this story.  So polka-dotted elephants are not real!  And the reader should stop thinking about them, because the writer is getting sick of all of this elephant talk.  Nobody has room for one on their house-boat, anyway!”

            He pops the book shut and looks at me with a glaze over his eyes.  “Elephants, huh?”  he teasingly says. 

            “Yeah, dude.”  I answer.  “Fuckin’… sit and spin!”  And, with this, we bust up laughing.

            He looks down at the book and opens it, still laughing.  And, without introduction, he reads:

            Now, I got this new shroom,

            And my rucksack is packed tight;

            My boots fastened and my mind

            Screwed on real tight.

            I embarked upon the night,

            Ate my shit-cap and drank

            Apple cider in spite.

            Just a tiny wait for the Kick-in,

            And the night through the hike

            Consisted of woods,

            night and trippin’.

            So one minute became a week,

            And the ramifications

             began to leak;

            There were atoms seen

            that wouldn’t be seen

            If I had not capped this shit;

            While that hike ate up the night,

            We had created our own regime-

            Weak within its own limits’ mystic.

            We thought of everything, but had

            Nothing at all to speak.

            We are wise to fix our own heads.

            It was simply put:

            It is the TWEEK!

                                                   2/26/96

                                                     Japhy

                                                      (me)

            He continues to look at the page as I appreciate the reading.  Man, I wrote that a long time ago!  Then I remember:  “THAT was the first entry into The Black Book!”  I look at Charlie’s still eyes.  He snaps back into reality and turns the page. 

            “Hmm…”  he says intelligently.  Then, he reads:

            I guess we could just sit here and smile, and shit in our pants; but where is the reason for shitting and sitting or smiling after defiling?  God puts his finger on the spinning globe to watch inertia toss people forth.  An abrupt stop; big bang.  No need for theory.”

            He stops short and looks up at me.  “I feel a strange familiarity with this passage.”  he says with a suspicious tone in his voice.  His eyes- Buddha!  He looks back down at the book.  “Hmm..”  he grunts again.  Then, he closes the book.  He flips it upside-down, spins it so that the back cover  is right-side-up. He looks up at me with a laughable grin as he opens the back cover.

            “There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.”  he reads.  “William Shakespeare.”

            The mountain top is quiet as he turns to the second page of  The Other Side.  The sky is beginning to become dark.  The air has started to get moist and cool.  I add some wood to the coals and blow down into the pit to erupt the fire again.  It catches quickly and projects now noticeable light.  “Hmm..”  Charlie interests.  “Here, listen to something new.”  And he lectures:

            There is Buddha within everything.  Buddha is nothingness in its entirety.  The wind blows, and the trees and fur upon the animals waiver in correspondence.  Without these trees and animals, the wind would still blow, yet it would go unnoticed; everything would not be there to equip it with reverence.  There is Buddha in the wind that agitates still life and within still life that cannot be agitated by the wind (like a rock).  The wind blows; there is Buddha.  The wind ceases to blow; this is Buddha.  Without an understanding of nothingness, every thing is its own complicated, little entity.  So every molecule is its own individual; just as is every tree-limb is its own extension from the tree.  But those limbs on those trees are simply part of the fur on those animals- which are a portion of that wind, bound together by this planet. 

            “Buddha?”  You say.

            “Wind!”  I retort.

            “Nothing is Buddha?”  You further.

            “No, no, no, no, no,…  Buddha is Buddha;  Nothing is nothing.  Don’t you see?  Everywhere, there is everything; and, within that nothing is Buddha- everything!”

            “What do you mean?”  You daze.

            “Nothing.”  I reply.  “Nothing.”

            He looks up at me with this grin on his face that nothing could describe.  And I return the same expression, or I feel as though it is the same expression.  “A Dharma nothing.”  I reply.  And he offers no biofeedback to this.  I poke at the logs in the fire.  The embers flutter up, only to lose their glow in a couple of feet.  I look up and see that the sky is becoming purple.  The moon’s light shows its white iridescence within its own, close proximity.  I scan the tree-line, now almost a shadow against the earth’s twilight color.  And I see that the fireflies are starting to make their first appearance of this night.  Dancing around and being little sluts with their shiny, glowing asses.  I approach Charlie and snatch the book right out of his hand.  I flip the pages on The Other Side, and I find my passage:

            I Think Different.

            The molecules, visible,

            erratic, pleasing.

            Are on the outside and in me-

            not separate objects.

            Blended together so tight that

            Other planets cannot see them.

            My body, my mind

            Are not parts to a machine,

            in a machine;

            On a machine:

            My body and my mind are the Earth!

            As if it existed, the earth was another rock composed of chemicals and of the prodigy of those chemicals interacting with each other.  Chemical reactions bestowed, rather, created the environment inside and surrounding this rock.

            Gravity is the tyrant; compacting the chemicals that it creates: (stars, planets, people), forming shapes, colors; projectiles.  These groupings coexist as a result of Gravity’s power.  Rocks float around one object, spinning, but do not collide.

            IN THEORY:  These “planets” are constantly in the state of free-fall.  These falling planets possess countless chemical reactions.  And those chemical reactions are the answer to every, single question- which is always:  “WHY?” 

            Which brings back to light the fact that molecules are outside and In me- not two separate objects.  Why?  Because gravity squeezes them together.  So the result is that there are no separate objects!  Just parts squished together.  I am not repellent of the air that is around me;  It engulfs me, as I push it aside.  It does not pass through the wall of my skin, yet I suck it in only to blow it back out again.  If I get rid of it so quickly, why do I take it in the first place?  Of course, trees do not suck and blow; but if the animals did not, then those trees would not be able to.

            So I am a couch, sitting under a person, being sucked to this house- which is embedded into the earth by Gravity.  Not four different bodies:   One massive object-  a Rock, tumbling to nowhere, attracted to (following) the uninhabitable star.  And these chemical reactions are what make this and that- this and that.  And this is why

            I THINK DIFFERENT.

            “You know,”  Charlie says.  “They don’t have fireflies in England.  People come over here, and they are amazed by them.  Funny… they say they don’t have skunks over there either.”

            “Why is that funny?”  I interrogate.  “There ain’t no dicks on women!  Why should there be the same diversity of animal population over in England as there is here?”

            “I was just sayin’, Dickhead!”

            I pop the book shut and look straight up at the purple earth.  “Dickhead, huh?”

            “Yeah.”  Charlie chuckles.  “Or, as they would say in England- ‘a right dickhead’.” 

            “Skunk smells good.”  I say.

            “Yeah.  I love that  smell!  I whiff it in as much as I can.”  Charlie stands up and starts to put more wood on the fire.

            “No.”  I tell him.  “I’m gonna cook now.”  So he drops the log back on the pile and says,  “It’s gettin’ dark.  I’m ‘onna go out and git some more wood while we can still see.”   And he ventures off.

            I listen to the world.  The birds’ chirping has gone away; and the crickets have begun to make their racket.  And I listen to this, meditating upon the way the air is hitting my skin, and how the fire’s warmth brushes up against only part of my body.  The other side, a little chilly. 

            It is getting dark pretty fast.  So I go get my rucksack and lay my sleeping bag out.  Then, I bring my rucksack over to the fire and take out my pot and pan and the food.

            Ground beef that I smoosh into hamburger meat.  Some canned green beans and canned, sweet corn.  I get out two small, metal rods and place them over the hole- parallel to each other.  And I place my biggest pan on top of them.  I let the pan warm up as I form the burgers.  Then, I plop them onto the metal slab; and they scream and pop just like two hamburgers being thrown onto a hot, metal slab.  Then, I go over to Charlie’s rucksack and search for his can-opener.  I find it and… well, you know what I do with it.  I shove it up my ass and twist it around!  No, wait.  That was a different time.  What was I talking about?…   Oh,… I dump both cans into my medium-sized pot and place it on the ground.  I look around and find two sticks that are shaped like a “Y”.  And I jam them into ground, each on either side of the fire.  And I pick up a straight stick, run it through the medium pot’s top handle; and I hang it on top of the two “Y”‘s (to make a spit).  “Perfect.”  I proudly brag to myself.  Just enough heat to let them cook slowly.  Will never burn.  I flip the burgers, and their uncooked sides scream just as the first sides did.

            And I sit down with my back against the log.  Rather uncomfortable, but more comfortable than not having a back-rest at all.  I hear Charlie’s footsteps just before he comes into sight.  He tromps over and drops an overflowing, two-arm-fulls of logs onto the existing pile.  He turns right back around and ventures off again.  Ten minutes pass by, and he returns.  Two more times he does this.  And he has collected enough wood to keep the fire going for two days straight.  “There.”  he gasps as he drops the last arm-full.  “Good thing I thought to do that.”  he says. 

            “Did you really have to think to do it; or did you just DO it?”  I schemantize.

            “Well,”  he grins.  “I did it.

            “Enlightened?”  I ask.

            “Enlightenment is not a way of being.  Enlightenment is just like the ordinary day.  Never different.  Never the same ever again.”  He picks up a twig and pokes at the burgers.  “You do not start over at Enlightenment.”  he tells me again.  “Enlightenment seen as the beginning of the Zen journey.  You do not start over.  You begin- indifferently.”  

            “So your memory is different?”  I ask.  “After Enlightenment, does your memory become better?  Do you actually forget thoughts that you thought before Enlightenment.”

            “Haven’t you listened to a word I’ve said?”  He lifts the lid on the medium pot and squints to see the veggies inside. 

            “Do you not have the same emotions about your memory?  Do the airplane and the freshly cut grass not choke you up inside anymore?”

            He stirs the veggies with the stick.  “As time goes by,”  he says;  “You remember the same thoughts differently.  More-so.” 

            I think upon this.  “differently”, huh?  Differently.  Then I realize:  Not differently, but with more wisdom.  “It is impossible to remember indifferently.”  I say, proud.

            “Ah.”  Charlie agrees.  “For it is not the memory that does the selecting, but emotions.  And, after Enlightenment, emotions are looked at through a looking glass.  Your head is in the air, looking in on your own life.  You see how narrow your thinking is.  It is then when you SEE.  You are not looking in.  You are not in.  ‘This is it’.  Think about what I’ve just told you; for you, yourself, have Already known it.  Sit here, and try to remember something you don’t know.  Remember how your life was before you were born.” ^5b

            And this puts me into a thinking trance.  Charlie goes into his rucksack and takes out the a half-loaf of bread.  And, of course, he makes buns. 

            “You never shit the same thing when you take a think!”  I say, ending my meditation.  And Charlie gets a good laugh out of this.  I caught him right in the middle of swallowing, and he starts to choke and cough.  Funny, or not so funny at all, but when this happens to you, it seems to ruin the rest of your meal.  You can never get that harshness out of your throat.  It’s hard to concentrate on anything other than it.  You cough and try to clear your throat, but the hoarseness never goes away.  Until it is completely forgotten.  After scarfing down the burgers, we both eat the veggies out of the same pot, both hunched over it like a couple of savages- which we are.  Dirty and smelly.  Greasy and shiny from the day’s climb.  Feeling itchy all over.

            “Man.”  Charlie thinks the same thing I do.  “Let’s go for a swim!”  It’s just like being with the Wood Boy:  I think something just as he is saying it.  Not really strange, just coincidence.  So we throw more wood on the fire and get it stoked.  And we go over to the rock that we puffed on earlier.  Charlie just strips down com-fuckin’-pletely naked and jumps in the dark pond.  He swims out about ten feet and looks back at me- baffled at his blatant action.  “Well?”  he says.

            “How is it?”  I ask, weary.

            “It’s fuckin’ nice.  I can’t believe how nice it is!”

            I dip my foot in.  “Feels fuckin’ cold!”  I say.

            “It just feels that way.  After you go under, it doesn’t feel cold at all!”  So I hesitantly strip down- fuckin’ butt-naked.  And I jump in.  Fuckin’ Freezing!

            “Fuckin’ freezin’; isn’t it!”  Charlie gasps. 

            “You fucker!”

            “Whooo!!”  Charlie takes a deep breath and goes under.  I just stand, thinking “What the fuck am I doing?”  Charlie pops up farther out and yells,  “Hey,  It’s warmer out here!” 

            So I go under and come back up, swimming towards him.  And he is right.  There is a warm front in the water.  It’s a strange feeling:  Some water feels ice-cold and in other parts it feels like piss.

            “Feels like piss.”  I tell him.

            “Ha!”  Charlie laughs deviously.  “Don’t drink the water over by me!”

            “Hey!”  I yell.  “I don’t piss in your toilet, so don’t swim in my pool!”

            He dives down and pops up closer to the shore.  He does it again and finally gets up on the rock and grabs his clothes into a ball- under his arm.  “That shit’s fuckin’ cold!”  he says as he wanders back to the fire.  So I tread here- dumbfounded.  Yeah, good idea:  Let’s go swimmin’!  So I do as Charlie had just done and go back to the campsite- fuckin’ butt-naked. 

            When I get back, Charlie is sitting close to the fire, meditating.  “Fuckin’ shrinks, don’t it?”  He complains.

            “Yeah.”  I laugh.  “Blue and, well…’  I look down at it.  ‘What’s goin’ on here!?!” 

            “You know, you think some pretty fucked-up shit when you’re jerkin’ off!”

            And this makes me laugh.  No longer feeling awkward about being naked, I feel comfortable getting my body heat back by this fire.  Strange, never thought I’d be here- doing This; But, well, there’s chicken shit in the bird crapper! 

            Charlie gets up and puts his clothes back on.  And I do the same so that the Yin and Yang are balanced.  Not really, though.  I do not study that philosophy; but I drink tea, which has nothing to do with it. 

            He stands in front of me and whips out his dick and pisses all over my face!!!  No, just kidding!  He doesn’t do that.  I got you going, though; didn’t I?

            What he really does is, he goes into his rucksack and takes out a big, pink, floppy dildoe!  The soft, rubber kind.  You know:  The sturdy kind, that doesn’t mind, the snow.   Pretty fuckin’ funny, huh?  No!

            Two candles.  He lights them and puts one over by me and one by him.  I pick up The Black Book and position the candle so I can read.  And I recite:

            Talking about Buddha all of the time is like fishing for Zen in a riverbed- dried. ^1e  No one can sit to it.  I never see him, but he’s too choppy.  His trot is unsyncranized.  I’ll never sit with him.  My monetary is decreasing, and my future has weight to gain.  “Dried Shitstick!” ^1f

            Dammit!  The fuckin’ flies bite out here; and that goddamned snake almost munched down your leg!  Oh Shit!  D’you hear that? 

            Rabid- human nature is:  only depraved because people must look at it.  I see it.  Fuck it- in a bucket!  Be particle to it, not a participant in it. Search.  Answers must be obtained.  Answers bring an end to desire; suffering follows, for that bucket that you fucked it in was full of it; and it splattered all over the fuckin’ place!  Desire?  You desire not for  the shit to hit the air-conditioner.  Want this?  Look at this shit!  Now deprive yourself of it. 

            Who put all of my condoms on the fire-fuckin’-place?  I’ll cripple you butt-slappers for this!  Piss on the tulips now; they haven’t drank for weeks.  I’m getting out of here.  I’ll be back at fuckin’… five-thirty.  And put that shit back in your ass!  We don’t want those hairy, anchovy-eating Gestapo to break down the door and find that! 

            Not Buddha!  Not even close to Zen!  Shitstick?  NO WAY!!!  Dry: yes.  Wait.  Smell that?  Hey, there’s a rainfucker somewhere!  Shh!!  Don’t tell anyone, but I’d rather be outside, fuckin’ butt-naked!

            “What were you thinking?”  Charlie sez, puzzled.

            “I don’t know.”  I say.  “I don’t even remember writing it.”

            “The Other Side?”  Charlie questions.

            “Yeah.  But that’s not why.  It is just garbage juice.  I can see clearly now that the rainfucker is gone.”  And the campfire is the quiet that we listen to.  I think about my last reading and wonder “What was I thinking?” 

            “Where did you get ‘rainfucker’ from?”

            “Ah,… was a word Rich wrote in my book.”  I thumb through the pages and find the entry:           

            “Don’t mean nothin’.”  I assure.  And this is true.  “It is a Dharma Nothing; not at all Zen.  Yet, a Buddhist wrote it.  Of course, if God fucked up one day, it would still be His work, not the work of Satan.”  Charlie makes light of the fact that Mary had to have some kind of sex; and that Jesus was a bastard (child).

            “Mary’s Chicken House!”  I laugh.

            And Charlie grabs the book out of my hand and finds an appropriate passage:

            Look!  The cat is sitting in the forest.  There is a fluffy carpet of freshly fallen leaves; the crisp smell of Autumn incarcerates the molecules that I breath.  The cat abruptly becomes poised and focuses on a squirrel, who stands stiller than time- petrified.  The squirrel’s ears straight up.  Both now are paused, their eyes in charge of communication.  The continual wind suppresses the over-all silence of this afternoon; yet I can still hear the tense arousal of these two minds.  Those two machines of swiftness and contortion.  In a Chess Game.  In the distance, a crow shrieks; the cat’s ears pitch sideways.  The grey squirrel’s left ear pricks slightly back, to fathom the interruption.  We all heard and have rationalized the sound, as silence prevails.

            But, through this silence, I can hear every movement of their ears.  Their pitching and straightening movement is completely audible to me.  And, most likely, to them, too.  I can feel the adrenaline begin to concentrate and thicken; I can feel the acute fixations of their eyes, but the noise that these piercing eyes pour into the air is what I hear most.  I understand the physical elegance and the psychological components of this duel, but I feel its presence and hear the atmosphere that it creates as well.  Do you think that this is a general characteristic that every, most, some or no (other) people possess?  Could I be the only one who can take note of every, single second of each action in this way?

            The teacher points at the chalkboard with a yard-stick- at three different places.  Could you hear the ruler moving from problem to problem?  Can you distinguish the sound of the ruler ripping through the air molecules?  Maybe it is a figment that has fun with me; this crazy, chemical preoccupation could be the Void.  The teacher stands silently, but I hear his body interacting with his impulses, habits and desires.  It is like standing in a silent room, across from your friend, and he simply raises his hand and waves at you.  You wave back.  Can you hear his arm moving?  I’m sure you heard your own.

            SHHH!  Look!  The cat has crouched his hind legs under himself.  Stealthily shifting his weight back and forth, then prances upon the squirrel.  As he rips open the molecules of the forest, I could hear him tear through the Void, moving faster than It; tearing its surface.  I could hear that tear, not like a piece of paper ripping, but more like a baseball bat upon its flight before it smashes the threads.  Is this a sound that you can relate to?   This sound  which I have alleged of?  Is this sound at all rational to you?

            He looks up at me, and I am, again, impressed by my own written thoughts.  This side of the earth is dark now, and the fireflies work their little corners in full swing now, trying to turn as many tricks as they can before the night is over.  The violins of the crickets are overpowering- amazing.  “It’s amazing how those little fuckers can make such a loud noise with those tiny legs.”  I say.

            “Yeah.”  Charlie perks up- interested in this comment.  “How do they do that?  Do they have some speakers and an amplifier in their ass?”

            “They do it the same way the river moves.”  I say.

            “Exactly.”  Charlie agrees. He turns a couple pages back in the book and runs his finger down one page. 

            The tree grows

                       the same way

            You blink.     

            I think about this for a minute or three.  I have put words to the idea- The idea.  And we both meditate upon it. 

            “You know,”  I start.  “I was put words to that idea after hours of meditation.  Thinking about a book I read.  Alan Watts.  He said that, ‘In Buddhism the word shunya or void implies inconceivability rather than mere nothingness.’ ^7a   I meditated upon this for a long time.  Thought I understood it right after I read it the first time.  And I did understand it the first time; but I had not concentrated upon it enough.  I had already forgotten the passage by the next month.  When I was flipping through my black book, I came across it; and  stopped short.  I was looking at my writing on the cave wall (so to speak).  And I realized that all that time without the passage had helped me to appreciate it.”

            “Look at this shit!”  Charlie alludes.  “Now deprive yourself of it!”

            “It is not a matter of thinking ‘nothing’.  For that which we want to obtain is unfathomable to us.  And we think:  ‘It is unfathomable to me- NOW.’  And we begin the journey with the illusion that, some day, we WILL understand It.”

            “Ah.”  Charlie sighs.  “An illusion.  The illusion.  ‘Deprive yourself of it.'”  he repeats.  “That is what it is.  You attempt to think of ‘nothing’.  When you are beside the river one day, and you throw your head up, with the clear mind, you realize this inconceivability.  The fact that you do not understand.”

            “So, the shunya is (the) Void.  Not being able to ‘understand’  IS the Void.  Enlightenment- the most misunderstood state of mind.”   I Look down at the fire and get the impulse to add more wood to it.  So I do.  And Charlie sits with his eyes closed- not trying to understand.  “If we did not worry about being able to understand everything, every day, than we would be completely content.”

            Charlie sits with his eyes closed, yet relaxed.  “There is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so.”^1g  he states.  “There is no thought nor action that is either appropriate or inappropriate; but trying to understand them is simply to classify them.  ‘That is a good thing.’  ‘That was a fucked-up thought!’…  All are labels.  Whatever the word ‘good’ means and what ‘bad’ means- is only what you perceive them to be.  Not at all definable by solid, conceivable terms.”

            “We think that some people are selfish and evil, and that other people are honest and charitable.  And we forget how they see it.”  I say.  “The robber looks at his loot and sees it as a good thing, like a child with a new toy.  The charity worker looks at his/her job and feels as though they are helping.  The robber looks at the charity worker and thinks ‘Yeah, give me some.  I need it.’  The charity worker is not helping the robber any.  The charity worker looks at the robber and despises that he does not ‘work’ for his meals.  But he does!  Robbin’ is hard work!  But the charity worker gives to those who are not very productive to society.  Bla, bla, bla!  You know.”

            “All semantics.”  Charlie says.

            “Yeah, we could be here all night.  But the robber sees his loot as a good thing- as  the charity worker sees his own work as being a good thing.  Both are good.  It’s like telling a child that touching the hot stove is ‘bad’.  He has never touched it before.  When he does, he realizes that it hurts.   The adult telling him that touching it is ‘bad’ does not mean that it might hurt– to the child;  it means that, if they touch it, they are being bad.   They do not understand this, because they are not trying to be ‘bad’; they are simply curious.  When they do burn themselves, they think ‘this hurts bad!’  along with thinking that they are bad for disobeying.”

            “If they ARE bad,”  Charlie adds.  “Then they are all little assholes.”  He clears his throat.  “If they ARE bad, all of the time, than how do they exist?  How do they keep from just going limp and flopping onto the floor?   Good and Bad.”  he mocks.  “It’s like a born-again Christian telling a Jew that they are going to Hell because they are not following ‘God’s word’ properly.”  He puts the book down by his foot.  “That Child Analogy sucked.”  he says.  “It leaves a lot of loose ends.  Just as the Robber Analogy sucks.  Contradictions.”

            “Neither are ‘good’ or ‘bad’.”  I say.  “You thinking about them makes them so.”

            “Neither is neither.”  he says. 

            “Zen Lunatic diatribe.”  I yell into the sky.

            And Charlie yells,  “You know that Cat In The Hat Analogy you wrote in The First Black Book?  Well it sucked!”

            “Yeah, it did.  Didn’t it?”  I agree.  “But I ran out of pages and ideas.”  I reprieve.

            “You should have stopped writing.”  Charlie says calmly.

            “I couldn’t.  I was running out of pages!  The Cat in the Hat had to eat himself a rat…”

            “A big fuckin’ rat with a dick this big!” ^8a  Charlie interrupts motioning how big the fish was that he’d caught.  And this is funny

            “Regardless.”  I continue.  “People categorize ‘good’ and ‘bad’ because we are stupid animals.  The horse does not try to simplify, or ‘understand’, life.  Just as the Enlightened One does not try to feel ‘enlightened’.  He just is!  He does not try to conceive life.  His mind is void of trying to label ‘good’ or ‘bad’.  Effortless his thinking is!”

            “For he does not do it.”   Charlie interrupts.  “He just does it!”

            “Does NOT do it!”  I reconcile.  “He does not think ‘tree-limb its own extension of the tree.’  He knows:  Seed.”

            “Yes.”  Charlie agrees.  “And why does the river move?  Or where does it move towards?  It is not a question that can be answered by words.”

            “No.” I say.  “Like Alan Watts said:  ‘Words can express only a fragment of human knowledge… as there are no limits to the possible divisions of an inch.'” ^7b

            “So why does the river migrate?”  Charlie Koans me.

            “The tree grows… the same way you blink.”  I answer.        

            “The horse does not drink because he is thirsty.”  Charlie says.  “He simply drinks.”

            “I guess the horse does not try to conceive it; therefore, he has Buddha nature.”

            ” ‘Tis redundant.”

            “Sorry.”  I say.  So I rephrase:  “The horse.”

            “I know a better way to put it.”  Charlie dares.

            “Yeah?”

            He looks down at the fire and shoves a log down, wedging it under the bottom logs.  He looks up at the few stars in the sky and says:  “Horse.”  And that is that.  Horse!

            I look at The Black Book, sitting on the ground by his foot.  “I use both hands!”  I yell at it.  And Charlie busts up laughing.  He rolls on his side- cracking-up. 

            “So I stand in front of you and whip out my dick and piss all over your face; huh?”

            “Sometimes.”  I laugh. 

            “I should beat you over the head with a big, pink, floppy dildoe!”  And this is funny.

            “Two men are sitting at a bar.”  I start.  “One asks the other, ‘What did you get your wife for Valentine’s Day?’

            ‘I got her a pair of slippers and a dildoe.’  he says.

            The first guy says,  ‘What did you get her a pair of slippers and a dildoe for?’ 

            ‘Because.”  The other guy says.  ‘If she doesn’t like the slippers, than she can go fuck herself!'” ^8b

            And Charlie finds this to be rather humorous.  Just as you would find it funny if  I said something like..  Oh, I don’t know…  I want some chick to jump Up and Down on my face like an angry monkey trying to get out of its cage!!!

            Charlie catches his breath and lets out a laughing sigh.  And he says,  “If God made man in his own likeness and image, than, Man does God have a really big Dick!” 

            “…A big fuckin’ dick with a dick this big!”  And I motion the size of the Holy sausage.

            ” ‘S fucked-up right there!”  Charlie laughs.

            “I wonder what time it is.”  I inquire.

            “I don’t”  Charlie finishes.

            And the night has gotten a little chilly.  The fire is warm, as to say:  Water is wet.  And they are.  When the two meet, there is no more fire, and the water disappears into the ground.  So what?  How is this relevant?  “What is one thing that is completely waterproof?”  I say.

            “Water is waterproof.”  Charlie dares.

            I go over and get The Black Book and find my page.

            “Water is waterproof?

            Than, where the Hell is it? 

            Water is the most

            Unwaterproof thing there is!

            Why?

            It completely soaks itself up-      

            It runs through itself

            With no boundaries.

            Never says:

            “Excuse me;  Coming through.”

            It just comes through,

            excusing itself.”

            Charlie lets out a “Hmm…”  of  interest.  “If water were waterproof,”  he says, “Than my head would explode!” 

            We sit in silence for a while.  “Well, I’m going to sleep…”  I start to say, but I see Charlie taking the glass piece out.  And I watch him pack it.  And we part-take.  “Alright.”  I brag.  I decide to go to the pond and get some water to boil to wash my pot and pan.  After the water boils, I take my extra sock and wash the them out with it.  Then, I hang my sock on the spit and  go over to my sleeping bag.  Charlie scratches his balls, and the sound is loud- like chicken scratches.  Like sand paper against a rock.

            “I’m going to sleep now.”  I announce.  “Use more fire and less glass to keep warm.  The Ghost is climbing in altitude.  The higher altitude does not enjoy thinner breathing.  Think of a prayer after you go to sleep.  Don’t meat-off within twenty jerks of my sleeping area.  The night sucks my ass!”  And, with this, I turn over and fall asleep. 

            In the morning… Ah, the morning!  Up here on the mountain.  I can smell Sunfish Pond.  The air is clean.  The ground moist and soft.  The world the same place; the earth still falling through space.

            I wake up to the refreshing smell of the morning fire.  I crack my eyes to see that Charlie’s sleeping bag is hanging in a tree (to dry from the dew), and he is standing in front of the pond, looking at the far shore-line.  I look over at the fire, and he has put my pot on- water.  A very small fire.  Perfect for this morning.  Charlie- like a Native American: using only what he needs.  No huge fire.  It is so small that I worry about its ability to stay lit.  But I worry, making me have to think to breathe.  A quaint fire, but proud of itself. 

            I get up and stretch.  Hang my sleeping bag on a tree as Charlie has.  I look around and breathe in the Virtue.  Looking forward to this day, for all that it is not planned.  Dharma.  I go into my rucksack and get out the only four eggs I bought with me.  It is surprising that they did not break, but I wrapped them good and put them on top.  I take out the my “emergency” slab of bacon and put it on a rock.  I take my pan, which was upside-down on the ground, and put it on the two metal rods.  And I slice into the chunk o’ pig.   I look over at Charlie, and he is not aware of my actions.  (Or I think that he is not.)  I throw the bacon in the pan, and it sizzles timidly.  “Good.”  I think.  “It will cook slow.”  After about one minute, Charlie cocks his head up.  Then, turns around and looks at me.

            “Fuckin’ brilliant!  Ain’t it?”

            “The morning.”  I answer.  He strolls over to his sleeping bag and feels if it is dry.  Then, he comes over to the fire and looks at the pan. 

            “Rambo’s.”  he states.  “Makes you think of some crazy, war savage.  Sylvester Stalone.”

            “Motherfuckin’… the Chinese cook cat!  Wrap it in noodle.  You Eat It!  They call it ‘Won ton Soup’.  You eat Cat Meat!!!”

            “I heard that human meat tastes sweet.”  Charlie says randomly.

            “Yeah.”  I say.  “We probably have a high glucose content.  With all the crap WE eat!”    I flip the bacon.  “I knew a girl who Never had a piece of meat in her life!  NEVER!  She eats eggs.  But that’s not meat.  That’s an abortion.  It’s funny:  do any of them think that they are going to make a difference?”     

            “No.”  Charlie says.  “They know that people will always eat meat.  They just refuse to.  Are disgusted by it.  It is funny:  Like those anti-abortion advocates who detest killing ‘unborn lives’, and, at the same time, they assassinate abortion doctors and blow up buildings.   Man, abortion is population control.”

            “Yeah.”  I butt in.  “My Uncle John told me once to ask the pro-lifers, ‘How many babies have you adopted?’  It makes sense, too.  And, if they have adopted one, or even ten; then it’s time for them to adopt some MORE!  Considering all of the ‘lives’ they save every day.  If I were a woman, I would say (to all the ant-abortionists)  ‘Hey, get your head out of my cunt!’” 

            “Like I was saying…”  Charlie rightfully, rudely interrupts.  “Vegetarians stand by the fact that you have to kill an animal to eat it- it’s a living thing.”   He picks up two sticks and places them on top of the fire.  “Just as the anti-abortionists kill doctors to ‘save lives’.  The Vegetarian has to KILL plants in order to eat them.  Where is the difference?  A plant is a ‘living thing’!  They disagree with killing trees.  Yet they support the mass slaughter of small plants.”

            “And they deplete the insect population that uses that habitat, too.”  I add.

            “One good thing about Zen, though.”  Charlie chuckles.  “Is that those vegetarians are eating all kinds of dead insect bodies along with those plants.”

            “A man feeds meat to his children.”  I say.  “Does he give life? or does he take a life?”  I query.

            And Charlie answers simply.  “A man feeds meat to his children.”

            “You know; there is some place- in Africa, I think; where they eat flies!  It is a village that lives along the coast.  And, every year, a swarm of them completely engulfs the village.  I think they call it the Tsetse Fly.  Anyways, they come in in swarms (over the ocean)  that are so thick, you can’t even see through them.  All you see is a black blanket!  Shit, it’s a stable source of food.  They make these big, circular nets and swing them around over their heads and catch millions of  ’em.  Regardless, the whole village is still just covered in flies!  Plagued by them.  They make Burgers and all sorts of shit.  It is an astoundingly good source of protein!  I saw a show on TV; and it showed them eating these fuckin’ things.  Millions of  ’em.  Like it was a cook out!  I thought it was gross at first.  But it was then that I realized: I eat dead cows, and chicken embryos!  Fuckin’ fat off of a pig’s ass.  And veins and muscles of a buffalo.  How is eating insects different?”

            “I’ve never eaten a bug.  Wouldn’t want to… this morning.”

            I bust up laughing and tell him;  “I remember, one time… we were at the park, back in The Bridge (Union Forge Park), and we were sittin’ there with this druggie, Meredith.  And I had this measly nickel of schwag from the Deli (A place in the city where we used to get dirty, little dime bags.  Newark, New Jersey.  On the corner of Hawthorn Ave.).  She was all jonsin’ and shit; and she kept bugging me for just one hit of it.  I can’t remember who it was; but I think it was my first best friend (from Annandale, New Jersey, from when I was, like, six years-old); Pat Farr.  Who found a locus on the basketball court.  He picked it up by its wing and bought it over to where we were all sitting (in a circle).  Holding it out in front of him, he said, ‘If you eat this, we’ll give you the whole thing.’ (Referring to my nickel)

            She looked at it and said, ‘Just one wing.’

            And Pat said, ‘No. You gotta to eat the whole thing.’

            ‘ Just… both wings.’

             ‘No.  The Whole Thing!   And you can’t just swallow it either.  You gotta chew it up first!’

            We were all cracking up.  It was the funniest fuckin’ thing!!!  The funniest part was that she was actually considering doing it!  

            ‘Only half of it.’  she said.

            ‘No…’  Pat said,  “You gotto eat the Whole thing!  We’ll give you the Whole nickel.  You can go up there (he pointed up the trail we used to go up to burn) and smoke the whole thing by yourself.  Look, I’ll even make the can.’

            He took a Coke can out of the garbage can we had laying on the ground (we were using it to do skateboard tricks over).  He turned it sideways and  pushed the center of it in, creating a dish to put the weed in to.  And he took a safety-pin (that he was using for an earring) and poked a circle of holes in the dish.  Then, he made a huge carb on the side- almost too big to fit your thumb over.  And he put it on the ground next to the bug.  It was still all buzzin’ and shit!”

            “Awe!”  Charlie cringes.

            “And we sat there, quiet for a couple of seconds, looking at the bug.  ‘I’m not eatin’ that fuckin’ thing!’  Meredith protested. 

            ‘Okay.’  Pat said  ‘Then we’ll all just go Upstairs (that’s what we called the trail)  and smoke all of it; and we won’ t smoke Any of  it with you.’

            And she sat there, looking at the locus.  It was on it’s back- all buzzin’ and spinnin’ in circles and shit.  She was movin’ her mouth- considering eating it!

            ‘I’m not eatin’ that fuckin’ thing!’ she said.  Another minute passed by.  We just sat there in suspense.  ‘Okay…  Half of it!’

            ‘The whole thing.’  Pat insisted.         

            And we all sat there- laughing.  We’d stop for a couple of seconds, but we’d just bust up laughing again.  And she picked the bug up by the wing and looked it over- turning it around in front of her face.  ‘But it’s still alive!’

            ‘So.’  Pat said.  ‘You want me to kill it first?’

            She hesitated.  Then, held it out to him.  And he took it and squished its head between his pointer-finger and his thumb.  Its wings were all flappin’ against his hand and shit!  Then, the buzzing stopped.  ‘There.’  he said.  ‘It’s dead now.  You won’t feel it buzzin’ around in your stomach.’   And he handed it back to her, laughing excitedly.  We couldn’t breathe we were laughing so hard.

            She looked at it, disgusted.  ‘Only half of it.’  She pleaded.

            ‘Come on, guys.’  Pat waved his hand.  ‘Let’s go.’  And we started walking up towards the trail.

            And Meredith said, ‘Wait, wait… wait!  I’ll do it.  Just give me a minute.’  We laughed uncontrollably as we went back over and formed the circle again.  We were all pointin’ at her and shit:  laughing in her face!  And, then…

            She did it!!!  She popped that fucker in her mouth and just stood there with this look on her face.  Like she was either going to puke or just explode right there- in front of us.  ‘Now chew it!’  Pat commanded- laughing uncontrollably.  And she did!  Starting out slow.  But chewed faster and faster- trying to get it over with.  We didn’t know whether to puke or die laughing.  She didn’t realize how much she was going to have to chew!  That thing was huge!  It was the size of my thumb, only… fatter!  And she chewed and chewed- agonizingly.  And, after thirty seconds that seemed like eternity, she let out a labored ‘gulp’.  Her whole body gyrated into the ‘gulp’.  And, after the initial gulp, she swallowed again.  Then, again.  We staggered all over the place in a laughing stupor- our bodies like Silly Putty; our eyes watering.

            ‘It’s stuck in my throat!’  she said.  And with that, we all fell on the ground laughing: uncontrollably.  Man!  It was so disgusting!

             ‘Okay.’  she said with a morbid, sour look on her face.  ‘Let’s go.’

            ‘No way!’  Pat said.  ‘I’m not smoking out of the same can as you!!!  That’s fuckin’ gross!’

            ‘You said you’d give me the whole thing!’ 

            ‘I said that.’  Pat laughed.  ‘It’s Chip’s bag!’  And, again, we fell on the ground; roaring- laughing.  It was so funny! 

            ‘Awe, come on!’  She looked at me.

            ‘What?’  I said.  ‘It wasn’t my idea!’  And she knew she had been defeated.  There was no way I was going to give her that bag.  Still, she tried.   Hopelessly. 

            ‘It’s still stuck in my throat!’

            ‘I can’t believe you did that!’  Pat was actually shocked.  He kind of thought she would do it.-  KNEW that she would do it.  But, didn’t believe it until after he saw it.

            ‘You’re fuckin’ gross!’  Pat laughed.  ‘That’s nasty!’

            And we never did smoke her up.  After she jumped on Pat and started pounding on his head, he picked her up and actually body-slammed her right on the blacktop!  Then, we ran to our bikes and booked up to the middle school (High Bridge Middle School).  When we got there, we smoked behind the cafeteria and laughed about the incident on and off  for the rest of the night.  ‘I can’t believe you got her to do it!’  Man, that night- we felt ten times as fucked-up.  Our sides hurt, and our throats were all harsh and shit.”

            Charlie has been cracking-up the whole time.  “That’s Nasty!”

            “Yeah.  She was pretty fuckin’ pissed.”

            “What a loser!”

            “That thing was huge!  I still can’t believe she did it!”

            And we think about this story, listening to the bacon sizzle.  I take the water off of the fire and break out the cups.  “We’re not in Columbia.”  I say.  “But we sure got plenty of tea- between the two of us.  Where the fuck are we then?  China?”

            “That reminds me.”  Charlie says.  “If you want to dig a hole all the way to China…”

            “Yeah?”   I persuade.

            “Then start in China!”     And he is right. 

            The bacon is done, so I jab my knife into the pieces- making a shish kebab.  And I hold it out to Charlie.  He takes half; and they burn his fingers.  “It might be hot.”  I mock.  And I blow on my bacon and savagely eat it off of my knife.  After finishing it, I crack the eggs into the pan and push them into position with my knife.  And they sizzle like eggs sizzling in a pan.

            “If the egg is not cooked on the bottom, than there is nothing to flip.”  Charlie says.

            And I answer,  “If you flip the egg once, the bottom cooks.”

            Charlie looks up at the puffy clouds.  “A new day.”  he states.

            And I yell into the naked sky, “Wahoo!!!”  So the reflecting sound waves tell it to me- exactly, again. 

            “Oh shit!!”  Charlie gasps.  “You didn’t leave The Black Book out all night; did you?”

            “No.”

            “Good.  The dew would have pissed all over it and could have ruined it.”  He looks over at my rucksack.  “Give it here.”  he orders.

            “You sound like a hick!  ‘Give it here.'”  I mock.  But I get it out.  I work the eggs- carefully with my knife while I listen to the flipping of the pages through the fire’s crackle. 

            “Rich was a smart guy.”  Charlie states.

            “IS a smart guy.”  I correct him.

            “Where is he?” 

            “He’s out there; somewhere.  Don’t matter.  He’s out there.  Just as I am out here.  Grass don’t need no understanding to grow.  It just grows.” 

            “What’s in his Black Book?”  he wonders.

            I stop and think, deeply.  The question strikes me.  “I don’t know.”  I conjugate:  wondering what IS in that book.  If what is in that book.  “There’s probably a bunch of drawings in it.  I’m not sure he thought of much to write in it.”

            “Don’t matter.”  Charlie says firmly. 

            He reads.  And I am inspired by this.  Forgotten he had ever written that into my book.  And I remember the page- completely.  And, I say the next passage before Charlie can even finish reading it.

            And Charlie looks up at me.  “That’s a good one.”  

            “Yes.”  I say.  “Fritzinger Nothings are rare- hard to come by.  And, when you do find one: grasp it; hold on to it, for they can be of great value to you someday.”

            “Today.”  Charlie interrupts.

            “Yes.”  I affirm.  “Because NOW is the only time you can possibly remember that you are alive.  Now deprive yourself of it.  Because me not having The Wood Boy to hike with has taught me to appreciate him.”

            “Only time without it can make you appreciate him.”  Charlie remembers the quote from my book.   He walks over to his sleeping bag and runs his hand down it.  He pulls it down and rolls it up- tight.  Then he ties it with a braided string of marijuana hemp.  He stuffs it into his rucksack and looks down at me.

            “‘Kindly let me help you or you will drown.’  said the monkey putting the fish safely up in a tree.’” ^7c

            The eggs are done, and I put them onto our hiking plates.  And the eggs taste as good as eggs can; or we taste the eggs to the best of our ability. 

            “Dead Embryonic Cells.” ⁹  Charlie says.  And this grosses me out.  Dead chickens that were never really alive to begin with.  And why do people eat tongue, and heart, and liver, and pig’s feet?  If we eat this crap, than why don’t people eat people?  People balls taste like chicken dicks.  After finishing the eggs, I go and get my sleeping bag. 

            Charlie’s small fire has depleted quite a bit.  So I quickly get some water and boil it to wash the breakfast implements.  After this is done, I start to pack them into my rucksack.  Charlie stands up and lets out a stretching growl.  “Okay.”  he says.  I look down at the smoking coals.  I pick my pot up to get water to extinguish the fire; but Charlie says, “I gotto take a piss.”  So I start off towards The Gnomes.

            And I listen to the wet, quiet ground cushion under my feet.   I think of the excursions Wood and I went on.  Much like this.  Complete Dharma wandering; governmentless wandering.  No need to be anywhere.  School?  When it started, it started; but the time was not important to us.  This was The Way- when we wanted to escape from that town.  Coming back into town, we had a feeling of relief.  Knew that we did not have to be there.  We wanted to come back.  But, still, every time we stepped foot back into that town, we had that same feeling- like sighting a house out in the middle of the woods.  And that is an important element:  Is that Rich and I  knew that both lifes were supplements to each other.  Dharma upon our together Midnight Ghost- not two separate Dharmas.  One focus.  Together Thought-  Alive!

            I come to the top of  The Gnomes and sit on a rock.  Thinking  “I wish I smoked (cigarettes).  Because I would love to have a cigarette right now.”  Kind of  like when I’m takin’ a shit:  I think that it would be nice to have a cigarette while sitting on the crapper. But tobacco makes me sick.  My heart races, and my head pounds.  Until I puke all over the place.  Then, I feel normal again.  But the taste in my mouth makes me want to puke some more.  It is a terrible feeling.  Feels like… well, it sucks my ass!!!

            After sitting for a couple of minutes, I hear Charlie pulverizing the leaves’ molecules.  I turn around to watch him tromp.  He jumps on the rock- almost on top of me.  And he peers down The Gnomes.  We say nothing as we venture down to the top of the water.  And, well… ;  pop, pop pop….  It seems to take no time at all.  Effortless, but dangerous.  Charlie makes it down before I do.  His jumps- more insane than mine.  Of course, he remembers a lot of patterns in the climb.  I was completely random.  Jumping out into the Void- hoping for there to be a bottom to catch me.  And when we reach the bottom, we feel the rush.  It is invigorating.  Like we can do anything now.  All stretched out and loose.  Charlie walks to the left, and I follow him-  going a different way than we came.

            And this part of the mountain is steeper than the side we hiked up yesterday.  The terrain the same.  “Man, that was a good sleep.”  I exasperate.

            “Ain’t nuttin’ like sleeping outside, on top of one of the earth’s tits!”

            “What could ever be more dangerous than a Vegetarian Pro-Lifer?”  I joke.

            And Charlie thinks about this.  He has no quick answer- like he usually does.  And, after about thirty steps, he concludes, “I don’t know.”

            And we come to the bottom of the mountain- where the rock becomes the forest.  The forest- just as familiar as it was yesterday.  Only, more wonderful.  We were above it.  Now, not just in the forest-  Feel as though we are looking in on the forest.  We hike for about three hours before we come to a wall of rocks.  About two feet high and two and a half feet wide.  Obviously made by some person, a long, long time ago. 

            “You know what these are.”  Charlie points at the wall.

            “No.  What?”

            “These are from when the farmers would clear the land for their crops.  They would walk every square-inch (of their land) and pick up all the rocks.  And they piled them like this to mark the borders.” 

            And it is amazing.  It is a lengthy wall.  Must have taken years to make.  Not really a wall, but a long pile of rocks.  They snake throughout the forest.  Wood and I found them all over the woods in The Bridge.  And Charlie points to his left.  On top of the wall there are about seven rocks piled right on top of each other.  “My buddy made that.”  Charlie explains.  “It’s a duck.  People would make them so they wouldn’t get lost.”  He walks over to it and points down at the top rock.  A triangular-shaped one.  “Ya see this one?  It points towards Port.”  And I am very interested in this.

            “When did you guys put it here?”

            “Oh, I didn’t put it here.”  Charlie shakes his head.  “My buddy took me on the same hike we just took.  And, when we got here, he showed it to me.”  He scratches his beard and looks down at it- deep in thought.  “That was about twelve years ago.  And, when he first showed it to me, he said that he had made it ten years before.”

            “That thing’s been here for over twenty years?”  I am amazed;  but it is completely believable.  Shit, these rock walls have been here since before the Civil War!!!

            “It’s not a thing.”  Charlie says.  “It’s a duck.” 

            “Your right.”  I subside.  “That thing’s a duck!”

            Judging from its appearance, the area around the duck is uncharted; but Charlie tells me that he has camped many a night right here.  He walks over to a pile of leaves and sweeps them aside with his foot.  And he exposes a fire-pit.  A big one, too.  About three feet by three feet.  About two feet deep!  And he uncovers another pile to expose an old, moldy pile of logs.  Rotten. 

            “Well.”  he says.  “These won’t do.  Too punky.  Too much smoke.  Wouldn’t want to cook over that shit anyway.”  So he searches within a close proximity for some fresh wood.  I settle myself.  Put my rucksack down and get out the last two granola bars and my water bottle- now three-quarters empty.  “Shit!”  I say.

            “What?”

            “Should have filled up before we left The Gnomes.  I’m all out of water.”  Charlie seemingly ignores me as he continues his collection.  When he comes back over, he drops the wood right by my feet and grins at me, saying,

            “Oh, shit!  We’re gonna die out here!”

            He goes over to his rucksack and takes his water bottle out.  And just walks off.  I follow him.  We walk for about two minutes before coming to the source.  It is a small river- about three feet wide.  But it has cut its way deep into the earth.  It is an eight-foot drop down into it!  Stretching all down the forest.  So we slide down the side; and my shoes fill with dirt and pebbles.  It is damp and very cool down here.

            “This would be a perfect place to camp.”  I Gawk.  “All we have to do is build a roof and a back, and we’ll have a cave.”  I think that this is a good idea.  And Charlie just grins at me as he bends down to fill his bottle up.  And he just waits about thirty seconds.  And…  “Shit!”  I yell smacking my forearm.  “Fuckin’ mosquitoes!” 

            “They’re all over the fuckin’ place down here!”  Charlie laughs.  “That’s why you can’t camp down here.”  I fill my bottle.  “I tried it one night.  Thought, ‘Awe,  just make a fire, and the smoke’ll keep ’em away.’   Nope!  Fuckin’ little fuckers ate me alive.  Sucked!” 

            “Let’s get outta here!”  And we scale the wall.  Looks easier than it actually is.  You try to just climb, but you just slide back down.  You try the second time, get twice as far as the first time; but it just spits you back out again.  And it sucks, too;  ’cause the bugs are just bitin’ the shit out of you!  So you gotto catch your breath and give it one, big effort.  You gotto start out with a running jump from the back wall, and scramble to get to the top.  Moving your feet faster than the dirt can slide out from under them.  And, man, do we get all gritty and dirty!  When we finally get out, we are both out of breath.  But it was fun.  I would jump back down and do it all over again if those damn bugs weren’t so thick.  And I itch all over.  The whole walk back to the site, and even an hour later, I’m still swatting at imaginary bugs.

            “It’s like finding a tick on you; and you feel ’em all over you for the rest of the day.  Even when they’re not there!”

            “Yeah.”  Charlie says. 

            He breaks the kindling apart and jokes,  “An older fish comes to a fish that just hatched- just learning about life.  And the older fish looks at the young fish and says,  ‘Sucks… Don’t it!?!'”        

            I think about it before it becomes funny.  Then I blurt out,   “One fish looks at another fish and says,  ‘It’s fuckin’ cold in here!'” 

            Charlie sets up the wood and gets out his flint and steel.  “You gotto come to a Rendezvous with me.” 

            “When is the next one?”  I ask.

            “Soon.”

            “I’m there!”  I anticipate. 

            And he has a little bit of trouble getting the spark to catch to the char-cloth.  After about five minutes, he finally gets it, and I watch a fire-ball erupt from his hand, as he swiftly drops it down onto the kindling.  This reminds me of  when I first met him- on the boxcar.  “I remember the first time I saw you do that.”  I tell him.  “I thought it was just amazing!” 

            “And that’s ironic.”  he states.

            “How so?”

            “Because.”  He lowers his head down into the hole and blows on the smoldering wood.  “Flint and steel is more simple than matches or a lighter.  It’s the way they used to do it.”   He arranges the wood, and a small fire builds.  He adds to it, slowly.

            “Yeah.”  I say  “Should have thought of it that way.”

            “Ain’t good or bad.”  He cuts me off. “Fire ain’t hot.  Water ain’t wet.  Fire is fire; Water- water.” 

            “No.”  I disagree.  “Thinking makes them so.”

            And he looks at me.  As if he was expecting me to answer this way.  “Does the river stop moving when you’re not looking at it?”

            “No.”  I say.

            “When you accidentally get your sleeve wet, is the water on your sleeve no longer water?”

            I reach into my rucksack and pull out The Black Book. 

“The river is moving.  The black bird must be flying.” ^1h

            And Charlie seemingly ignores this.  He puts his flint and steel back into his rucksack and takes a swig of water.  He looks around.  “Rambo’s ain’t too far off.”

            “What?   D’we just go in a big circle?”

            “No.”  he says.  “We’re on the other side of the mountain.  That’s all.  The other side of Rambo’s.”   He leans his rucksack up against a tree and uses it as a back rest.  “Do you still wonder what time it is?”

            “Naw.”

            “Good.   People wonder what time it is, and they never get a definite answer; because, two seconds later, it is a different time.  It would make more sense to ask ‘what time was it?’.”  And this is true.  I look down at the book and flip the pages.  I read:

            I was watching TV last night; and The News showed children releasing helium balloons into the air for some kind of celebration.  When I viewed this, my first thought was:  “Yeah, good idea.  Release a bunch of balloons into the air so they fall into the ocean and choke up all the fuckin’ fish!” 

            It’s like throwing confetti; take products and throw them all over the place for all of the fucking people to see.  Would it be acceptable if I took tires; or chopped up tires into pieces, and tossed them on the people down below?  Choke up all the sewers.  Comparable to when I heard a guy say,  “It’s fun;  but it hurts.”  The ceremony looks great;  but you are lofting garbage all over the place!  And this is a good thing?  What about apple cores and junk mail and the remainder of gourmet cat food (he decides not to eat), and soda cans and shit?  It would look great!  All the flies could mate and dance above their spaghetti-noodle larvae.  They could all swarm and make a spectacle for us all to enjoy!  “Hey, it smells bad, but have you ever been covered in so many flies!?!” 

            “Hey,  let’s not let all these flies go to waste!  Let’s hold the Million-Dog March tomorrow!  But we’re not going to lead them all into the Butcher Apprentice school this year.  We’re going to walk right past it and not eat dog (or cat) for a whole week!”  It’s a way to piss off the Chinese.

            And Charlie laughs at this.  “I cook cat.  Wrap it in noodle!  You eat it.  I call it ‘Won Ton Soup.’  You eat cat-meat!”  he belts out in his mocking Chinese accent.  “You pay me five dolla’!” 

            “Kawasaki!”  I say.  “Mitsubishi!  Izusu!”

            “I say ‘here kitty, kitty kitty, kitty kitty kitty.  Here, Muffy.’  You eat Muffy!”

            And I add.  “Tastes just like chicken.  Or as we say in Japan:  ‘Tastes just like Muffy!'”

            Charlie says,  “I say, ‘Sit, Ubu, sit.’  I tell him ‘Good dog.’  You eat Ubu!” 

            “You sick!”  I Chan.

            “No, I no sick”  Charlie says.  “You see… I no eat cat.  You eat cat; eat dog.  Eat cat eat dog sick!  You sick!”

            “You serious man!?!”  I play along.  “You mean, you cook Cat?!?”

            “How you like it?  You like Cajun Muffy or Teriyaki Muffy?”

            And, watching him say this- with that look on his face, that accent; his complete acting-  I just lose my shit.  I roll on the ground laughing.  You should see his face!  Teriyaki Muffy!!! 

            Charlie adds more wood to the fire.  I take out my pan and a chunk of buffalo.  Charlie breaks out some potatoes and a can of beans.  “Let me see your pot.”  he says.  And I give it to him.  He dumps some water in it and puts it right on top of the fire.  He dices the potatoes and plops them into the pot.  Then, he gets up with his bottle and walks off towards the river.  I look down at the pot- not liking the way that it is sitting.  So I make another spit and hang the pot very close to the fire.  The birds squeak.  The earth listens.  Says nothing back. 

            I put my two rods across the fire.  I cut the meat into equal sections and space them out accordingly in the pan and put the pan on the rods.  And it smells like buffalo cooking.  And I think of this forest.  I think of that flat rock out there- in the middle of nowhere- at our first site.  I think of how it is completely void of a cup of tea.  And the river is moving- new water slides off of that rock every millisecond; as Lonesome stands in his stall, staring out his window.  All exist without my assistance.  Grass don’t need no understanding to grow.  It just grows.  And that is what that piece of straw is doing in Mr. Miller’s corner, right now.  It is sitting there- another year gone by of not being disturbed.  Another day for me to contemplate how every second of every day is just as important as the next.  Just as irrelevant as the last.

            “Rubbish.”  I say out loud.  I look up at the smoke as it climbs the rays of sunlight.  Spotlights on this camp.  Dharma upon this show- me sitting by a fire.  That flat rock out there in the middle of nowhere- absorbing the same rays as Charlie sees right now.  Lonesome feeling those same rays on his face as they reflect off of his pure, white blaze.  The warmth of the morning shines upon the damp Awaking of the night’s end. 

            And Charlie returns, using a walking stick he found on the ground.  Just a branch.  He looks down at the pot on the spit and lets out a grunt of  interest.  I flip the meat and turn to pick up my black book. 

            I hold it with both hands- looking down at the closed cover and say:  “If a tree falls in the woods, and there is nobody there to hear it, does it make a sound?”

            Charlie does not hesitate for a second.  “If you saw a tree falling in the woods, would you go run under it and try to catch it to break its fall?”

            It was exactly the answer I was looking for.

            I shake the pan to make sure the slabs of meat do not stick and burn- inertia pulling them back and forth.  I open The Black Book and search the pages.  “Here’s something spontaneous.”  I say. 

            He looked out his window at the pink clouds of the morning and breathed in the spring air.  Longer ago than he had realized it to be, there was a time when he asked all of his wondering questions, and was revered as being an ignorant stable-buck who could ride a little.  He remembered this idea in reaction to seeing a young rider in the distance.  The rider was small, his position strong, yet a bit untidy.  He had a loop in the reigns, his hands down on the withers- in his lap.  He watched the rider throw his hands together and fuss with the leather, noticing that the horse lengthened- taking advantage.  The boy lifted his shoulders and dug down his heels, creating a hold that stole his power and gave it all to the horse- a tense grip for the horse to lean on.

            He watched on with a grin and a stirring in his stomach.  He knew that the boy had moved his body at the wrong time.  Too early in the gallop.  He would never get the rhythm back.  He smiled because that had happened to him more times than he bothered to count.  He remembered how the other riders mistook him for dumb when he asked what he did wrong.  It took him years to realize how the answer only comes with time in the saddle, and, only, (from)  himself.  He knew, even if he ever met that boy, that he could not tell him how to use it.  The boy would have to use it his own way.  Besides, a nineteen-year-old is not going to take advice as anything more than criticism.  It had been a long time since he had felt that unconfident feeling; and he empathized with the boy.  He knew a new day would come as he watched that silent shadow disappear into the pink.

            His house was old, quiet and lonesome.  A ticking clock filled the house with its quieting clatter.  That morning was  nostalgic; for the sunrise had cast a brilliant glow throughout the interior of his abode.  His bagel was already eaten, and he was sitting, enjoying his coffee.  That’s when a giant, chocolate dildoe smashed through the skylight, and oversized semen-kisses began pouring from the treat!  He grabbed his penis and rubbed it against the side of it.  Beginning to take bites off of it.  Spitting out the sharp pieces of glass.  It was then that he realized that the moon had risen, and the sky was shitting out water.  So he called his wife’s girlfriend and offered her a chocolate injection.  Her foot twitched at the idea.   (And she pulled a muscle in it!) 

            “Why do you do that?”  Charlie asks.

            “I don’t.”  I say.  “It does it itself.”

            “It’s fucked-up, you know.”

            “Only thinking makes it so.”  I retort.  And Charlie nods his head in Buddhistic agreement.

            “Really ain’t a dildoe.”  Charlie says.  “More of a chocolate dick.”

            “Wouldn’t want to eat it after the fact.”  I say.

            “I would be torn by it.”  Charlie says.  “No faggoty-ass pun intended.  It’s just that… it would be chocolate.  But, it’s shaped like a dick!  If I ate it, people would think that I’m a fuckin’ faggot.  But it ain’t no dick;  It’s chocolate!”

            “It depends on how you eat it.  I guess, if you ate it after the fact, it would be okay.”  I laugh.  “If it broke off inside, she’d have to shit it out her puss!”  And this is fucked-up right here! 

            “That’s fucked-up right there!”  Charlie decides to say. 

            “Man,”  I smile.  “That’s fucked-up here, there and everywhere!” 

            Charlie stands up and announces, “I’m ‘onna take a shit.”

            “A big fuckin’ shit with a dick this big!”  I yell.  And Charlie walks off laughing.  He bows his head and lifts it back up, shaking it back and forth.  I guess that was a funny thing for me to say. 

            By the time he is back, his meat is on his plate.  He goes straight to his rucksack and takes out a pair of socks and puts them on his hands.  Seeing me give him a look, (like he has lost more of his mind,) he holds both hands up and confirms, “Oven mitts.”  He takes the pot of potatoes and strains the water out against the lid.  Then, he carefully dumps them into the pan of buffalo grease.  And they sizzle like potatoes sizzling in buffalo fat.  He enjoys his meat.  And he likes the buffalo, too.  It is a wondrous atmosphere.  Smelling the sounds of twenty years ago. 

            Charlie laughs, trying not to choke on the buffalo.  “…And that’s when a giant, chocolate dildoe smashed through the skylight!”  He cannot compose himself.  I guess it’s funny, because it is a good writing that takes an unexpected turn.  “You know,”  he points at me with a piece of meat on the tip of his knife.  “You did say something interesting in the beginning, there.  …how the answer only comes with time in the saddle, and only, himself.  He knew he could not tell the boy how to use it.  The boy would have to use it his own way.”   Charlie chews and swallows.  “I like that.”  he says.  “Reminds me of something else you put in here.”  He holds his hand out for the book.

            I finish my last piece of buffalo and push the potatoes around the pan with my knife- flipping every piece.  I look over at Charlie.  He is rummaging through the book, like a kid in the library who’s really “in to” a research project.  I take a swig of my water and sit down, resting my back up against a tree.  And I see Charlie stop and closely study one page.  “D’ya find it?” 

            “No.”  he says.  And he reads three pages (in full), before continuing his search.  I get bored, so I pick a stick up off the ground and start to aimlessly whittle at it.  “Ah.”  he finally says.

            “Somebody showed it to me

             And I found it by myself.” ¹ⁱ

            “That’s it.”  Charlie is proud of himself for being able to find the passage.  It’s like looking for a word in a dictionary that has no order to it.  In The Black Book, you really have to know the writings (in it) if you want to find a particular one- let alone a two-liner like this one.  It is like a Bible that has no chapters.  It is a Bible that has no chapters.  The Black Book does not tell how to live life, though.  It tells how I live my life. 

            And Life Lessons are this way.  Somebody may explain their wisdom to you.  They may try to teach you how to be an “effective” person and what is important in life.  But life, religion, happiness; your own definition of success:  They are all ideas that you compile yourself.  All ideas that you agree upon alone.  Life Lessons:  They are the Child touching the hot stove.  The adult told him that it would be “bad”.  But, because of his natural curiosity, he had to find out for himself.  “Somebody showed it to me and I found it by myself.” ¹ⁱ

            “When I read this one,”  Charlie tells.  “I had a realization.  I realized that… Well…”

            “Try it your fuckin’ self if you want to know what it’s like!”  I interrupt.  And Charlie is pleased.  He returns to his knife- which has his last chunk of buffalo stuck on it.  “Is the knife through the meat?  Or is the meat on top of the knife?”  he Koans me. 

            I look at him- holding the knife out in front of him-  Showing me the question.  I jab my knife in the tree right above my head as I belt out:  “Horse!”  And, with this, he rips the meat off of his knife with his teeth- like the savage that he is.  And he chews with his mouth open.  Noisy and blatant. 

            “Nope.”  he disagrees.  “Tastes like bufferlo!” 

            And I reply:  “That that is, is.  That that is not, is not.  Is that that?  That is!” ¹⁰  And he pays no heed to this.  He finishes his horse meat and goes over to tend to the potatoes. 

            “Almost done.”  he replies.  He pushes them around with his knife.  And I look over to see that he left The Black Book on the ground where he had been looking for the last passage.  Like a little kid who mindlessly drops a toy right where he is because he sees a butterfly that he wants to go chase.  So I retrieve it and sit back against my tree.

            Charlie takes the pan off of the fire and places it on a rock.  He gets out his plate and sticks his knife into a piece of potato and pushes it onto the plate with his finger.  And he does this with every, single piece- to let the grease drip off.  And when he finishes this, he puts the pan back on the fire and the plate on the rock.  And we wait for the potatoes to cool off.  He motions for me to give him the book, but I reject the proposal. 

            “‘Should’ and ‘want’:

            Two words in the English language.

                   Just words.

            As impertinent as telling somebody,

            ‘You should want.'”

            ” ‘Tis true.”  Charlie declines.  And he retreats to his rucksack to get a sip of water.  And, because of this, I hand him the book.  And he searches. 

            Why don’t I want to write?  I can meditate and be content, feeling labored to pick up a pen.  It is a sing-song that this sentence has poked me in to.  Different box- every day.  Like a horse being moved from stablo to stablo.  Snots get commandeered from my nose holes.  It is crap though!  That which has been constantly written on this side (The Other Side).  Profile- The Straight Side is already done.  Every page completely filled.  “Good and Bad” has a whole quarter to go.  See who finished the race faster; more intelligently?  Flip and look!  It is the beginning of the heart of the Just One Side.  But, shit!  Witchcracks ¹¹ have seized my sneeze- the brain-fart your eyes now sees.

            Charlie has a an interested, puzzled look on his face.  He turns the book upside-down, to view the opposite page (to see what I’m talking about here).  And he reads:

            I guess we could just sit here and smile, and shit in our pants; but where is the reason for shitting and sitting or smiling after defiling.  God puts his finger on the spinning globe to watch inertia toss people forth.  Abrupt stop; big bang.  No need for theory.  There’s chicken shit in the bird crapper.  No soap for their bath.  Banana sandwiches lie on the counter- motionless.  Can’t write on turbulent, horse trailer.

            He flips the book back over.  And he reads on:

            And I am hungry.  Have felt malnourished since I was about fifteen.  Shaky; eating meals of two men.  Never satisfied.  Just like the phone- always ringing.  The public is never satisfied.  But I sometimes feel satisfied.  With myself, with other people’s idiosyncrasies.  Though, I explain it in too much of a surface-like fashion.  There is a better word for it.  Like some old jockey told me today.  We were on our way to the track, and he watched my horse jiggin’- throwing his canter-in-place fit.  Side-stepping and tossing his head.  He knew the horse well.  Shit, the horse had acted worse for him (at times).

            He was explaining how he has picked up his rides.  Telling me how “knowing how to deal with horses like that…”  I could pick up whole barns.  He’s done it.  Having a whole barn is steady money for a free-lance rider.  A stable job, even though it is on an independent contract basis.  He said,  “You never ride the Caddilacs free-lancin’.”  And this is sometimes true.  Some people might not worry about putting you up loyalty if you’re “only” free-lancing for them.  In turn, you might never drive your own Caddilac.  But I wonder if riding all of the crap teaches me how to “pick up whole barns”.  The way I want to, anyhow.  I always want to work for (with) the best.  Learn how it is really done.  Besides, riding classy horses automatically makes you look good- if you are any good.  But, riding the nice horses, I have learned more how to look good on them, as opposed to being good at riding them.  I can drive ’em, but I can’t hold a tough one.  I  can just barely hold the “easy”  ones (right now).  And there are also the cases where I simply do not get along with the horse, and never will.  (This happens.  Some horses do not like certain riders.  Some riders simply do not like the horse and do not get along purely out of disagreement.  It is always “Give and Take”  But there is always a fine line between how and when to “Give” and how and when to “Take”.)  And I take this into consideration.  Learning how to ride a bad one makes you easy to ride the good ones.  I was debating (mentally) with this when that old jock said, “It depends on how hungry you are.”

            And that is HOW I understand.  I have always felt hungry.  I’ve always been in anticipation.  Never really satisfied with my current career.  I’m having a little trouble keeping a humble foot in the door.  I am a Jock, though.  And that is what I originally loved.  It is what people know when they say, respectfully amazed, “You’re a Jockey?”  It is tough to get there.  Especially when you have to crawl through the bottom- like I have.  That is the goal I originally wanted-  to have to work hard my whole life, and be successfully financial towards the middle.  Always been hungry.  Moving from stall to stall with my pen in hand.  Partially taking part in The Midnight Ghost.  I want to work where I am in view of the sunrise and live in a home from which I can sit and admire the Sun’s set.  Like riders’ silhouettes floating along the rail.  A dense cloud of fog being suspended tightly in the middle of the track- catching the Sun’s morning glow.  It is Pat Day splitting horses as he  “Fights his way to the front and Wins the Breeders’ Cup Classic!”¹²  It is Tom Durkin telling it as it rips open.  Hungry for that.  Dharma upon that Midnight Ghost!

            “Hmm…”  Charlie lets out.

            “Now, that one made sense, didn’t it?”  I say.

            “That depends upon what your definition of   ‘is’  is.”  Charlie quotes President Bill Clinton.  (After he had been caught fuckin’ some intern.  Or doing bongs in The Ovary Office, or some shit.  Whatever the controversy was, it was never any of the American Public’s business anyway.)

            “That was one of those writings when I just started writing senseless shit, and it just started to flow by itself.  I had no idea in mind, but I felt like writing.  So I just started writing, and four pages {in The Black Book} came out.  Just like sitting and shitting:  I just started meandering throughout my mind and…  Shit!!  Go back and count the pages!”

            “Yeah?”  Charlie says.  He grunts and looks the page over.

            “Those potatoes ready?”  I ask. 

            “Oh, yeah.”  he remembers.  And we both savage in with our knives.  It is late now; and the morning birds’ calls have been flushed out by the songs of the rest of the birds.  I guess they are complaining because they didn’t get any worms.  Maybe they should try some tsetse flies.  Of course, that would affect the population- the African human population.  Then, I remember one thing I wrote it The Black Book.   And I tell Charlie:

            Think of the world’s population.

            Then, think of how many people          there are.

            And this interests Charlie.  Well, the potatoes are gone now.  Where they went to, we will never fully understand.  Because, where do stomach acids get their acidity from?  Where do our stools go after we flush the toilet?  Well, to some kind of huge, smelly toilet that collects millions of people’s shits.  But this is not relevant.  It is a bunch of crap, really! 

            I grab the book from off of the ground by Charlie’s foot, and I read:

            Trying to sound more complicated than I really am.  Attempting to be more intelligent than it already is.  Literary mind puzzles.  It’s crackpot shit- to “beat around the bush”.  I am spending more money than I am earning.  As to say, my life savings is depleting weekly.  Always buying lottery tickets; blowing my money across-the-board at the track.  Trying to get that quick fix.  My life has changed completely.  My style- different.  Not what I aspired it to be.  Though I have been taking for granted that this is the dream I had three years ago.  And that this is my current dream.  To be out there;  doing it! 

            Broke from the gate for the first time yesterday.  Not metaphorically.  I was actually loaded into the Starting Gate.  And the door flung open; the bells screamed me away, and I tore up the backstretch for an eight.  Seemingly late?  No.  “It takes a long time to get recognition.  A Long time.“ (Chip  Miller) Never learned overnight.  Not even learned in three years (the three years I have been out here- doing it).  It is an ability that you continue to acquire, or build up.  It takes time.  I understood this- in a “looking-in” sense; for it was conjugated by my intuition.  But I only understood Part of it.

            I was working for Bruce Miller.  I saw Chip Miller give a speech in which he spoke to young trainers and Steeplechasing “enthusiasts”.   He told how he started out.  And I was, again, inspired- to carry on with this dream (my dream) I have been living. 

            That was when I was in the heart of my dream.  The Sunrises and moist mornings.  The quiet, orange sunsets.  Looking out at the narrow, depleting skyline of warm colors, I focused on the silhouette of a fox (the weather-vane).  The outline of the top of the barn- the fox running towards the direction of the wind.  It was the dank smell of the manure pile.  Steam creeping out the top.  I was in a type of awe.  Working for one of the Best trainers that ever lived.  Riding beside two naturally talented steeplechase jockeys (Blythe and Chip Miller).  I was learning the way I wanted to.  On the farm- being a farm person.  Listening to the amazing stories they had about life- on and off the race course.  The description of the situation is endless.  But you cannot be a farm person on the flat-track.  The comparison would be that of the farm to the suburbs; and the track to the city.  Two completely different (opposite) lifestyles. 

            But living in the city is shit.  I want woods; mucho woods.  Dharma upon my living my dream.  Supplementing my two loves- the quiet sunsets behind the barn, and the gate flying open, bells screaming.  Two different lifestyles; both bound by one aspiration:  to be Part of it.  And that was my original dream.  To be Part of it, but not incarcerated by it.  I have wanted to be a jockey that lived two separate lifes:  One with a whip in my hand, and the other with a machete in my hand (rather a flint knife that I knapped myself).  And I am becoming that dream.  Clyde Martin, Jr.(a flat-jockey) once told me:  “Don’t rush it.  Wait until you know you’re ready.  Then, wait some more.  Do all the polishin’ up you can before you go out there.” 

            And that is when I realized the combination of both sides.  When I was working for Mr. Miller, I was younger- unexposed.  I was living my dream.  And Bruce, being a phenomenal trainer, it was a fantasy land (in comparison).  All his horses are taught properly.  He had all good gallops.  His countryside is verdant and hilly.  The mornings- another happy dedication.  The sunrises- a cure for tight muscles.  When Clyde told me to take it slow, I had only been galloping at the track for a couple of months.  I was not just looking-in;  I was In.  So I understood both parts of the lifestyle.  And the Key is that I am looking-in; therefore, not completely engulfed by one style.  I can keep a clear mind with a circumspect manner. 

            And I broke from the gate yesterday.  Not at all late.  Early to some (people’s) standards.  Living the dream of  Tom Durkin’s call.  Understanding the Bruce Miller Way.  Living city (track) life.  Aspiring to end up continuing the Bruce Miller Way.

            Charlie has been staring down at the dirt, pushing the loose ground around with his foot.  I turn the page and read another passage.  Another one that I have forgotten even writing.  And I come across a quote from Sen-T’ San.  One of my favorites- because it gave me the first glimpse.  It was something to concentrate on- a meditation thought.  And I was spell-bound when I first read it.  (At the time.) I put the book down (The Little Zen Companion¹) and thought, deeply about the little quote.  And, even today, I learn something new when I take his words into consideration.  It made me realize that Zen is not something out of the ordinary.  There is no special religious component that gives the Buddhist any kind of power over the earth or over the human mind.  Zen is the same today, before Enlightenment, as it is after Enlightenment.  Like Charlie said:  You do not start over after Enlightenment.  Enlightenment seen as the beginning of the Zen journey.  You do not start over.  You begin- indifferently.  And his explanation holds a lot of bearing on Sen-T’ San’s words. 

            “Before a person studies Zen,

            mountains are mountains and

            waters are waters; after a first

            glimpse into the truth of Zen,

            mountains are no longer mountains

            and waters are not waters; after

            enlightenment, mountains are once

            again mountains and waters once

            again waters.”^1c

            And I read this to Charlie.  He is already familiar with the quote.  “Why is the journey to Enlightenment usually described as three segments?”  I start.  “Beginning; Middle; and End?”  He returns a look of amusement.  “Is there a ‘why is this’?  Is there such a question?  The journey, always:  Is.  Then, Is Not.  Then, finally, Is again.  If so, (beginning; middle; and end)  Where am I?   Oh, but asking such a question is ignorant-  too eager!  There is no ‘where’ nor ‘why’.  Earth and space.  Sky is in the middle;  but where is the boundary that can be visibly seen?”

            “Atmosphere!”  Charlie answers.   “Burning up the question, giving the Answer.  Atmosphere- Always is Beginning, Middle and End!”

            “And it has been said that Eastern ideas (of Buddhism) cannot properly be described by Western written language. ^5a  This is understandable.”

            “Just as it is understandable that Eastern ideas of Buddhism cannot properly be described by Eastern written language.”  Charlie concludes. 

            “Enlightenment.”  I state.  “So misunderstood.  It is exactly the same as it is right now.” 

            “Yes.”  Charlie agrees.  “Life!  There is no difference.  Wake up, go to sleep.  Thoughts never end.  They simply coexist in the absence of each other.  But, when thoughts are forgotten, when words are no longer a necessity for us to ‘understand’ life, only then can one see it continuously.  Not differently.  All the same earth every day.  All the same understandings.  But, Enlightened, we do not act emotionally upon our ‘understandings’.  We do not feel the need to.  That is why it is called Liberation.  You liberate yourself from being imprisoned by your narrow, one at a time thought process.” 

             I flip through the book to recite one of my favorites (one that I originated).  And I find it:

            When Zen is spoken,

            It is translated

            In the lost.

            And Charlie enjoys this intently.  “That’s very good.”  he praises.  “Only by unspoken language, can one be taught!”   he remembers one of my sayings. And this is true.

            “Dogs bark in Chinese.”  I say. 

            And Charlie continues my thought.  “When I was young, I wondered if people who spoke a different language (than I) laughed in a different language as well.  It’s funny; because I also thought that if a black man touched me, that his color would actually rub off on me!  I neglected to wonder if my color would rub off on him, though.” 

            “And that’s why dogs bark in Chinese.”  I say. 

            The forest is tranquil and happy.  The birds are yapping away and the animals start to meander within our proximity; for we have been stationary for so long that they think that “the coast is clear”.  I find an entry and read.

            “If a bird were to fall out of the sky       and land on my car,

            Than, man, something really went        wrong up there!”

             And Charlie laughs.  “It’s getting late.”  He says.  And, with this, we decide to take off.  Charlie stomps on the shrinking fire.  And he tells me,  “I’m ‘onna take a piss.” 

            “I gotto go, too.”  I tell him.   So I walk off and hide behind a tree.  I give him some time and return to the fire pit to do my duty.  And I do not like the smell.  It ain’t no good.  Charlie has already started off.  So I shake my nozzle and run to catch up.  “You know how you said that I wrote a lot of things in my book that you’ve thought about?”

            “Yeah.”  he affirms.

            “Well, every time I read the works of Alan Watts, I think the same thing.  He said things that I have thought about.  Thought to write about, or just understandings that I’ve grown to enjoy.  It’s like he has taken my thoughts somehow.  Just like me and the Wood Boy.  I guess that’s how it is possible.  Watts died in 1973, but he had the same thoughts that I have today.”

            “Ah.”  Charlie blows off.  “There ain’t no dicks on women.  It is why four-hundred and twenty people can laugh at the same joke.  It is, not only a together understanding, but a common part of nature.  Things repeat- just like the earth turning sides to look at the sun, then the moon.  Over and over, time passes.   But there is no such thing as time.  The earth never stops for a second and says, ‘Wait.  What time is it?’  We can never stop the earth and say ‘Wait, it’s not time yet.’  Life is a constant.”

            “Just as meditation is a constant.”  I add. 

            “If we stopped to think about our walking steps right now, we would just go limp and flop onto the floor.”  I fling my rucksack around and dig my hand in to find the book.  I open it and thumb through the pages, looking up every couple of steps to make sure that I don’t get in the way of any trees.

            “The centipede was happy, quite,

            Until a toad in fun

            Said  ‘Pray, which leg goes after             which?’

            This worked his mind to such a pitch,

            He lay distracted in a ditch,

            Considering how to run.” ^5c

            I pop the book shut, proud of myself.  We tromp through the cushioney, leaf carpet.  The sun’s rays no longer visible, as they were in the morning’s air.  We trek for some time before saying another useless word.

            “You know.”  Charlie tells me.  He holds out his hand and looks up at the sky.  “If a bird were to shit in my hand…  Think of the probability.”  He looks at me and seriously and says,  “He   would be pretty lucky!”  And this is true.  It would be the bird’s luck, not mine.

            “Big Bird from Sesame Street.”  I say.  “Big Bird shit!  Ewe!  Or, Woah!!!!”

            And Charlie implores,  “I held out my cup, and he shit in it.  But it was like Dumping ten gallons of paint into a one-gallon can.  My hand got wet!!!” 

            And I get a chuckle out of this.  We come to a place where the woods break, and there is a field of tall grass.  A pond of grass in the middle of a towering tree-line.  It is interesting to see, because we have been hiking through this wooded land for the past couple of days.  It is strange to see a spot that is not at all wooded.  Similar to a house-sighting, but not at all a comparable feeling.  It is a healthy sighting.  Kind of relieving to see it, for some reason.  Gives me a perspective on where we are right now.  I think about that cup of tea on that flat rock.  And I find tranquillity in this patch of tall grass.  The breeze whispers through it.  The birds chirp.

            Charlie reaches the middle of the tall grass.  I stand where it begins- to appreciate this “Pond in the middle of the Woods”  meditation.  For the grass patch is a pond.  Or is the grass patch the land, and the wooded lands- the water, the ocean?   The tall grass is an island. Charlie walks boldly, as if he is going some where (in) particular.  And, out of nowhere, he just plops down onto the ground, showing no self-preservation to his body.  Just goes limp and splats down into the grass.   Completely disappears.  And I walk over to find him.  Not easy to find him though.  It’s like looking for a short man who’s laying down in a field of tall grass.  When I do come across him, he is flat on his face.

            “Fuckin’ earth just sucked you right down, huh?”  I joke.

            “Nothin’ I could do about it.”  Charlie tells the ground. 

            So I take a seat, open my rucksack and get some water.  I feel so safe and secure in the middle of this tall grass.  Completely hidden from the world.  Like a kid hiding under the covers during a lightning storm.  Like you feel in your car when it is pouring rain.  Turbulent outside, but you feel secure and safe in your water-tight car.  “Where are we?”  I ask.

            “What do you mean?”  Charlie asks.

            “Well, in reference to Rambo’s, where are we?”

            “To Rambo’s?”  Charlie says in his carrying-on tone.  He flips over and faces me.  “To Rambo’s…   We’re out here; doing it.”

            I take out my book and flip though the pages.  The sun is a little hot, and its reflection off of the white pages blinds me.  Too much for my eyes.  I look at Charlie, and I cannot see his face; the bright, white light has burned my eyes, so that all I see is a blotch.  Like Charlie is one of those police informers on television, and they’re bleeping his face out.  Charlie stands up and looks all around.  “It’s hot out here.”  he says. 

            “Yeah.”

            “Let’s get back into the shade.”

            While we walk, we carry on our conversation.  “You know,”  Charlie starts.  “One thing about those ‘Born Again’ Christian freaks, is that they completely overlook the existence of the dinosaurs.  How could this be?  We’ve found bones and whole skeletons!”

            “Yeah.”  I am intrigued.  “The beginning of ‘time’ is all in one compilation of books (The Bible)?  How is this possible?  There is no accounting for tsetse flies or their origin in there.  How could The Bible be the complete works of how ‘creation’ took place?”

            Charlie interrupts,  “And the Lord said, ‘Let us forget that part about all those dinosaurs.’…  And so it was done.”     And this is funny.  True, too!!!

            “That’s like saying, ‘well, here’s some honey, but there’s no such thing as bees.'”  And I think about the words of  The Bible.

            “Just like saying that the Earth is the only planet anywhere that has human (forms of) life on it.  The Bible does not tell about life on other planets.”  Charlie points out.

            “Yeah.”  I continue.  “If it is NOT possible for there to be life on other planets, than what the fuck are WE?  It’s like saying that there can be people, but no amebas!  Now that I think of it-  we breath oxygen, here.  But, shit, think of what other life forms on other planets breath!  Nitrogen?  Carbon dioxide, like plants?  Shit, plants breath a different gas than we do.  

            “Fish breath water!”  Charlie interrupts.

            “But it is impossible to have life on the other planets that have a different chemical make-up than the earth?  It is impossible?  Than if it is impossible for creatures to breath the air of other planets, than it would be impossible for Us to be able to breath the air of the Earth.  If other planets cannot sustain life, than we are an impossibility.  Who’s to say that oxygen is the only life sustaining gas in the universe?  If this were true, than  there would be only humans and no plants!!   If there are only humans on Earth, and there is no other living things ‘out there’, than how is it (logically) possible for us to be here at all?” 

            “God did not make life on other planets?”  Charlie questions.  “Why not?  Shit, he fucked this one up; why not start over with a new planet and a fresh batch?!?” 

            “And the Lord said…”

            “God done gone and cum on everyone!”  Charlie blurts out.  And I laugh, looking down at the closed cover of the book. 

            “Let’s see what the Good Book has to say about it.”  I say, waving it back and forth. 

            “Yes.”  Charlie says.  “Everybody open your goddamn Bibles to Mark, Chapter One, verse five.”  He reaches back and swings his rucksack to his front, to retrieve his bottle of water upon the walk.  And I search the book for a passage. 

            “Ah.”  I say.

            It’s funny- the world as it spins my feet.  It is an idea that is impossible to be written, for impulses are not understood by words.  You twitch because of the violent forces about- that hold your existence physically responsible.  The mountains in the distance must have broken up through the earth’s crust.  Or the ancient waters are significantly lower now, and the current mountain tops were the water’s bottoms (way back then).  Even though the mountains’ tops were the waters’ bottom, we now see them as being thousands of feet above sea level.  We see the old bottom as the current top of the world!  Really, we are in the belly of a pig that has been thrown through the stars.  There is life elsewhere.  Why not?  ‘When pigs fly!’  Shit,  pigs on your planet cannot fly, but pigs with wings on other planets can.

            And, by the look in Charlie’s eye, I can tell that he likes this one.  We trek through the woods.  And, they start to look familiar to me.  “Are we getting close?”  I ask, referring to Rambo’s.

            “Well,”  Charlie says with an unsure tone in his voice.  “It sure does look pretty familiar around here.”

              Of course, all woods, everywhere, always look familiar.  It is a feeling of security.  Until you realize that you are really lost, out in the middle of nowhere.  And, because everything looks the same, you just keep getting more and more lost.  But you always know that you will come to something that you recognize, no matter how far away it is.  Or you will come across civilization.  “It’s looked familiar for two days, now.”  I joke.  Finally, Charlie stops short, and I search his eyes.  And, there it is.  A duck.

            “A duck!”  I yell.”

            “Not just any duck.”  Charlie assures.  “THE Duck!  The FOOD Duck!” I look down at it, and it points right in the direction we’ve already been heading.  “Good thing, too.”  Charlie says.  “It’s gettin’ dark soon.”

            “Time to git some grits.”  I say, excitedly.  So we wander in the direction that the rocks point out.  “Who made that duck?”  I wonder.

            “I made that one.”  Charlie says.  “My buddy and I always fucked up on the way back.  We’d get lost for hours!  Shit!  One time, we had to set up camp, one night, because it was too fuckin’ dark to find anything.  It was so dark, that we could have passed right by Port and never even seen it.  So we had to set up camp.  And I can’t even tell you where that was, because it was so far out in the middle of no-fuckin’-place, that I could never find it again.  Not even if I didn’t try to.  And, it turned out, that we were out in the middle, somewhere, thinking that we were just along the edge.  And we walked a line straight to o-fuckin’-blivion!”

            “What did you finally end up doing?”

            “Well, we got up, and we couldn’t eat breakfast, because all we had was the last of our bag of nuts, and we just started all over again.  Somehow, someway, we found the train tracks, And we walked.  Shit!  Turns out we walked the opposite way we were supposed to.  Lucky we came to an old bridge that had graffiti on it.  Said,  ‘Belkerk Sucks!’  And, I knew where Belkerk is.  So we turned around, and walked back up the tracks for a good three hours before coming to Port. 

            Well, when we got there, we went to Rambo’s, and told Jimmy what we had done; and he cooked us up some burgers and some corn on the cob.  And we bullshitted all night, gettin’ drunk and finally ending up sleeping out behind the chicken coup.  Waking up, not even remembering how we got there.  All three or us!!!  So, that morning, we came back to the woods and hiked a ways in, before we put that duck there.”

            We hike for another half an hour.  And, we come to the wood’s end.  A field of tall grass, the train tracks slicing through the middle.  The tracks are familiar, but this is not where I had entered the woods.  But it looks familiar and pleasing.  Relieving. 

            We walk to the tracks, across them.  And the field comes to a slight incline.  We climb it, and, coming up over the top, there’s Rambo’s.  Now I know where we are!  Man, what a good feeling.  Like you’re back at home.  But this is not home.  Why do I feel as though it is?  I guess that it’s my yearning to be domesticated.  The same feeling the Wood Boy and I got every time we set foot back into High Bridge.  And Charlie goes up onto the porch of  Rambo’s, plops his rucksack down and sits in an old rocking chair.  I go up the steps and sit in the regular chair beside it- a little table in the middle of the two chairs.  And I feel like one of those old-time farmers who sits on the porch and wastes the night away by taking notice in all kinds of little nothings; thinking and talking and spitting chew in a bitter, forlorn demeanor. 

            We hear the cowbell on the door as we watch it open outwards, and a dirty, overall-wearing farmer busts out.  Holding a bottle of Jack in his left hand.  In the other, a pile of different cuts of meat- all individually wrapped in white paper. 

            ”  ‘Evenin’ ”  he says to us, not really looking to see who we are.

            ”  ‘Evenin’ ”  we both return, in sync.  All- with an indifferent tone.

            “Perfect night, huh?”  Charlie offers.

            And the guy, not even turning to look at him says, “Yup.”

              And we watch him tromp down the four stairs and over to his old, 1960’s pick-up truck.  And we both chuckle (on the inside).  It is a funny scene.  A perfect stereotype in action.  Not a joke at all, but the real thing!  Those things that we made fun of back in The Bridge, about the old hicks that sit on their porches and spit out black tar and have sex with their own children- these things actually happen!  And this guy is the epitome of it all.  He opens the door to his truck and carefully places the meat on the passenger seat.  Then, standing in the open door, he unscrews the cap and tosses his head back.  And we can hear him chugging that abrasive liquid.  It is painful just to watch!!

            “Glug, glug, glug, glug, glug, glug.”  Then, he lets out a tiny cough of throat-burning anxiety, and shakes his head.  His eyes- tight shut, his face red as a tomato.  “Whew!”  he gasps.  Then, he gets into his truck and slams the heavy, old door.  He leans forward and turns the key, and the truck roars like a huge machine, and smoke pours from every crevasse of the truck.  He looks over at us, then down at the bottle in his hand.  And he slugs it back again.  Throwing the truck into drive as he makes his faces.  Then, he lets out his breath- tolerating the poison.  Stomping on the gas pedal, he gets jerked to the back of his seat and tears away.  And we watch the cloud of  blue smoke thin its way up into the air as it follows him down the old, dirt road.

            “Now that’s not summ-in’ you see every day.”  I say with my hick accent.  I sound just like one of those old-timers, too.  And Charlie is amused by this.  He rocks back and forth, laughing-away  Both at the guy, and at my old-timer impression.

            “They sell liquor in here?”  I ask.

            “Yeah,”  Charlie, still laughing.

            “What kind of beer they got?”

            “Nope.”  Charlie braces his foot to stop rocking.  He gives me a wide-eyed, smart look.  “Just whiskey!”  he says with his old-timer accent.  And we both chuckle at this.

            “You serious?”

            “Man, I’m dead serious.”  He says, amused with himself.  He pushes off with his foot to start rocking again.  “Jack Daniel’s.  That’s it!  Gotto go into town to get wine or some brewskees.”^*

            “I still can’t believe that fuckin’ guy.”  I laugh.  “We’d make fun of people like that back home, but we didn’t think they actually existed!”  I shake my head out of amazement.  “What the fuck!?!”

            “Ain’t good nor bad.”  Charlie says.  “But, man…  Did you see that fuckin’ guy!?!”

            “Yup.”  I mock in my old-timer voice.

            “Yup.”  Charlie says.

            And I say, “Yup.”

            “Yup.”  Charlie repeats.

            “Yup.”  And we go back and forth like this.  ‘Till, finally, “Yup”  becomes a linking verb of some sort.  We use it in every sentence.  We use it in the beginning of every sentence.  We use it to end every sentence.  We use it to agree with what the other person just said.  We even use “Yup”  as a full sentence, itself.  Which it is!  Yup.

            Still thinking about the slack-jaw, we sit and look at the sun- halfway down from its pedestal.  “Jimmy’s a good man.”  Charlie says. 

            “Let’s go in and see what he’s got.” 

            We walk into the dark shop.  The bell rings, and the wooden, screen door slams behind us.  A funny smell.  Not like death, but like… Well, it smells like death!  And there is Jimmy, behind the counter, reading a magazine.  He looks up at us, and his eyes brighten as he recognizes Charlie.  “How ya doin’, Charlie?”

            “Fine.  Fine.  An’ yourself?”

            “Couldn’t be better.”  He looks at me, and I smile.  He turns back to Charlie and says,  “So what’ll it be?”

            “I don’t know.”  Charlie says.  “You got some more a’ that bufferlo you sold this boy.”  he points at me.

            “Oh, you together?”  Jimmy asks.

            “Yup.”  I say.  And Jimmy is pleased by this.  I look over the counter to see what he is reading.  And it is a Mighty Mouse Comic!  Interesting reading material for a murdering, body-chopping psycho!  

            “Yeah.  I have a whole side left.”  Jimmy answers. 

            “Where d’ya git’ bufferlo?”  Charlie interests.           

            “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”  Jimmy says as he looks back down at the comic and reads on.  Charlie and I look around the store.  Jimmy has everything.  It’s like a food/ butcher/ miscellaneous/ Jack Daniel’s shop.  I look back at Jimmy, still reading that comic.  He is serious about not telling us where he got the buffalo from. 

            “No, really.”  Charlie goes on.  “Where d’ya git it?”

            Jimmy closes the comic book and looks down at the empty counter.  He takes a deep breath before saying,  “Injuns.” 

            “Injuns?”  Charlie says surprised, but believing him (for some reason).

            “Yup.”  Jimmy says.

            “What Injuns?”

            “Ah, not real injuns.”  Jimmy backs off.  “One of those tourist attraction deals.  You know, those people who aren’t really injuns, but they dress up and make stuff and try to act like ’em.  One of those.  All the way out in Canterbury.           “Injuns.”  Charlie repeats.  “You ever come across an injun?”  he turns to me.

            “Don’t reckon I have.”  I answer, giving Charlie my smart-ass eye.  “Nope, ’tain’t never met up wit no injun before.”   And he throws me a disgruntled, yet humoring smirk.        

            “We’ll take a couple a’ slabs, then.”  Charlie orders.  And I go around the small shop and pick up some canned vegetables.  Some peanuts and some raisins.  Some crackers.  “What kind of cheese you got?”  Charlie asks.

            “I don’t know.”  Jimmy says with a kind of annoyed tone.  “The yella’ kind.  That’s all I know ’bout it.” 

            “Okay.”  Charlie says.  “Give me a hunk of that, too.” 

            Jimmy disappears into the back of the shop; and Charlie and I wander around the tiny shack.  There’s stuff that’s been in here for more than ten years!  Feels like I’m stuck back in the farmers’ seventies.  Like I’m stuck in “The Waltons”. (A television show based on a family who lived on a farm.  I think the time period was supposed to be the Twenties or Thirties).  All plain foods; nothin’ fancy.  All those old labels I vaguely remember from my childhood and labels that I’ve never even seen before.  He’s even got a small shelf of cans that the labels fell off of.  A fuckin’ pot-luck- hope it’s still good shelf!    After about five minutes, Jimmy reappears and slams four slabs of meat (all individually wrapped in white paper) on the counter.  He turns to his left and cuts a hunk of cheese off of this huge block and wraps it in a piece of burlap.  And he bends down below the counter and brings up a small metal box-  His cash “register”.  “That’ll be $15.50.”  he says.  So I hand Charlie ten bucks. 

            “Oh,”  Charlie remembers.  “Ya got eggs?”

            “Yup.”  Jimmy disappears into the back again, and returns with a carton of eggs.

            “Oh, we don’t need a whole carton.”  Charlie says.  “It’s just the two of us.”

            Jimmy smirks at him and says,  “What’s the matter?  Think you’re gonna git too fat?”  Charlie chuckles.  “That’ll be $15.50.”  Jimmy says again.  And Charlie, knowing of Jimmy’s simple charity, accepts the new price and pays the bill.  He stuffs the meat and cheese into his rucksack- with the eggs on top.  And I put the veggies, crackers and the nuts and raisins in mine; and we’re off. 

            We step out onto the porch, and look out over the horizon.  Colors!!!   Then, it hits me.  “Where we gonna camp?”

            “Ah.  Down by the tracks.  Right on the edge of the woods.”

            “Oh, shit!”  I remember.  “Forgot to get some whiskey.”

            “Mmm…”  Charlie mocks.  “Good stuff.”  But he does not disagree with my decision to purchase some fire water for the night- another festivity.  So I run back into Rambo’s and ask Jimmy for a bottle of  Jack.  And he takes one down from his huge stock that he has behind the counter.  A whole wall- wallpapered with Jack Daniel’s bottles.

            I storm back out through the wooden door, and it bangs behind me.  And we set out to the train tracks.  And, behind the tree-line, within the forest, all is dark.  Quiet.  A little spooky, but tranquil.  We quickly find a spot to dig a small fire pit  And Charlie goes to his flint and steel.  With the fire beginning to grow, we situate ourselves.  Sleeping bags out in our picked spots.  The food sitting on the ground- as to display our bounty.  And The Black Book- sitting on a rock that I had tripped over when I was setting my sleeping bag out.  ” ‘Tis a fine night.”  Charlie states.        

            “Yup,”  I agree.

              With the fire stoked, I get out my cooking implements and lay my fork and plate on the ground; jabbing my knife into one of the logs next to the fire.  I hand Charlie the pan as I take the pot for myself.  And, before I can even get one of the cans into my hand, Charlie is holding his can opener in my face.  I grab it and cut the can open.  Not with the ease that Charlie does, but I am not used to this antique style of can opener.  I’m accustom to just “jamming it under the arm and pressing down on the top thing”.  And we get the meal’s cook underway.  After completing this, Charlie gets one of his candles out and sets it up so that he can see to pack his glass piece.  While he does this, I fetch The Black Book and read it against the fire’s light.  And I read to myself.

            Disliking people can be a disadvantaging trait.  It is the type of characteristic that is, in many ways, unfavorable.  Though, I find that it is easy to dislike somebody who dislikes me.  It is an example, really.  Disapproval is a function of socialization that actually brings people into agreement:  Two people dislike something; or two people do not like each other-  Both are in common agreement with something.  They either both agree that they dislike something; or they both agree that they dislike each other. 

            Disliking somebody is a way to take an opinion, or rationale (psychological demeanor) and give it physical ability.  Not in a literal sense, but simply as cause and effect.  (Karma)  It is easy to dislike someone who openly dislikes you.  Their actual thought process is depicted by their actions.  In turn,  you react accordingly.  Opinions (matterless) create chemical energy that controls people’s physical characteristics.  People’s bad, or good, experiences, along with their upbringing, premeditates their overall demeanor; or communication skills.  Ideas (opinions) can only be defined as chemical (electrical) impulses; whereas a “dirty look” or a “tough-guy stride” can be defined by tangibly visible characteristics.  So disapproval is, indeed, cause and effect.

            Chemical thought process dictates physical interactions.  Indefinable forces (thoughts), that have no tangible matter, compel actual objects (people) and, in fact, control them.  My example is proven through this comparison.  People to people.  So people either disagree with this literature; or they agree with it.  Some agree with some of it.  Regardless, which ever category you fall under, it is proven that you disapprove.  You either disagree with somebody who disagrees with this; or you disagree with somebody who approves of this.  Like I said:  Regardless, if you disagree with anything, you are in complete agreement (with yourself) that you disagree with it.  And, for that matter, in agreement with someone else who disagrees with it.

            Before I have time to think the passage over, I hear Charlie spark his lighter up.  He breathes out, passing the piece to me, and I enjoy the smoke that travels from his lungs.  And I hit it.  Tastes good.  I put the book down and flip the meat.  Two, big, healthy slabs of buffalo.  Smells good.  I stir the veggies with my knife, and the piece comes back to me.  I part-take and go back into the book.  I look the page over, reading parts of it back to understand what I was trying to say (at the time I wrote it).  And Charlie interrupts my study by shoving the glass piece in my face again and saying, “Here.”  Motioning for me to trade him the piece for the book.  So I do.  And he brings it over to his candle and finds his page.

            It’s brain music- shit, God,

            that we listen to.

            Crap it’s that which sucks

            and you can’t stand.

            Refrain to go, you stray

            from sensible shit.

            Write, to sense.  make

            doesn’t this. fuck the what?

            What the fuck? 

            This doesn’t make sense.

             To write Shit sensible,

             from stray you. go to refrain.

            Stand!  Can’t you? 

            And sucks which that is crap

            to listen.  We that: 

            God, shit, music.  Brain it is!

            Charlie closes the book on his finger and says,  “Man, that’s back-asswards!”  And I get a chuckle out of this.

            I do not even remember actually writing this one.  I remember the idea I was trying to develop.  To be able to write something that makes complete sense backwards and forwards. 

            I look over at Charlie, and he intently puffs on the piece, with the book sitting on his lap.  I flip the meat again and stir the veggies.  “Do you butter the top or the bottom of the bread?”  I ask him.

            He pulls the piece away from his face and, with smoke pouring out his dragon, he answers,  “Well, that depends upon which side you butter first.”  And this is true.

            Charlie sighs as he puts the book back on the rock and backs away from it, like it’s a snake that might jump up and eat his arm off.  I hand the piece back to him, and he puffs.  Half way done, he puts it away to save it for later.  The meat is done, so he gets his plate and fork and knife out; and we dig in.

            The buffalo and veggies finished, I expose the bottle of Jack.  Charlie looks at it and cringes just from the sight of it.  Of course, I do the same.  The shit tastes nasty.  Tastes like suckin’ on balsa wood!  But I unscrew the cap and take a small gulp.  Coughing, burning.  Terrible!  Like downing gasoline, only, worse!  And I offer the bottle to Charlie.  He declines, but I coerce him.  “Come on.  It’ll make you feel good.  It’ll make you feel good.”  I quote an anti-drug commercial that aired in the mid 1980’s.  And, reluctantly, he takes the bottle and reacts to it the same way that I did.  “Peer pressure.”  I joke.  He hands the bottle back to me, and I have to put it down to recoup my taste-buds for a minute. 

            After a couple of minutes of quiet, Charlie complains,  “Man, that shit’s terrible!!”  And he goes back to his glass piece and sucks down as much smoke as he possibly can.  “Ahh…  That’s better.”  And he hands the piece to me.  I hit it; and immediately go back to the bottle, to get a good buzz goin’.  “This is gonna be a good night!”  I think out loud.  I open the book and journey for some kind of passage.  Because of this good buzz, and that wonderful green that Charlie has gifted me with, I feel as though the next piece (from The Black Book) should be a good one.

            So I have learned that the power you use is invisible (when riding horses).  I would say that it is the type that you do not feel, but that would distort the image that I am getting at.  What I am trying to say (though you may disagree with it,) is that It is not a muscular power, nor is it mental power.  Indeed, It is both a muscular and mental feeling.  Muscular- for it is great muscle strain.  Physically tiring.  Mental- because, well, the feeling you get when you’re “hitting the sweet spot”.  Both are Buddha!   The Buddha I have always been trying to explain.  To prove this (that it Is Buddha,) I can simply induce you to relate It to something you cannot explain:  Something is second nature to you.  Something that you do without thinking and cannot explain how you do it.  For it is a Feeling, not a tangible thing (as to state it simply, for I cannot devise a different way to put it).  Physical and mental, because you only feel it if you know what it is you want to feel.  It is momentum that is never gained, nor lost.  You are floating.  You do not feel muscular strain.  You do not feel the horse pounding the ground under you.  You are completely stationary, but you’re flying over the earth at (approximately) forty miles per hour. 

            And that is why I say that the power you use is invisible, for it is that feeling you know how to yearn for that makes you good.  You can feel that feeling on a bad horse.  (I most am reminded of it when the sucker is bucking and rearing, spooking or ducking.  I forget how to use it though, when the son of a bitch is luggin’ or tuggin’; doggin’ or crippled.) 

            It is that feeling you understand that you have when you are not pleased with the ride you’ve given a horse, and you apologize (or maybe don’t even mention it); and they didn’t see what it was that you were so unsure about.  And they tell you that “You did a good job.”  or “You looked good up there.”  

            They know Jocks are the fittest of athletes and that they have tough minds.  But they- most importantly- understand that It is not just muscular; not just mental power.  They know that It is a delicate combination of both.  And, in turn, they do not fathom the power that jockeys have, because they know that It is invisible. And knowing this is the main reason why people revere jockeys so highly.  It is a feeling they know that they fully do not understand.  It is a felling that I cannot explain. 

            And I wonder, as to say, I know, that the horse has the ability to feel that same feeling, too!  To be motionless.  “Hitting the sweet spot”.  Aware of the crazy danger of the situation.  Knowing that you can relate to them.  They know that you have the same feeling that they do.  That is the main reason why they let us sit on their backs.  Think about it:  A one thousand pound animal letting us sit on their backs and tell them what to do?  Why not just refuse?  You could never stop a freight train with your hand! 

            I’m not saying that every horse feels It every time you ride them.  I’m not even saying that every horse feels it every time he wins a race.  A horse could have the feeling in the beginning of a race and lose it half way through.  A horse could not feel it for one stride, and win the race!  He could feel it from pop-out to pull-up; (and while he is galloping-out,) but he did not win the race. 

            It is what I learned from Bruce Miller.  He knows that horses have this feeling.  He trains them to their ability and only pushes them when they are ready to push themselves.  When he places them in races, this is the only “method”.  Actually, it is not a method, but knowledge best described as intuition.  If a horse cannot cover the particular distance well, Bruce knows.  He knows that his horse is either not experienced enough or that he simply does not do that distance.  Many trainers make the mistake of taking into account that their horse is not fit, or not fit “enough”.  On top of that, they also have other considerations that they crowd their minds with.  F. Bruce Miller does not.  He simply knows. (His horses are “fit” before he asks them to race.)  He is never pounding (training crippled horses); he is always just training.  In turn, his horses are happy, know that Feeling, and have class. 

            Trainers who are ignorant, pound.  And they have horses that are unwilling, unhappy; cripple- physically and mentally lacking.  For those horses- the sweet spot can sometimes be running as hard as they can, All the time; or lugging in or out (could give them that competitive feeling against the rider).  Or being dirty (having bad habits that are intended to hurt the rider) could be their understanding of  “the sweet spot”.

            The main point is the comparison of training knowledge to the outcome of the horses’ well-being.  Their understanding of this Feeling.  Like I said, “good” horses can feel It, and “bad” horses can feel It.  Just as good riders know how to feel it and bad riders have the ability to feel It.  Which is why some riders “make it” and others don’t  Because the power you use is invisible.  The success is not something you can explain.  Being one of the best is something that you (and the horse) feel.  It is not tangible, which is why some people just don’t “get it”.  Since the feeling is invisible, it can only be translated from horse’s mind to rider’s mind; from Horse to trainer.   The power you use is invisible.  I cannot find the words that epitomize the ideas.  

                            Sweet Spot!                                                                                                            

            I pop the book shut and take a proud swig of the Jack.  I pull the bottle from my mouth and offer it to Charlie.  He takes it rather hesitantly.   He hits it and gives it back to me, and I screw the lid back on the nasty shit.  I venture within a close proximity to gather logs for the fire.  I lay five, thick logs on top of the already burning matter, and I kneel down and blow through the middle to stoke the fucker up.  And it grows a little.  So I gather one more load of logs, and sit back on my sleeping bag, content with this situation. 

            Charlie is picking at his fingernails.  Seeing this makes me cringe for some reason.  The sound; the sight.  I don’t know why, but it is somebody running their fingernails down a chalkboard- which is something that does not bother me.  I can do it; though I understand why people do not like it.  But Charlie, picking at his nails, makes me uneasy.  So I look away- trying not to notice.  I reach for The Black Book nervously, for my concentration is upon Charlie’s grooming action.  And I scan the whole thing.  First, Profile, then The Other Side.  And, every time I flip through the book, I am still amazed at how I have managed to completely fill every page with words and pictures.  I feel as though it is a masterpiece that only I can fully appreciate.  And this is probably true. 

            And the crackle of the fire has finally drowned out Charlie’s habit, just as he is finished.  And he goes into his rucksack and takes out his old, red bandanna and ties it on his head.  Why?  I don’t know.  I guess it makes him feel like he’s a pirate.  Looking at him, with that thing on his head, with his mustache and beard, the fire illuminating the rough features of his face, I remember that I wrote something about pirates once.  So I search for it.  I take another swig of  Jack, and I look at him.  He has just raised the glass piece to his face as I start:

            A bunch of pirates were standing at the bar, below deck.  They were all roaring with laughter and arguing in their gruff voices.  The black pirate had a parrot on his shoulder.  And the wooden-legged pirate had a sparrow. 

            One pointed at the black pirate and said, “Hey, where’d ya git that thing?”

            And the parrot said, “Africa!” ^8c 

            And they all laughed and coughed at the parrot’s joke. 

            “That other bird’s stupid!”  the parrot went on.  “He doesn’t even know his name!”

            “Well, what’s yours?”  one of them asked.

            “Nude Nick,¹³ dammit!  And don’t you forget it!”  Then, with an opera-like song, he sang his name out.  “Nooooood Niiiiiick!!!”

            The pirate then asked the sparrow to say his name, but he just looked at them all and blinked his eyes, cocking his head back and forth. 

            “His name’s Jack Handey.”  the wooden-legged pirate replied. 

            “See!?!”  Nude Nick squealed.  “Stupid bird!  Stupid bird!”

            They all busted up laughing and hacking up phlegm again.  And Nude Nick whistled and arrogantly flapped his wings.  Tossing his head about; strutting back and forth from the left shoulder to the right shoulder. 

            “I don’t know.”  one of the pirates said.  “I kind a’ like the quiet parrot better.”  And they all agreed upon this as they gulped down their final swigs of gin, and tromped up the wooden stairs back to the deck, leaving the two birds on top of the bar.

            “Now they know that you’re one of those stupid birds!”  Nude Nick heckled.  “They won’t feed you any of those crackers.  Ha!”  Nude Nick sang his name again, ending with a diatribe on nonsensical “caws”  and whatnot.  And the pirates on deck heard this and roared into laughter again. 

            Jack Handey hopped down onto a bar stool.  He peered up at Nude Nick and said,  “Sure, you can talk, but just listen to yourself!” ¹⁴

            Charlie returns a humorous glance into the large fire.  I see his reaction and direct my attention to the flame, too.  Hot now.  Quite a wall of fire.  And a wondrous night it has become.  Earlier today, I thought that I was going to be caught up in the dilemma of comparing this night to last night’s sleep atop the mountain beside Sunfish Pond.  But this is not at all a matter.  It is a wondrous night, and comparison is not an issue.  Enjoyment of the crickets and those busy, little fire flies, and the hot crackle of the fire, and the whiskey and the resonating taste of Charlie’s Green out of his intricate glass piece.  Man, Dharma upon this Midnight Ghost.  This, in itself, is the yearning for one. 

            Charlie hits the piece again.  Then, he asks for the peanuts and the raisins.  I hand the bags to him; and he proceeds to mix them together- dumping one bag into the other, then back again.  He does this for some time.  Either to mix them up thoroughly, or he is just in a trance of doing it.  It becomes a habit.  I look down at the book and listen to him mixing.  And I think of the stars in the sky.  How they look down on Lonesome and on the Midnight Ghost- wherever it is right this very second.  Can the moon’s light see that flat rock out there- void of a cup of tea?  The animals scurry in the bushes, and I think of their night harvest.  Nocturnal to us, but it is the beginning of the day for them. 

            Charlie has decided to finish mixing, so he part-takes and offers me one of the bags.  And the peanuts are oily, fresh.  And the raisins have some kind of seeds in them, which is a characteristic of a raisin that I do not prefer.  I prefer the artificially generated ones that are always perfect and have no crunch to them.  But that is back-asswards, according to my primitive desires.  And this is the jungle, out here.  A place where I should desire nothing more than to drink from the mountain streams and eat the worms and insects of the ground.  Survival.  True Grit!  But we have peanuts here.  I have desire for them, which is the opposite path to any kind of Buddhahood.  It is like what they say about eating potato chips- you can’t just have ONE.  You desire the next one.  And this proves that you do not truly desire something until you have already experienced it.  But I guess that me and Charlie jumping onto the boxcar has segregated us from that world out there, that Hell.  The world, itself- the world of Desires.  All different, impertinent desires.  Like these fuckin’ peanuts. 

            You ever see a peanut tree?  I do not even know what a peanut plant looks like!  I do not know its origin, yet I enjoy the finished product.  You might agree with some of this.  Hell, you probably know what a peanut plant looks like.  Or actually have a peanut farm!  Buddha within you knowing the vision of the peanut plant, humbled by reading me, (you) knowing something which my imagination is blind to.  But there are no peanuts in the Arctic Circle.  And that statement holds no pertinence.  Course, if you have a worm farm, you would not wonder what a worm tasted like.  I hope you do not know what they taste like, even covered in chocolate!  ‘Course, I would try a tsetse fly burger if I was offered one.  On that same note, I would never try escargot.  And I have never had either of them, so my desire for them is completely hypothetical.  I don’t think that I would travel the world in search of the ultimate tsetse fly burger.  It would have to be shoved in my face in order for me to consider eating it.  But, worms- I can find them all over the place, and I would not eat one if it were shoved in my face.  But would I eat horseflies?  No?  Why not?  How is a horsefly different than a tsetse fly?  I guess for the same reason why I regard the worm as being different that the tsetse fly.  Because I could just reach out and catch a horsefly right now.  How is this relevant?  It is not.  It is simply finger food.  And I know that I could never suppress your appetite.

            “What’re you thinkin’ ’bout?”  Charlie interrupts the crickets.

            “All kinds of shit.”  I am honest.  “Like tsetse flies and Desire and Buddha and Lonesome.”

            “A healthy course to eat.”  Charlie says.  I look down at the bottle of Jack, and I realize that I have left it alone for quite a while.  So I grab it and take a swig.  And I offer it to Charlie but he declines.  “No.”  he says.  “I’m done with that.”

            And this strikes me.  Because this exact same occurrence transpired one time when I was hanging out with the Wood Boy.  We were in my sister’s apartment (which is where I lived at the time) drinkin’ beers and blowin’ tubes (doing bongs).  I offered him another beer, and he said that exact same thing.  “No.  I’m done with that.”

            Rich and I were so alike, that I would have answered the same way to him if he offered me another beer (that night).  We were both just part-taking in the Void- just sampling it.  Being part of it, not engulfed by it.  Drunk, but not life-long alcoholics. 

            I search my book for the spot where I had written the transaction right after it occurred.  And I would do that:  When Wood and I hung-out at night, I would have my black book on the table.  Writing things that came to mind, and the actual occurrences and conversations of the night.  So I search for this page that has the exact same words that just came out of Charlie’s mouth.  But I cannot find it.  Because The Black Book is my dictionary, but it has no guide-words.  But, during the search, I find one of the most precious passages in the book.  And I look up at Charlie, who is off somewhere in that fire- staring at it and wondering nothing.  “Here.”  I announce.  And, with this, Charlie’s eyes shoot up to find mine.  He sees that I have The Black Book open.  So he sits, intently- like a kindergartner sitting on the carpet, looking up at the teacher on the couch, waiting for the book-read story.   “A whole page- by the Fritzinger!”

            And I read the next one.  Indeed, it is my favorite Fritzinger nothing.  A Nothing he thought of on one of our hikes.  I remember it, because he said the original idea to me, and I remember him editing it throughout the hike (to say what he actually meant).  And, worded to perfection, he spoke of how people of this modern world are so imprisoned by their need to be “civilized”.  How they neglect to live.  How they worry too much about other people’s opinions and use these opinions as a basis to their every day actions.  Living every day in parallel to Common Man’s undefined expectations.  Afraid to walk around naked.  Well, better put:

            Charlie is delighted by this.  And I look at the first passage.  “Is ‘Microcosm’ even a word?”  I wonder out loud in Buddhistic agreement (whether it is in the dictionary or not, I accept the word). 

            “Means, like,… a small world.  A miniature universe.”  Charlie is familiar with the word.  Funny, all these years (until tonight), I thought that Rich had completely made the word up.  That it was just a product of his Zen intuition.  Learning this gives me a new perspective on how smart the Wood Boy actually is.  Very smart.  Extremely smart!   And Charlie, for knowing the word…  Well, Charlie is an old man.  He has drank his wine of life. 

            “…is I don’t look over my shoulder when I scratch my ass in the woods.”  Charlie repeats, impressed.  “That’s really fuckin’ good.” 

            And then, I find it!

            “You don’t need The Black Book

            for that.”  Rich

            “Want a beer?”  me 

            “I’m done with that.”

                                           Rich  

                                              1/20/97      

            It was one of those nights when we spoke, in depth, our philosophy.  Not blatantly saying that this world is all Nothing, but having fun with our intellects.  Agreeing upon instances that we synopsized.  Making comments that had a profound effect on the way we saw the world when we woke up the next morning.  And, in reference to this last excerpt from The Black Book, it was one of those times when I spoke my idea, and Rich completely sanctified and made true, that He is true.  That he knows the cave walls; and he studies them.  I said my words.   And he Zenned,  “And you don’t need The Black Book for that!”  Ah, Wood is true; for he knows the truth, which this excerpt exemplifies.  Zen is not put into words.  The Black Book could not negotiate the truth of the idea that I had expressed.  And he made me clear to this.  Like I said in the beginning, Rich had opened my eyes to Buddhism, and it was our together understanding of it that held us strong together.  What made us so alike.   So after he said that, I wrote that down, because those words have more of an impact than my proclamation did.  And this is true; because I do not even remember what I had said to evoke him to spontaneously say such a wise thing.  And these words, his words- that one, little sentence, was the Buddha of that night.  And, to this day, Man,  it’s Wood, motha’fucka’!

            “See!”  I say.  “The Fritzinger said the same exact thing that you just said to me!”  And Charlie is interested in this.

            “That’s in your book?”  he asks, gawking.

            “Yeah, dude.  Right here!”  And I push the book in his face, pointing at the words.

            “No shit!!”  Charlie finds this to be rather amusing.  “That’s unbelievable!”

            “Not really.”  I say.  “There ain’t no dicks on women.  Shit, think of how many people have had the same, exact experience.  Think of  how it could be happening right this very minute.  This same exact transaction happening in Chinese!”  And Charlie is humbled by this.

            “The Fritzinger, indeed is a Bodhisattva.”  Charlie belabors. 

            “Fritzinger Nothings.”  I say.  “The wisdom of the cave walls.  How has he ever  managed to exercise Do Nothing in such a technologically advancing society?  Younger than I , yet has acquired wisdom of the ages.”

              “Seeing This Black Book of mine- knowing that it is all Chinese to most people.  That is what I like about  the Wood Boy.”  I look at Charlie, and he seems to listen intently to my thoughts of Richard.  I listen to my thoughts intently, too; because I have spent the last couple of years being angry and frustrated with the Wood Boy.  Why he has chose to split from me, I do not know.  But I am the one who left The Bridge first.  I left him. But, when I call his ass on the phone, I get no reply.  As a matter of fact, in the last year, I have lost complete touch with him.  I do not even know where he lives anymore, and the one number where I knew I could at least relay a message to him, it has been disconnected.  Solitude has become My Buddha.  Because there is nobody out here who has my together understanding- the way that the Wood Boy had.  I go on hikes now.  But it is a solitude hike.  I just sit and meditate and study my books and write.  It is a happy time, out in those woods, but I miss the wisdom and companionship of  the Wood Boy.  And I wish that I had more Fritzinger Nothings in my Black Book; for they are like a picture in my wallet.  The real thing is not there, but I can look at a photo of it and smile at the memory.

            “His wisdom is real.”  Charlie states. 

            “What d’you mean, real?”  I criticize.  “There ain’t no such fuckin’ thing!”  And Charlie is pleased, like a Zen Master who has asked his student a question, and the student does not answer at all.

            People think of “reality”, and I have come to the conclusion that there is no actual “reality”.  That “reality” is their own reality.  Their perception of the world.  Reality being what humbles everybody- Momentarily.  And the humbling effect is different (or at a different “level”  for each individual person).  Through the duration of the humbling experiences that we have, we realize that “reality” is not a joke.  (Which it is).  Kind of feel like a joke is being played on us.  Of course, everybody’s perception of the world is different.  Everybody’s “reality”- different.  People think of “reality” as being one, universal idea (or setting).  Ironically, everybody’s perception of reality is different. Reality is only one word in one language.  Some languages do not even have a word for it.  Because it does not exist.

            Reality is what we see when we are “humble” (or humbled).  We see life through a looking-glass, (so to speak) and we love to analyze the idiosyncrasies of our own personal perception of this world.  Reality being an intangible common bond between everybody’s thought patterns.  The feeling of being “Humble” is only one of  our thought patterns.  Everybody understands this reality dichotomy, but it does not hit everybody hard enough to change their over-all thought pattern.  And My partial description of “Humble” is this common bond.  For every person can be humble; it depends upon how long we want to peer through that looking-glass for.  If you want to build on it and learn how to utilize your brief understanding of “reality”, to make it last longer.  The longer we can see reality, the more we learn “about” it, and understand that it is a different idea to each individual person.  Not everybody’s reality is the same.  Everybody knows that this is true; but for how long do they understand this?  At what level are they able to utilize this perception?  The longer they meditate upon the fact that “reality” is simply a description for life, they discard their “reality” idealism.

            Which is another component to my partial description of Humble.  Humble is agreeing with the Truth.  Knowing that reality is not the one road to understanding “the truth”, but simply one principal of focus.  As is a “Humbling Experience”.

            We know that our reality becomes unexercised, because you have to associate it with people- people who you think do not understand what “reality” is.   An example of how people disagree- they have different thought patterns, and different “realities”. 

              All thought patterns, as we understand them to be, are intermittent.  Attempting to be humble is simply one frame in our thinking process (and when I say “trying to be humble,” I am stating an impossibility, I must iterate; because being humble is not something that you try to do, but is simply a characteristic that you have.  Just as True charity is doing something for somebody who never finds out that you did it for them.^6b) 

            Are we self-progressive enough to learn to use Humble more often?  And, ultimately, use it all of the time?  No; Reality: it is what both separates and congregates people. 

            There are people who believe in some type of god, or in multiple gods.  And, through these religions,  (and also pertaining to people who do not have any type of religion,) people develop all of their different thought patterns.   Reality is the common focus.  But reality is different for each individual person (each different religion, each unreligious person).  So, how is it common?  Because people do not need to think to breathe.  As to say, It is not an entity that we try to figure out.  It is just one word in one language.  Shit, the river still moves when you are not standing there, looking at it. 

            Regardless, this is ALL hypothetical.  As is my own perception.  I think (at this period in my adapting thought process) that what I have stated is true.  You may not.  Because we see it differently- and this proves my hypotheses. “Everybody’s perception of reality is different.”  A closed minded way to address it.   Universally, this is all hypothetical, for I see this as being true, and you compare it to what you know to be true.  And, in this, you exercise humbleness- Your (own) Truth.  The thought pattern you yearn for most.  I may be “wrong”; but I am content with my perception of life.  As are you.  Both having our own ideal reality, but in disagreement with each other’s.  There is no one reality, for we all do not agree with each other’s thought patterns.  Therefore, how can there be such a tangible thing as “reality”(itself)?  So does it exist?  Well, if reality is a universal understanding, than why has reality become a subject that people cannot teach each other to relate to? 

            And Charlie looks at me unseriously and jokes, “Really?”  I smirk.  “Are you saying that nothing is real?” 

            “No.”  I say.  “I’m saying that everything is actual.” 

            “Actual?”  Charlie questions.

            “Ah,”  I blow off.  “Question… it’s like fuckin’ a woman in the ass!” 

            And I continue to think about the Wood Boy.  Where is he now?  What does he do with his days?  I guess that the question will not be answered; because, when I ask people about him, they always say, “I don’t know.”  Where he is living; who he hangs out with.  What he does anymore.  It is hard to find the Fritzinger- like he’s some kind of business man who is always busy, impossible to get a hold of.  But he is not.  He lives a simple life, and it should not be a trial to find his whereabouts. 

            “Do you think that the Fritzinger is out there, writing on cave walls?”  Charlie hopes. 

            “I could only wish.”  I answer doubtingly.  “He seems to live in solitude within this world- of people, though.  You know, I can’t find him anywhere.  Nobody knows where he is.”

            “He is an entity.”  Charlie says.  And I think about this, knowing that Charlie does not truly believe this comment. 

            “Not divided by himself, though.”  I answer.  “The Fritzinger is just one side,   Not at all abridged.  I guess he does what he pleases and goes wherever he goes.  Wherever he may roam.”  And this is a good thing.  Just what he has always wanted.  To be free-lance and unbound.  Liberated from society’s strings of self-indulgent stupidity.

            Thinking of  Rich, I remember the times we had.  And I laugh,  “I remember this one time, I told him about the time I took Jimsonweed.”  I tell Charlie.  “I told him what it was like.  An uncontrollable, scary experience (when your friends tell you about what you did, the next morning!) 

            ‘What’s it like?’  Rich asked.  ‘Is it like trippin’; or is it completely different?’

            ‘It’s nothin’ like it.’  I told him.  ‘You don’t even understand anything.  You can’t speak the language anymore.  You talk, but you don’t use English words.  Everything you say makes sense to you, but it is just jibber-jabber.’

            ‘Is it like trippin’- when you know that it is not real, or…’

            ‘No.  (I interrupted.)  That’s the thing.  You don’t even know what reality is.  It’s like…  I can’t explain it.’

            ‘So, do you bug-out?’

            ‘Well, not really.  You don’t really bug-out, because you don’t know what is going on.  You don’t even care.  Like, when you bug-out on acid, you bug-out because nothing looks or feels real.  But, on Jimson, you don’t even take that into consideration.’

            ‘I guess I’d just have to try it.’  he said.

            ‘No!  (I warned.)  You don’t.  You don’t ever want to feel that way.  You have no control whatsoever.’

            He said,  ‘Do you see things?’

            ‘Completely!  I was seein’ fuckin’ people!  I actually thought that there was a guy in my house!  I remember him perfectly.  He was about five feet tall with short brown hair and he wore glasses.  Blue jeans with a white, dress shirt.  I was making eggs for breakfast, like I always did.  I was actually going to go to school that morning! (I was s sophomore in high school.)  It was spooky.  I had the feeling that someone was watching me, or that there was a robber in the house.  I saw him out of the corner of my eye, behind me.  And every time I turned around to see him, he would hide!  I saw him over in the pantry, and I would turn around; and he would duck into the bathroom.  Then, he would be on the other side of the kitchen, leaning up against Grandma’s cupboard; and I would turn to ‘catch’ him, but he would duck into the living room!  I would go in the pantry and check behind the bathroom door.  And I would walk around into the living room and look around.  I knew that the guy was in my house, but he was just really good at hiding!  After I couldn’t find him in the bathroom, I realized that he was actually going in-behind the fridge.  I chased this guy back and forth for about forty-five minutes that morning.  And I thought that it was completely normal!’

            ‘You mean, didn’t the fact that you were seein’ people make you realize: hey, I’m still pretty fucked-up?!?’

            ‘No.’  I said.  ‘And that’s the thing.  I didn’t even realize that the guy wasn’t real!  Every time I tried to go up to him, he would just go behind the fridge!  That’s how fucked-up it is!  I thought that this was completely normal.  And I was gonna go to school!’

            ‘That’s fuckin’ crazy!’  Rich was impressed.  ‘I gotto try it.’ 

            ‘I know I would never do it again.’  I said.  ‘It’s fuckin’ scary.’

            ‘I thought you said you don’t bug out?’

            ‘You don’t.  But you don’t even know what the fuck you’re doin’!  Like, I was sayin’ shit like… I’d point at the window and say: You gonna put the flowers on there orange is find the dog?  And I explained how there was this man in the house, but he kept going behind the fridge.  And Greg (my brother) said,

            ‘Don’t you realize what you’re saying doesn’t make any sense?’ 

            ‘It scared the shit out of him.  He didn’t even know what was wrong with me.’

            ‘And your mom was home?’  Rich exasperated. 

            ‘Yeah.  She was gonna take me to the hospital!  But, somehow, I convinced her not to.  I told her that I had a couple of beers and some weed and did some butane, and…  Well, that’s what I thought I was telling her, but I trailed off into some weird language that didn’t make any sense.’

            ‘I gotto try it!’  Rich was so excited.  ‘Where did you get it?’

            ‘It’s all over the fuckin’ place!’  I said.  ‘I got mine at work. (Windy Hill Farm)  There’s hundreds of ’em growin’ along the manure pit.’

            ‘Can you get me some?’

            ‘Yeah, if you want.’

            ‘Take it with me.’  Rich anticipated.

            ‘No Way!’  I said.  ‘I’m not doin’ that shit again!’

            ‘Come on.’  he egged-on.  ‘Maybe we would understand each other, and it’d be fun.  We’ll go on a hike and just get lost in the woods all day.’

            ‘No.’

            ‘How long does it take to kick-in?’

            ‘Well,  (I thought for a minute.)  I took it at around two o’clock in the afternoon and went home.  I thought that it didn’t work at all, so I went to bed.  I woke up around ten that night, all goin’ crazy.  I don’t even remember waking up.’

            ‘How much did you take?’

            ‘Well, in a pod, there’s four different chambers.  And there are thousands of little seeds in each chamber.  I took three whole pods.’

            ‘What?  Did you just eat ’em?’

            ‘At first, but, man, those things are nasty!  I ended up emptying the pods into a glass of water and drank ’em.’

            ‘I gotto know what it’s like.’

            ‘Dude… I got lost in my bathroom!’  I told him, laughingly serious.

            ‘How the fuck did you do that?’

            ‘Well, I turned the light off before I opened the door, and I couldn’t get out.  I couldn’t find the door knob.  And I started feeling around the walls to find the way out.  And soon, I didn’t even know where in the bathroom I was!  I was poundin’ on the walls, all yelling for my sister and shit!’

            ‘What does it look like?’

            ‘Well the ground looks like its up fuckin’ here.’ ”  And I step real high, taking steps higher than my kneecaps.  ” ‘And you’re walking on it up here, when it’s actually down there!   When you go to turn on the light switch, it’s over there, somewhere.’

            ‘Don’t you get frustrated, because you can’t reach it?’

            ‘No.’  I told him.  ‘That’s the thing.  It doesn’t matter.  You don’t care.  It’s not like: Why can’t I touch the light switch?  You don’t know what reality is, so it doesn’t matter that you can’t touch the light switch.  You don’t care.  It’s not even like:  Oh, so what if I can’t touch the light switch.  You don’t even think of it that way.’

            ‘Is it like you don’t know what’s going on?’

            ‘No.  You’re not worried about that.  That’s why you don’t bug-out.  It doesn’t matter.  I don’t know how to explain it.’

            ‘Dude, get me some!’  he insisted.

            ‘Okay.  If  you want.’   And I did.

            I came home from work one day.  It was about eleven-thirty (a.m.), and he was sitting on the couch in my room.  I handed him a plastic bag with five of the pointy, little fuckers in it.  They were so fresh!  Green and moist.  ‘Here you go.’  I said.  And he got a tall glass of water and started to open the pods up. 

            ‘There’s so many of them!’  he referred to the seeds.  ‘How many should I eat?’

            ‘None.’  I said. 

            ‘No, really, how many should I take.’

            ‘I don’t know.  I took three whole pods, and I was fucked.’

            So he dipped his finger into one of the open pods and took out a couple of seeds.  He put them in his mouth.  And his face went sour.  ‘These things are fuckin’ terrible!’  he gagged, grabbing the water and gulping it down.

            ‘Told ya so!’  I chuckled.

            And he dumped them all into the glass, and drank the whole thing down- fast. Within two minutes, he had taken three, whole, fresh pods.  And we sat and waited.  Watching him do it made me sick.  Scared the shit out of me.”

            “Why did you get them for him?”  Charlie interrupts.

            “Well, he wanted to try it.  And you can get them anywhere.  I’ll point some out when we pass some.  They’re all over the fuckin’ place out here.”

            “I know what they are!”  Charlie says bitterly.

            “Well, he drank the water, and we waited.  I sat next to him and packed a couple a’ tubes.  And we hung out for a while.  I don’t know how, but we got split up.  And I didn’t see him until later that night. 

            I walked down the pitch black stairs to Jenn Hopsin’s basement, and there Rich was- trying to climb up the wall.  All he had on was his boxers, and his pants were in the other room for some reason.  Jenny and Patti Bill were just sitting on Jenn’s bed, laughing hysterically.  I can’t remember who was with me.  I think it was my brother and our friend, Keith Ruthe.  ‘How long has he been like this?’  I asked Jenny.  I looked at Rich, and he was rambling on and on in some language that only he could understand.

            ‘He’s been doin’ this for about four hours now.’  Jenn laughed uncontrollably. 

            ‘It’s not funny!’  I said, mad at them.  But, what could they do for him?  They were baby-sitting, and that was good enough (now that I look back on it).  ‘Where’re his pants?’ 

            ‘In the laundry room.’  Patti laughed.  So I went into the laundry room and picked them up.  I handed them to him.  The look in his eyes!  He didn’t even recognize me!  He seemed to look right through me, like a Zombie.  Staring through my face, rambling one, huge, run-on sentence.  I handed him his pants and said,

            ‘Here, put these on.’  He took them and wandered to the other corner of the room, rambling, mumbling; nonstop.  And the pants just fell out of his hand on his way over to the corner- where he tried to climb an imaginary ladder.  I picked up his pants and tried again, but the same thing happened.  But, this time, he managed to get onto the couch and crawled up onto a shelf, knocking all of the books off.  And he crouched down on the self, looking down at everybody in the room (who were all pointing up at him and laughing hysterically).  And, worst of all, they had this purple light on the whole time!  It was like a Purple Hell!  What a hell, for Rich- being imprisoned in that purple basement for those endless hours of that night.  The sight made me so sick- seeing Richard like that, knowing exactly what he was going through.  What he was thinking.  How he had no control, and that it would be a long time before he’d ‘come down’.

            I couldn’t take it anymore.  ‘I don’t wanna be here anymore.’  I said- feeling sick to my stomach.  And I left- the people who came with me followed.

            Hours later, we were sitting at the park (Union Forge Park), and Jenny drove in with a car full of people- Richard in the passenger seat.  They all got out and came over to the bleachers and sat.  And there sat Rich, in the car, just rocking back and forth, talking to himself (and whatever else he was talking to.)  So I (and a couple of other people)  went over to see the condition of our fine, feathered friend.  By then, he was using English words, but he was not fitting them into structured sentences legibly.  And, all throughout the night, he was smoking fake cigarettes.  He told me that he couldn’t figure it out.  ‘I just put that one out.’  he said.  ‘And here’s another one, right here.’  He’d take the final drag and flick it onto the ground.  And, all the sudden, there was another one- right there in his hand!

            He was all dehydrated.  His lips were all chapped and his complexion was horrible.  We all agreed that he looked like a crack-head.  I asked Jenny if he had drank anything all night, and it seemed that our trusty baby-sitters had neglected the fact that the guy might need to hydrate himself.  So I filled a coke can up with water from the fountain (across the street at the football field); and it took some time to get him to figure out what to do with it.  I handed it to him, and he used it as a telephone.  Calling his mom and telling her where he was and that he’d be home soon.  Then, I guided his hand down to show him that he was supposed to drink it, and he used it as a microphone.  Finally, I got him to take a couple of sips.

            By this time, Rich had a fan club.  A crowd of people following him around, wanting to see what he’d do next; and say next.  I have to admit, it was pretty entertaining.  Now that he was using the English dialect, and he had the mentality to think about cigarettes.  Those were good signs.  And the phrases that were coming out of his mouth were hilarious!  (At one point in time, he was walking down the sidewalk, and a cop was coming down the road {Mill St.}; and he tried to hide behind the stop sign!  He was all crouched down with his arms over his head and shit!  It’s like… quick, close your eyes so nobody can see you!  How the cop didn’t see him, I’ll never know!)

            Later on, after a cop pulled in and did his little, asshole drive-by, we decided to get the fuck outta’ there.  So the whole crowd hiked to my house- by way of  ‘Upstairs’ (the trail we used to get high on).  And we (about ten of us) all hung out in my room- Rich being the main attraction.  Sitting on the couch where he had first eaten the fuckin’ things, he sat. 

            Every time somebody came in or out the door (to get a drink or something)  he would try to hide something.  He did this, because we all used to do bongs in my room, and my mother wasn’t too keen on this.  We thought we were tricking her the whole time, but, for the most part, she knew.  Anyway, every time she came to the door, we’d have to ‘break down’.  (The bong was a one-footer with another {foot} extension.  So we had to pull the extension off, and hide it all under the table.  And scramble to hide our containers and the dish {which always had weed in it} and any other paraphernalia.  So, because this ‘breaking down’ was a common habit, Rich felt the realistic need to act upon it every time he heard the door open.)

            This was a sign that he was ‘coming down’- to the slightest extent.  Because ‘breaking down’ was an act of reality.  Well, after one time somebody came into the room, Rich opened the table drawer and stuffed a full glass of water into it!  We had to completely clear the table of everything after that.  Even took the stereo off and put it on the floor!  At one point, he was meandering around the room, and, somehow, he ripped the ‘E’ key off of my computer keyboard.  (He was deeply sorry about this days later.)  And we were messin’ with him.  Sayin’ things to get him to give some kind of unreal, unrelated answer.  Or just standing there in silence, waiting for the next thing to spontaneously come out of his mouth.

            ‘She can fly!  She can fly!  She really can if she really wanted to!’

            At one point, he managed to communicate that he had to go to the bathroom.   ‘But we can’t let him go alone.  He’ll get lost and wander all over the house.  He’ll say shit to mom!’  I told Greg.  She was right in the living room- right on the other side of the bedroom door.  And us laughing and being loud was normal to her.  But a cracked-out kid telling her that she could fly, well, that would be enough to make her call the cops!

            ‘We can’t go in there with him!’   Greg rationalized.  ‘Think about it.’  And this was true.  But we had to get him to the bathroom.  So Greg came out first and stood in front of mom and the bedroom door.  The bathroom door was right there (behind him- three steps from the bedroom).  Rich came out second, and I followed, literally shoving him into the open bathroom door.  (Boy!  That must have been a strange experience for him!)  And Greg grabbed the knob and pulled the door shut.  I walked past Greg, who was talking to mom, distracting her.  And I went through the kitchen and around to the other side to close the other bathroom door.  (The bathroom had two doors.  You could walk through it to get from the front hallway to my room.)  And Greg ran out of things to say, so he came into the kitchen to make a cup of coffee. And we stood there, whispering about our crazy, little, cracked-out friend.  Then, we heard it!

            The bathroom door knob.  Rich was having trouble operating it!  We just stood in the kitchen doorway- in peril.   ‘This is it,  We’re fucked!’   But he managed to get it open.  Luckily, he started to wander straight back to our room.  And my mom noticed:   

            ‘You didn’t flush the toilet!’

            Rich, having a minimal perception of the situation tried to answer.  ‘I didn’t forget to put the seat down;  I just forgot to turn off the light.’  And he made it back into our room.  Greg immediately went into the bathroom and put the seat down, flushed the toilet and flipped the light off. 

            ‘What is he on?’  My mom was ‘on’ to us.

            ‘He’s just really drunk.’  Greg answered without even thinking.  And I went back into the room where Rich was back in his seat, and the whole world was using him as their television.  Greg followed with his cup of coffee. 

    ‘Woah!  Did you see that?!?  The Cops just jumped out of the Fan!’

            We all roared with laughter.  It was tough to catch your breath in that room that night.  Then, Rich’s mom called up.  It turns out that, when he was at Jenny’s, he had managed to get a hold of the phone.  Through the onslaught of that drug, somehow he managed to remember that he had to call home to ‘check in’.  And he called his mom and had a very fragmented conversation with her.  He hung up thinking that he had been successful.  And she was on the other end, bewildered.  She called and asked to talk to me!  She said that she was going to send an ambulance down and take him to the emergency room! 

            ‘Be honest with me, Chip.’ she said.  ‘What did you guys take?’ 

            His mom was always cool.  And, after she told me about his phone conversation with her, I had to tell her.  Shit, she was going to take him to a hospital!  They would have tied him up and, I don’t know what else!  So I told her what it was, and how I had done the same thing and that he was going to be fine in a couple of  hours.  She liked and trusted me, so she let it go.  But she wanted him to come home, ‘Now!’ 

            ‘Just give him a couple more hours.’  I pleaded.  ‘He needs to be around lots of friends right now.’  And she understood.  Like I said, she’s cool.  And we hung out in my room for a while longer. 

            Hours passed.  Rich, now talking somewhat sensibly, somewhat realizing what had happened in the last forty-eight hours, was ready to go home.  He still wasn’t making much sense, though.  But he could carry on a conversation, and I could talk to him and relate to his experience.  It was a horrible feeling at this time- for both of us.  Kind of like we both had a bad trip, and we were just ‘coming down’ from it.  Everybody else was long gone.  Greg was sleeping.  And we walked (through) uptown to his house, talking about that night.  He would ask me what he did.  And I’d tell him, only to amaze him that he had done such things.  Then he’d say,

            ‘Tell’ me more.’  And I would have plenty to tell him.  After a while of this, he finally got to sayin’,  ‘What else?’  And there was much, much else.  He thought that it was funny.  I didn’t, but I was up-tight about the whole thing from the beginning. 

            His mother was going to take us to the shore that weekend, and I thought that the last forty-eight hour escapade would hamper his mother’s decision to take us.  I thought that the whole thing was some pretty bad timing.  When we got to his house, he went straight upstairs to his room (to pack).  I stood in the living room, listening to his mother screaming at him.  Then, she came downstairs to me and said,  ‘He’s still not making any sense!’  Which, for the most part, he wasn’t!  ‘I’m going to take him to the hospital;  get him checked out.’

            I assured her, again, that I had been through the same shit, and that he’d be alright.  That going to the hospital would just freak him out.  I finally convinced her.  Then, I had to convince her to still take us to the shore.  She had her mind all set not to go.  But we had planned it weeks ago; and she trusted me.  So we went. 

            On the drive down, the car was quiet.  A little tense.  And the funniest, fuckin’ thing happened on that car ride.  Rich was drinkin’ a can of soda.  After he finished it, he hocked the biggest, fuckin’ greenest, thickest lugie into the can.  It was a nasty lugie, too!  Had a chunk in it!  I heard him cough the fuckin’ chunk out of his throat when he was hackin’ the fucker up!  He put the can back into the cup holder.  And, about ten minutes later, I watched, as his mom mindlessly reached down and grabbed the can.  And she fuckin’ chugged it!  It was the nastiest fuckin’ thing! 

            ‘EWE!’  Rich laughed.  ‘Mom,… I Spit in that!’

            ‘Oh, God!  That’s nasty!’  She almost Ralphed!  She was all wipin’ her lips and shit!  We were both laughing like crazy.  ‘That’s gross, Richie!  Why’d you have to do that!?!’

            ‘I didn’t think you were going to drink it!’

            ‘Well,…  why’d you put it right next to me like that!?!  That’s nasty!’  It was the funniest fuckin’ thing!  After that, the car ride became fun, yet last night’s ramparts still lingered in the back of our minds.  Kind of awkward.

            We stopped to get some breakfast.  We sat down and looked at the menus.  I watched Rich, knowing what he was still going through.  About a day and a half after a Jimson trip, you can’t see right.  You can’t read a word.  And I looked at his eyes- looking down at the page, yet blank as to comprehend it.  When the waitress came over, she took mine and his mother’s orders.  And, when she came to Rich, he was still studying the Chinese menu. 

            ‘Richie!’  His mother elbowed him.

             ‘I guess I’ll just have eggs.’  he decided. 

            Well, that wasn’t easy enough.  The ramifications of  ‘just having eggs’ are endless.  What kind of eggs?  Scrambled?  Poached?  Fried?  Sunyside down?  Sunyside up?  Do you want bacon or sausage?  Or both?  What kind of toast do you want?  You want butter or jelly with your toast?  You Want coffee? 

            Jesus!  Just give the guy some fuckin’ eggs!!!  And I could tell that his patients with this senseless waitress was wearing thin. 

            ‘Scrambled.  And some coffee.’  He said shortly- annoyed. 

            And we sat there, waiting for the food.  His mother would remind him of the last night.  And he would make a joke of it.  I would agree with his mother.  ‘Good cop, Bad cop’- Richard and I understood.  Shit, if it weren’t for the Good Cop, we would have been sittin’ back in The Bridge! 

            ‘I just can’t believe you!   You’re lucky I didn’t take you to the hospital!’  Man, did I hate sitting there that morning!  And, when Rich’s eggs came, he looked down at them; and could smell  ’em. 

            ‘I can’t eat it.’  he said, sick to his stomach.  He had some coffee, though.  I knew how he felt.  Hungry, but sick to eat. 

            When we got to the shore, we checked in, and his mother gave us $200.00 to spend.  So we went to the arcade.  ‘Couldn’t read the menu, huh?’  I empathized.

            ‘The letters were all jumpin’ around the page and shit!  Actually, they weren’t even letters!  Just dots and shit, dancing around the page.  I can’t see a fuckin’ thing!  Does it ever go away?’  he was worried. 

            ‘Yeah, it will.’  I assured.  ‘Tomorrow you’ll feel fine.’  It’s scary when you look at something, and your eyes don’t work!

            ‘Everything is so blurry!’  he went on.  ‘But I feel perfectly normal!’

            ‘Would you ever do it again?’

            ‘No.’  he hesitated.  ‘Maybe if you did it with me.  We would understand each other.  We would be talking and not make any sense, but we would understand each other Completely!’  And this is completely true.  We would understand each other.

            ‘I don’t think I’ll ever do it again.’  I said.

            ‘I don’t think I will either.’  he agreed.  ‘Not for a while.  Come on, you gotto do it with me some day.  We’ll just get lost in the woods.  There’s no way we could get in trouble.  We’d just get really lost, is all.’

            ‘No.’  I had my mind made up.  And Rich was pretty serious about wanting to take the shit with me.  To be honest, I am intrigued by the idea.  I think that it would be fun.  But I like my mind the way it is.  Of course, Jimson is not like acid in that respect- it does not completely change your thought process.  It gives you a new perception, but it does not stay with you forever, like acid does.  But, all in all, I don’t think that the Fritzinger will ever do that shit again.” 

            And Charlie is pleased with this story.  A true one.  Down to the last drop.  If you don’t believe me, ask anybody from The Bridge who was there that night.  And, most of all, I do not recommend the Jimson plant as a dietary supplement. 

            “After the experience, Rich read a book on some guy called Don Juan, or something.  And it explains how to take the plant “correctly”- religiously.  I’m sure that it is an interesting experience.  But it is for people who want to wander from cave to cave out in the middle of the woods, in selfless solitude.  The Jimson experience, if done properly, is a journey to Awaking- a way of life.  But we are born into this material void, so its teachings would not be genuine to us.  Of course, we could benefit from it if we formed, or joined, a tribe somewhere.  But do you see that happening?”  This interests Charlie.  “How do you know what the Jimson plant is?”  I remember.  “D’you take it?”  I ask him. 

            He puts two logs on top of the fire and thinks for a second.  “I know that it ain’t no fuckin’ good.”  is how he answers.  And he is sustained.  I do not pry further about his knowledge of the Jimson experience.

            “You know why they call it  ‘Jimsonweed’?”

            “No.”  he interests.

            “Because, when they first settled in Jamestown, the soldiers put some in with a stew that they made.  And they ate it and all went crazy.  Completely incoherent for ten days!  That’s what I read somewhere, anyhow.” 

            “It’s funny how such an intelligent man as the Fritzinger could have involved himself in such a thing.”   Charlie states.

            “Not at all!”  I disagree.  “In Taoism, you use a form of  ‘stupidity’ ^5d in order to obtain intelligence.  And this is true.  Because you turn part of your mind off (so to speak) to let show another part.  A learning experience.  A way to use your Child mind in order to attain Enlightenment.”  I kick at the logs that Charlie put on the fire.  “How do you think the Fritzinger gained such wisdom?  He did not do so by living a boring, non-risk-taking life.  He is always Awaking to a new day.  Using his perception to fly on the real.  His mother, (and) all of those people who laughed at him that night, they know what happens:  We grow, slow.  But we grow.” 

            And Charlie likes this very much.  “Funny, though.”  I add.  “I never wrote about it in The Black Book.  I had it (the book) at the time, but I never wrote about it in there.  Actually, the only thing I wrote about it were those two things he said that night.  ‘She can fly!  She can fly!  She really can if she really wanted to!’  And  ‘Woah!  Did you see that!?!  The cops just jumped out of the fan!’  Man, was that a funny fuckin’ thing to say!” 

And I, from my Jimson experience, know that he actually saw those cops jumping out of the fan- vividly.  Could even tell you what their badge numbers were! 

            “Do you have any other Fritzinger Nothings in the book?”  he inquires. 

            “Ah,”  I sigh unhappily.  “They’re hard to come by!”   I grab the bottle of Jack out from between my feet and slug it.  Charlie reaches around and revitalizes the glass piece.  And we swap vices.  I look down at the cooking implements, and I consider washing them out, but I lack the motivation to.  It is not important, anyhow.  Shit, Native Americans didn’t take baths every day, so why should I wash those stupid pans out?  I pick The Black Book up off of the ground. 

            Indian standing in the bushes

            With a gun under his arm.

            He ain’t got no bullets left.

            His Bow and Arrow are In the    ground, On the tree.

            Charlie reacts to this reading by shoving my bottle of Jack in my face.  And I trade the piece for it.  Crickets tonight.  Lots of ’em.  They are just so loud!  Fireflies galore!  And the moon is half-way full.  It’s dark side- gray, still pale and visible.  Great Buddha- us two, sitting here by this fire, content with not a thing necessary to say.  It is so comfortable!  Relaxed.  Forgotten about the earth on which we live.  There is no planet (to us) tonight.  Just the warmth of the fire and the sounds of the cool night.  Charlie has bought his bag of peanuts back out.   

            “I’m fucked-up!”  he blurts out.

            “Yeah.”  I slur.  “The night is good!  No meatin’ off within twenty jerks, ‘ey?”  Charlie gets a healthy chuckle out of this. 

            “Beans, beans, the musical fruit.”  Charlie plagiarizes.  “The more you eat, the more ya wants to slob my shit down!”  And this is humorous. 

            “I went up to the drive-thru window at McDonalds one time.  And ordered a small coffee, two hash browns, and a bacon, egg and how ’bout you suck my dick now!”  And Charlie busts up laughing at this unexpected twist. 

            “This Taxi driver picks up this nun.”  he starts.  “And he’s drivin’ for about three blocks.  And he keeps looking back at her in the rear-view mirror. 

            ‘What’s your name?’  he asks her.

            ‘Henrietta.’  she says.

            And he drives for about five more blocks, still looking back at her.  Finally, she says,  ‘Why do you keep looking back at me like that?’

            ‘Well,’  the guy says.  But he says,  ‘Na.  I can’t say.’

            ‘No, come on, tell me.’ She says.

            ‘Well,’  he says.  ‘It’s just that… I’ve always had this fantasy where a nun gives me a blow-job in one of these back allies.’

            And they drive for another five blocks.  And the nun finally says,  ‘Okay.  But, under two conditions.’

            ‘Yeah?’  the cab driver perks up.

            ‘You gotto be Catholic, and you can’t be married.’

            ‘Good.’  he says.  ‘ I am Catholic, and I’ve never been married.’

            ‘Okay.’  the nun says.  So they pull over into a dark ally, and she slobs his shit down.  They get back onto the road, and he keeps looking back at her again.  With a guilty look on his face.

            ‘Why do you keep looking at me like that?’  Henrietta asks.

            ‘Well, I feel guilty.’  He says.  ‘I lied.  I’m Jewish, and I have a wife and five kids.’

            ‘That’s okay.’  the nun says.  ‘My name’s really Henry, and I’m on my way to a costume party!'” ^8d  And I get a laugh out of this.

            “Slobs his shit down, huh?”  I say.  And Charlie returns the laugh.

            The night air is cool and pleasing.  It is pretty late, as far as the time-clock is concerned.  And we both are a bit tired and rather mentally altered.  “The Other Side!”  I break the short silence. 

            “Both of us.”  Charlie answers.

            “Not at all divided.”  I say.  “Completely content being in this one Void.  This is the taste of it, though.  For Rambo’s is just a short walk away.”

            “Civilization.”  Charlie mutters with a bitter tone.  “Civilized people are so uncouth.”

            “Uncouth?”  I mock his word usage.

            “Yeah.”  he says, a little embarrassed.  “Fuckin’ monkeys we are.  Out here.”  And he is right.  This is primitive. 

            “The way I like it.”  I say.  “The Way!”

            “Ah.”  Charlie agrees.  “The Way.”   He goes into his rucksack and pulls out a little book. 

            “What is that.”  I ask.  I did not know that Charlie carried a book with him. 

            He holds it up to let the fire’s light reflect off of the cover, and I see that it is The Dhammapada.  A small version.  A pocket book.  (Or a rucksack book for that matter.)  Impressed that Charlie favors this type of reading, (for I have scanned the book, myself, and I agree with a lot of it,) I ask him,  “Do you squat in boxcars and read that book?”

            “Oh, no.”  he denounces.  “I only read it when I am out in the woods.  When I am completely quiet.  That boxcar ain’t too relaxing.”

            “Which does not matter.”  I say.  “You could read that book anywhere, and it would always say the exact same things.”  And he grins and nods, lowering the book to his lap and opening it to a page that he has marked with a little, blue piece of paper.  And I open my book, and interrupt his study with one of my own sayings.

            When you read a book for the second time, it says the exact same things.

            When you read a book for the second time, it says the exact same things.

            And he looks up at me and smirks.  “That is why you do not find Buddhahood within all of the books we study.”  he explains.  “The attainment that we are in search of is knowledge that we already have.  It’s just that…,”  he picks up a stick and pokes at the fire.  “Because this world is just so overwhelming, or our perception of it is.”  And this is true.  “It is a matter of retainment.  To retain the mood you want.  That’s why I read this book among the trees.  Because it speaks of life under the trees, not life on the 20^th floor of some eye-sore of a skyscraper.”

            He looks back down at the book and reads a little.  Then, he looks back up and spontaneously says,  “Just like what you said in The Black Book:  ‘When we cry, we meditate upon all that can keep our minds at woe.  When we giggle, we search for reasons to be jubilant.  Both are a constant; we always try to retain each when we want to be in that mode of our mood.’  This is a good insight.  Because…, think of when you were a child.  Remember when you were really mad about something, and some grown-up would tickle you or say funny things and try to make you laugh?  You would do everything possible not to laugh.”

            “Yeah.”  I exasperate.

            “Well, it’s the same thing.  They would try to tickle you, and you would smirk and stomp away from them;  get all mad at them because they were trying to make you laugh when you wanted to be angry (and they were ruining it).”  Charlie’s eyes brighten in the fire’s orange, reflective light.  “Always trying to retain that mode of our mood.”  And this is interesting.  “Ideas simply coexist in the absence of each other.”  he quotes.  

            “Like a pouting child- the second he is no longer pouting.  Playing and laughing with his brother.  A change that comes to him spontaneously.”  I say.  And I look down at the bottle of Jack.  I want to drink more, to retain my current, escalating, meandering mood; but I don’t want to be pukin’ in the morning.  “Want any more of this… shit?”   

            “No.”  Charlie says.  “I’m done with that.”  So I stuff it into my rucksack.  And we listen to the crickets’ quiet, and the fire- sustaining every second of this world.  Just as that flat rock stands out there in the middle of nowhere, and Lonesome stands sleeping in his stall- the barn, quiet.  All undisturbed.  With this serene thought on my mind, a prayer to think after I go to bed, I look at Charlie, who intently reads The Dhammapada. 

            “Is that in Chinese?”  I ask.

            “No.”  Charlie chuckles.  “I can’t read Chinese.  This is translated into English.”

            “Where’d ya get it?”

            “Boarders.”  he says without even looking up from the book.  The world is spinning, and I feel the need to correct something.  What it is… I don’t know.  So I ask Charlie if the glass piece is “kicked”.  He answers simply by picking it up and holding it out in front of him.  So I stagger up, almost losing my balance- the world at a quick altitude now.  I carefully grab the piece from his hand and hit it- standing.  Almost kicked.  So I hand it back to him, holding my lighter out as well- so he can take a hit.  But he just looks at the piece and takes it, putting it back on the pouch behind him, and does not pay any attention to the lighter.  Still intently reading.  So I go back over and sit on my sleeping bag- thinking all kinds of irrational thoughts.  With the earth spinning as fast as it is, and my regained mental focus, I feel as though this moon has come to an end.   So I stuff The Black Book into my rucksack  and decide to lie down and go to sleep.  Leaving Charlie alone in this forest to study The Dhammapada.

            And, again, Charlie has the fire alive before I am awake.  I crack my eyes to see the little breakfast fire.  The morning birds whistle at its smoke.  And Charlie has his sleeping bag hanging.  I sit up and look around.  And Charlie is not around.  I peer around in a circle, but there is no sign of my old friend.  I get up and hang my sleeping bag in a tree.  Stretch and scratch that which needs to be scratched.  I shit beside the Indian fire, I mean, I sit beside the Indian fire, and feed little sticks into it.  I grab my pan from last night.  It is encrusted with white, solid, buffalo fat.  Fuckin’ nasty smellin’!!  So I get my knife out and begin to scrape away at it.  When I have the pan half-way scraped, here comes Charlie.  In his hands, he has both of our water bottles- full. 

            “Ah.”  he looks at me bright-eyed.  “It is awake!”

            I smile at him and quote The Black Book:

            If you wake a sleeping bear,

            Than the bear will have a good, hardy sleep.

            He hands me my bottle and points at the pan.  “Here.  boil that shit off!”  So I dump half of the bottle in and put it on the metal rods across the fire.  Charlie goes into his rucksack and pulls out the egg carton and the slab bacon.  He rolls a stone over and sits in front of it, placing the slab on it.  He cuts thick strips off of it.  And, after the buffalo grime is washed off, he plops the strips into the pan.  I look at the sizzling strips and wonder what we will do today.

            “Where ya wanna go, today?”  I ask him.

            “I don’t know.”  he says.  “I ain’t too domesticated.  I guess I’ll go right here.”

            “What?  Stay right here all day?”

            “I could if I felt like it.”  he assures.  “But, as for you… I know they stomp and bob their heads.  One stands miserable with his ears pinned.  And you are stomping at flies.”  He pushes the bacon around with his knife. 

            “Everyday.”  Is what I say.  “Everyday, it feels like 1970; the day is always young.” 

            “True shit.”  Charlie nods his head.  “Wherever you may be.  There is no place either good or bad, just as the city isn’t bad.  It just sucks, is all!  Where’s the book?” 

            So I unstuff it from my rucksack.  The sight the bottle of Jack in there makes me cringe.  Charlie opens it and looks down the page.  And, to me, the appearance of him is that of a scholar in the library.  And he reads to himself.

            Treacherous tide rolling in as the rain whips down.  A season’s change.  Trees snap in half; the wind howls across the low thunderous noise of the rain beating on the aluminum roof.  Sometimes scary.

            He flips the pages and finds another passage.  And he continues to read to himself.

            Oh, drunk in my slump,

             I sweat profusely. 

            My rucksack is stacked;

            All four shooters packed. 

            The ground wet,

            Yet I could not frown.

            The sun was setting.

            Tomorrow.

            Now, I’ll lie down.

            He flips the pages.

            Kindness occurs when someone can do something for you

            And you know you don’t have to do anything in return.

            He pops the book shut and says,  “How come you don’t write much about the Fritzinger in here?”

            “I do.”  I say.  I grab the book from him and read:

            Richard and his calls,

            They are all redundant and brief.

            “And that’s how it was with every phone conversation.”  I tell him. 

            “Hey.”  I imitate. 

            “Hey.”

            “What’s up?”

            “Nothin.”

            “What’re you doin?”

            “Nothin.”

            “Wanna hang out?”

            “Yeah.  I’ll be down in ten minutes.”

            “Okay.    Goodbye then.” 

            “Yes.      Goodbye.”  Click.

            “There was no need to belabor.  That was always it.”  Charlie flips the bacon.  I sit and stab a log with my knife out of boredom.  And, out of the blue, I laugh, remembering a thought.  “When I worked for Bruce Miller, I worked with this girl, Amy.  We were in the barn one day with a horse, and the vet was there.  His name was Dr. Brown.  His first name was Richard.”  Charlie smirks at this.  “Well, we were standing there, we were in the middle of feeding, and we were helping Dick (that’s what everybody called Richard) with the horse.  He said,  ‘I’ll be aright.  You guys can finish whatever you were doing.  I can handle this myself.’  And Amy, warning him, said, 

            ‘Be careful with that horse.  He can be a Dick!’  The second the words left her mouth, she  realized what she had said.  And she wouldn’t have laughed at all, if I didn’t give her a look and mimic it back to her.  We both started laughing out loud and had to go up to the hay loft to get it all out.  It was the funniest fuckin’ thing!  She didn’t mean to say what she said, but, well…”

            Charlie laughs.  “Be careful with that horse, he can be a Dick!”  he laughingly repeats.

            And I interrupt his laughing by observing,  “Think of what his name is in the telephone book!”

            “Brown Dick!”  Charlie laughs uncontrollably.  “What did he name his children?”  Charlie jokes.

            “Dr. Browns gardener…”  I joke.  “Brown Thumb!”

            And the morning has become another morn’ for us to Awaken.  It is Dharma-  Charlie without any domestication.  Me-  supplementing my life with this great vitamin- this journey.  The beginning.  Not yet indifferent, though.  But that is something that I must not yearn for.  Because that would be too eager- the opposite of what I want to achieve.  Charlie sticks his knife into the strips and places them on my plate.  And we wait for them to cool.  Then, he takes the eggs and opens all twelve into the pan.  A mess of egg.  A mass-abortion.

            “…Scratch my ass in the woods.”  I remember out loud.  “I met this chick from Alaska who had this same mentality.  She said…”  And I pause to find the quote in my book.  “Ah.  Here it is. 

            “Here, on a country road, if you stop and drop your pants,…^* you’d get arrested.  In Alaska, you’d be rude if you passed by and didn’t wave.”  Susan Liou

            “And she said this, too, which has Zen about it.”  I go on.

            “I muck stalls for a living.  I work like a dog.

            I come home;  I have a dog.”

            “That Susan was one, cool chick!”  I belabor. And Charlie is pleased with this as he pokes at the mess of eggs.  Too much really.  Won’t cook right..  With his humorous face on my mind, I think that this will be another day of Black Book readings and Zen uncraziness.  I grab a strip of bacon and eat it.  Fat still soft and the whole thing chewy.  I enjoy it, though.  I think about the Midnight Ghost- where it is right now.  Stuck to that track.  And I think of Bruce Miller- what he is doing right now.  So I open The Black Book and transcribe a passage for Charlie.

            The old man sits there in his brown, leather chair- reading through his countless papers.  He calls people constantly and receives calls even more frequently.  The fragmented ramblings circle ’round about in his head.   He turns his light off and lies back in his chair.  He relaxes.  Then, he tells me to keep my ear out for the phone, and he goes into the kitchen to make his arnica for his horses.

            He retires to his quarters, and I am still sitting here.  I wonder:  Is what I do.  My mind rambles Its phrases, and I search for the accomplishment I have come here to fulfill.  And, shit!  Witchcracks that seize my opportunity- They snuggle with the Truth, and change Truth’s  point of view.  Leaving this cross that I bear- is bear of the life that, metaphorically, is supposed to be here.  Retiring to my quarters- the corners of my mind, I struggle with my own truth; and I learn myself to relax so that my composure can impulse me to quit trying to “understand”. 

            So I grab my books and retire to my cluttered room.  The old man’s door is shut, and his TV is on.  Its blue glow outlines the boarder of his door.  So I walk quietly through the hall.  The unavoidable, squeaky boards seem to be amplified by two ten-inch speakers.  And the beasts of the perrigon scratch the twitch in my ass. 

            A couple of days later- continuing the passage, I wrote:

            So I scratch my ass in spite as I close the door to my quarters.  I toss my books on my bed.  My thoughts being ruined by the BMW climbing up the driveway.  I panic; hide myself by suspiciously turning my light off.  I am scared, for the crank that I spank into my brain.  That flame that has burned ever since The Bridge.  In The Bridge, it was all careless- a sojourn to the past.  Clinging on to the past years.  Trying to keep the 60’s era alive.  But it was the 90’s.  A tense time of its own.  No real war, but we wanted to make one.  Cheesy bands, shitty music; over-played.  A bunch of crap by my standards.  Although I have always wanted to be better than it, I am inadvertently part of it. 

            Bruce is home, though.  Time to hide the past.  Hide all of the ideas that he did not have the burden of being nurtured by.  I whisper to myself my past.  Yet I scream the future to the rest.  Maybe them knowing my past might be beneficial to me, make my climb easier.  This future is not easy, though; and that’s not what I have been looking for.  I THOUGHT it would be easier. Though it is more time consuming than I had anticipated.  Maybe it is because I know when to take another sip of my Black and Tan (a dark beer). 

            Can’t think thought no more.  Process has been lost in the cost that I live to pay for this wager.  Not a gamble, for this is a sure thing.  Death and Taxes as sure!  Reason why I scramble to receive that which I now have to give- in order to get that which will be owed to me.  Progress is what I have bestowed upon myself.  Anticipation of consuming this ground that stands in front of me.  Going nowhere- just standing there.  Roads don’t go nowhere.  Regardless of the fact that they see the same trees every single day; never leaving that one spot;  Roads still contain the ability to meet!  Ends meet.  Not “end’s meat”, some kind of strange food.  But Blacks can’t get tanned.  Or can we?  Black Like me ¹⁵– a pigmentation for my imagination.

            On the crosswalk, I trust the lights to stop all of the cars.  Lights are friction (heat) that catch our attention- optic nerve reflection.  Nerves and, (in turn,) muscles tighten to lever metal to different velocities.  Gravity, watching over the whole scene, packs the friction tightly together.  It holds all of this into its place.  Lights do not stop cars; people do not stop cars.  In fact, friction does not stop cars.  The components of the optic nerve, itself, are chemicals in their simplest form.  All nerves and muscles are simply made up of chemical cells.  Foot onto chemically produced rubber on top of factory stamped-out iron.  Iron- cooled from its liquidated state.  Chemical!  Iron in a mechanism functioning in synchronization, once a chemical, not viewed as a chemical anymore.  So people do not stop to lights, for they are actually chemicals, themselves.  A make-up of chemical reactions interacting with each other.  As are the planets and the stars and whatever else is out here!  Tires not rubbing on pavement.  Pavement not mashed into the earth’s crust.  One way to describe it is to say that all are One.

            So friction does not stop cars, because gravity is the magnetic pull of the mantle under the crust.  Not pavement being mashed in by atmospheric pressure.  Simple collection of chemical coincidences being spun- being wrapped around a thickening gas.  All chemicals coexisting as a result of each other.  The Chemical to Ecosystem ratio being set in comprehensible forms.  Packed together so tightly that they are not two different objects, but they are, in fact, each other!

            I stand on the crossroads and look fearfully at the halted drivers’ eyes.  I do not really trust the traffic lights or the brake lights. (or even the wiring in all of those brake lights!)  Their heat and light I can feel and see, but I know that man did not just automatically stop his car because of the frequency of the traffic light.  I know it is the friction that assists my journey.  That driver had the sanity to stop because of the chemicals that his mind is made-up of.  The crosswalker puts his fingers in his ears and closes his eyes.

            Strange transition from old man to literary meat loaf.  Thinking straight is the result of this written mind mess.  That crosswalker looks back at the path that has lead up to this moment.  He realizes that he is not a man stopped at a crosswalk, light open to suggestions.  Cells making up tissue; tissue making up organs; organs making up systems; systems making up body.  All cooperate to operate the body.  No translation for the “mind” to “life” scenario.  Strange people waiting for lights.  (Slaves to the Traffic Light! ⁴)  Crazy fuckers- all of them!  All those drivers in their little boxes of metal.  They’d piss and shit in each other’s dinners, and would fart on each other’s pillows if the ever felt the need to.  Each other’s an Asshole in a dick-head car- with its pissed-off headlight eyes and its irrational driver.  All pickin’ their noses and scratching their balls.  Women, too!  Simply friction pushing heat waves that satisfy the organs and, in turn, facilitate the drivers’ abilities to concentrate upon the lights.

            Charlie gets a mixed kick out of this.  Intelligence intertwined with the mind of a sick, twisted, little sixteen-year-old boy.  But I was about nineteen or twenty when I wrote it.  I pop the book shut and watch him fuss with the eggs.  Now a sloppy mass of half cooked eggs, slightly burnt parts and runny liquid.  A fuckin’ mess!  “How those eggs comin’ along?”  I ask with a smirk.

            “Not like I thought they would.  I thought it would be like a huge omelet.”

            “Don’t look like no fuckin’ omelet to me!”  I laugh.

            “We gotto eat it, though.”  Charlie jokes.  “I used up all the eggs.”

            “Thought you were bein’ really smuckin’ fart; didn’t you?” 

            “They’ll be okay.”  He says confidently.  He grabs a piece of bacon- now cold, and he gnaws away at it.  Ripping at it like a laughing hyena scavenging at a carcass.  He finally finishes with the egg project, and he divides the mass in two.  And they aren’t too bad.  The morning is fresh.  Our stomachs seemingly full.  And Charlie sits back and enjoys this feeling.  He takes out his glass piece and packs it carefully.  He hits it and goes to pass it to me.

            “No.”  I decline.  “It’s too early for that.”  And he agrees.  He takes one more hit and puts it away.  He boils some water for our morning tea, and the tea tastes just like tea. 

            “So, you goin’ back soon?”  Charlie reminds me.

            “Yeah.”  I say regrettingly.  “It’s not that they stomp and paw.  It’s that, well…  Back there is my can of beans.  I’ve tasted the fuckin’ things, and I yearn for them.  There ain’t nothin’ like watching the sun rise above the barn in the mornings.  The humid air around the manure pit.  Just like there is nothin’ like waking up here, and not needing to be anywhere.”  Charlie nods his head and looks down at the leaf carpet floor.

            And that is what I am-  That cup of tea out there in the middle of nowhere.  That flat rock.  Lonesome standing in his stall.  Tasting every bit of the life that I yearn for.  A journey.  The one that matters when I come to the end.^1d  Buddha upon this Dharma Bum- one who lives a domesticated lifestyle.  I could never disappear into the mountains and caves of China.  I am happy riding race horses and laughing at the human mentality of both the racehorse business and of everywhere else I travel.  But, every once in a while, I come across another Bum of St. Theresa.  Interesting people.  Like Frank Trotta and Richard Fritzinger and Charles Napravnik^*.  So spread out- spread apart (from each other).  But there are Bodhisattvas out here.  In every country of this world.  And we all have some things in common.  All Bodhisattvas have in common that same thing all ordinary people have in common.  And that is that we all blink the same way the tree grows.

             And I read to Charlie the last entry on The Other Side.  The very last passage in The First Black Book.           

            And Shit splatters on the wall.  Brown Spots on the Wall; by Wu Flung Poo.^8e  Just trying to get to the end.  This Side has just been dragging on.  “It is good to have an end to journey towards, but it is the journey that matters in the end.” ^1d 

            I am no longer that boy on the boxcar living in the woods and living the Dharma dream.  I am now a young jock living the nostalgic memories that I have aspired to build.  As the cool October breeze carries the crisp, invigorating air through my nose, I look up at the grandstands.  It is still dark, and the fog has densified in spots.  The whole structure of the grandstands is not yet totally visible.  But the pink hue behind it casts its silhouette behind the moist fog clouds that hang in mid-air over the track. 

            This early, at 5:20a.m., I actually wake up on my first horse.   I am still groggy and not fully awake.  But as we’re backing up (jogging the opposite way that we gallop, or “warming-up”), I feel my toes begin to point into position.  My whole lower body finds the sweet spot, and my hands are completely invisible.  As I feel my whole body poised, I take a deep whiff of the refreshing Autumn air.  And, at this time, every morning, I remember my dream.

            My mind is clear and I remember the feeling I got when I thought of the life of a jockey.  The warm memories of season after season.  The cold, moon-lit nights of November displaying the shedrow’s structure.  And the bright mornings where there is dew on every blade of grass and the smell is warm and damp.  Remembering a young boy who wanted to be the best.  Who knew very little about the lifestyle he was to fall in love with. 

            And I think of this every morning.  And I feel the same way I did when I just started riding pony races.  I knew I had a lot to learn and that I knew nothing about racing.  But, someday, I would have circumspect knowledge of the lifestyle.

            As I turn in, I sit back and jog off.  As I post, I feel that incredible momentum of a good race horse’s collected power.  I stand up and break, concentrating on that collected momentum.  Poised for a smart pace with a strong finish.  Pulling-up full of energy.  A feeling of (the) gracefulness (of riding a stakes race at Delaware Park in the summer) mixed with (the) gritty competitiveness (of the cut-throat race riding on the inner track at Aqueduct in the winter).  Still invisible.  Pulling-up, turning and jogging home; feeling completely conservative.  “Poised for the stretch drive!”

            Being completely awake and grateful.  And I know that I am just a boy; that these years are my childhood memories.  The nostalgic time of the sun rising behind the bugboy’s silhouette.  The mornings- young.  At the time when he was still just a kid- innocent.  Not even having to fully shave yet. 

            A glorious time to remember.  Like seeing the old-timer.  The old, black guy who’s been doin’ it all his life, who tells amazing stories in that fine, cultured accent.  Stories that’ll make you laugh uncontrollably or want to cry or even throw up.  The sun setting behind him as he sits on a bucket in front of the shedrow cold-hosing a horse’s leg.  The rest of the horses in their stalls, muchin’ on their night hay.  Their legs all done-up.  The smell of the different liniments and the scent of the stalls.  The bugboy living this life, but unaware of how to fully appreciate it.  And that is what pushes me on.

            That is what I felt about Bruce Miller’s before I ever actually worked with race horses.  I thought of waking up at 4:30a.m. and smelling and listening.  Constantly thinking of (and feeling) the history of it all.  Aspiring to be poised.  So, I have been determined to live it ever since.  Blindly jumping into a lifestyle that I knew very little about.  But loving every misunderstood minute of it.

            “You look like a jockey.”  Charles Napravnik said to me.  I was on “Charlie Brown”,  Sweet Sensation was his real name.  A small, liver-chestnut pony.  I wasn’t even interested in riding at the time.  I was mucking out stalls for his wife, Cindy, to make some extra money (freshman year in high school).  It was a fresh, spring afternoon.  The wind was blowing warmly.  And the (noise of the) leaves waving in the trees whofted in our ears.  The wind slowed down, and Charles turned to me and said,  “Why don’t you hop on!  Here, I’ll give you a leg-up.”  He lifted me up onto Brownie’s back, and I sat unbalanced.  The feeling was new to me.  The saddle was hard and shaped weird.  The reigns felt forign to me.  I walked around the farm a little bit; then bought Brownie back to Charles.  I stopped and looked over at him.  He always had knowledge in his eyes.  He said to me,  “You look like a jockey.”

            It was a thought that I had never even touched upon.  I never even considered it as a career.  But I knew mucking out stalls was a way to make a living- a career.  So why not learn how to ride, as well.  So my good buddy Charles gave me my first leg-up.  (And I took lessons from his wife- paying them off by bartering the hours I worked.)  And Charlie Brown became the first pony I raced.  

            As much as Charles and I were great buddies, and he enjoyed my company, he always told me that I “have to get out there and just do it”.  He taught me that the whole point of life is to be happy.

            That was the beginning of my yearning for this boxcar.  The whole time, I knew that I was growing up.  Not getting old, but responsible for my own life.  No more high school fights or going to shows (hard-core and punk concerts).  No more going to work every day and enjoying life at night with my old friends (whom I have since lost contact with.)  No more of that. 

            People are proud of me, and I have a lot I want to accomplish.  Like when I first bought this Black Book.  I knew that I wanted to honestly complete it using the format I had chosen.  And, to this page, I have loyally done just that.  I have a pristine book here in my desk drawer.  Still in in-concordance with what format I am going to use for it.    After all, I should be just one side.  9/30/99

            And I pop the book shut.  The last entry in The First Black Book.   

The

Third

Black Book

NOTES

1.)David Schiller, The Little Zen Companion.

            (NY:  Workman Publishing.  1994)

COPYRIGHT David Schiller, 1994.   ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

   a.)A quote from Sen-T’ San (87)

   b.)(276) John Lennon

   c.)(2)

   d.)(63) Ursula K. Guin

   e.)Allusion to (370):

            “Talking about Zen all the

              time is like looking for fish

               tracks in a dry riverbed.”

                                              Wu-Tzu

   f.)An allusion to (30): 

            ” ‘What is Buddha?’

            ‘Dried shitstick.’ ”  Yun-Men

   g.)(347) Shakespeare

   h.)(333) Wallace Stevens

   i.)(108) Lewis Welch

2.)Jack Kerouac, The Dharma Bums.

            (NY:  Penguin Books.  Published by the Penguin Group; Penguin Putnam Inc.  1976)  COPYRIGHT by Jack Kerouac, 1958.  COPYRIGHT renewed by Stella Kerouac and by Jan Kerouac, 1986.   ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

   a.)An allusion to (6)

   b.)An allusion to (104):

            “But there was a wisdom in it all, as you’ll see if you take a walk some night on a suburban street and pass house after house on both sides of the street each with the lamplight of the living room, shining golden, and inside the little blue square of the television, each living family riveting its attention on probably one show; nobody talking; silence in the yards; dogs barking at you because you pass on human feet instead of on wheels.”

   c.)An allusion to (3-9)

   d.)(112) Paraphrased:

            “Have some wine, put some wisdom in your head.”

   e.)An allusion to (85)

3.)Hunter S. Thompson, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.

            (NY:  Random House, Inc.  1972)

COPYRIGHT by Hunter S. Thompson, 1971.   ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

   a.)An allusion to (76-77)

   b.)(56)

4.)A song by Phish, Slave to the Traffic Light.  1994:  A bootleg recording {LIVE}.

5.)Alan Watts, The Way of Zen. 

            (NY:  Random House, Inc.  1957)

COPYRIGHT by Pantheon Books Inc., 1957.  COPYRIGHT renewed by Mary Jane Watts, 1985.   ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.          

   a.)Pp.(3-29)

   b.)(18)

   c.)(27)

   d.)(19)

6.)H. Jackson Brown, Jr.,  A Father’s Book of Wisdom.

            (Tennessee:  Rutledge Hill Press, Inc.  1989)

COPYRIGHT by H. Jackson Brown, Jr., 1990.   ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

   a.)(73) Paraphrased:

            “The smallest act of kindness is worth more than the grandest intention.”

   b.)(74) Paraphrased:

            “Real generosity is doing something for someone who’ll never find it out.”

                                               Frank A. Clark

7.)Alan Watts, The Way of Liberation.

            (NY:  Weatherhill Inc.  1983)

Protected by COPYRIGHT under terms of the International Copyright Union.  

All RIGHTS RESERVED.

   a.)(7)

   b.)(3):  “Words can express no more than a tiny fragment of human knowledge, for what we can say and think is always immeasurably less than what we experience.  This is not only because there are no limits to the exhaustive description of an event, as there are no limits to the possible divisions of an inch; it is also because there are experiences which defy the very structure of our language, as water cannot be carried in a sieve.  But the intellectual, the man who has a great skill with words, is always in danger of restricting what can be known to what can be described.  He is therefore apt to be puzzled and suspicious when anyone tries to use ordinary language to convey an experience which shatters its logic, an experience which words can express only at the cost of losing their meaning.  He is suspicious of fuzzy and ill-conceived thinking, and concludes that there is no experience that can correspond to such apparently nonsensical forms of words.”

   c.)(62)

8.)Jokes:  by word of mouth.

   a.)Author unknown:  “Little Johnny Swears”

            When I was in middle school, there was this boy in the class who had the foulest mouth you could possibly imagine.  It was so bad, that teachers refused to let him participate in the classroom activities.  Johnny’s parents wrote a letter to The Board of Education, complaining about the school’s refusal to teach their child. 

            One day, the board was reviewing the school.  It had people standing in the back of the class rooms, reviewing the way the teachers taught.  Well, a board member was in the back of the room in our biology class that day.  And the teacher had to think of a way to include Johnny in the activities.  So she came up with the alphabet game.  She would start at the beginning, and the student would have to name an animal who’s name began with that letter. 

            The teacher said,  “P.”

            And a boy said, “Parrot.”

            “Good.”  she said.  Then she said, “Q.”

            And a little girl said, “Quail.”

            “Very good!”  the teacher said.  Then, she came to Johnny.  “There’s no way he can swear;”  she thought.  “All he has to do is name an animal.  There’s just no way he can swear!”  She said, “Johnny, your letter is ‘R’.”

            Johnny put his finger on his chin and looked up at the ceiling, thinking.  Then, he took a breath and said.  “A rat.” 

            “A big fuckin’ rat with a dick this big!”

   b.)Author unknown

   c.)Author unknown

   d.)Author unknown

9.)A song by Sepultura, Dead Embryonic Cells.  Arise.

            (NY:  Roadrunner Records and Music Publishing Co., Inc.  1991)

10.)Author Unknown.  An exercise that teaches punctuation.  I was taught by my seventh (and eighth grade) English teacher, Ray Mancini.  He wrote it on the board with no punctuation at all, and we had to insert the proper punctuation.

            “That that is is that that is not is not is that that that is”

11.)Alvin Schwartz, Witcracks   Jokes and Jests from American Folklore.

       Illustrated by Glen Rounds

            (NY:  J.B. Lippincot Co.  1973)

            *Has been footnoted simply because I originally thought that it was the title of a book that I read when I was in (about) sixth grade.  But, after rediscovering the book, I found that I had remembered the title wrong.  Regardless, the title of this book is where I got the word from, so I have footnoted it.

12.)Tom Durkin.  Stretch Call for the 7^th Breeders’ Cup Classic, 1990.

            “Best of the Breeders’ Cup”.  (U.S.A.: Brentwood Home Video. 1991)

COPYRIGHT by Breeders’ Cup LTD.

13.)Nude Nick was the parrot’s name who lived at Rich Fritzinger’s mother’s boyfriend’s house (which is where Rich lived.  We hung out there often- back in the good ol’ days.)  Nude Nick and the Nude Nick Song are owned by, and are a Trademark of  Robert O’Leary, High Bridge, N.J.; 1995. All Rights Reserved.

14.)Character has been paraphrased from:

       Jack Handey’s, Deepest Thoughts.

            (NY:  Superstock, Inc. 1994):

Text COPYRIGHT by Jack Handey, 1994.

Photographs COPYRIGHT by Superstock, Inc., 1994.

            “I bet the sparrow looks at the parrot and thinks, yes, you can talk, but listen to yourself ! “

15.)John Howard Griffin,  Black Like Me.

            (Boston:  Houghton Mifflin Co.  1960)

            *No ideas written in my story have been derived from this particular book.  I have footnoted it simply because the phrase is the title of a book and not one which I can claim originally for.

 

---

 

March 13, 1992

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tGzWtDFydTQ

---

---

Richard Fritzinger:

that is a story of its own time, but it was his influence which prompted me to seek out The Midnight Ghost, hop on it and forever, thereafter, live the life of a travelling bodhisattva, similar to how Kerouac wrote about in The Dharma Bums, but with my own, style.

---

---

The Other Side

October 4, 2012

When the man doesn't want
to deal with humanity,
He goes down to the trenches,
pushes weights from his benches, 
And he clenches his fists.

When he hits a target, he hits it with a twist.
Trying to be as passive as the morning mist, 
Feeling as aggressive
As a yellow jacket
when it's pissed.

Bottled-up, frustrated anger
boggling the mind
and bogging it down, 
Like a frown-painted on face clown.
No matter what is inside,
the eyes cannot hide,
for they paint the picture that you see.

I am only me 
because you say I am me.

You tell me, "This is you."
as you point.

What would you do
if I pointed at you 
and said, "You are not you!"
If I was convinced that it was true?
Would you cease to be you,
While I could continue to be me?
The scenario is trite.
This twist has wrenched the muscular tension of the ego tight.

Reciprocation happens while at rest
When the thoughts that you entertain
become less and less,
Then you do not have to wait on them,
Like an underpaid, beaten up, disheveled waitress.
What is that picture you paint of her in your mind?
Could your picture ever accurately describe her?
Will you think of her 
from time to time?
There are so many people you never think about again,
But she seems to reoccur

within the song that goes on and on
and on and on
in your head.  

Here comes the chorus,...
Oh, back to the first verse again.
I guess it is worth listening to,
If that is the music that pleases you.

If the songs do not make you happy,
Why listen to and produce those songs?
You don't have to sing along
and this ain't no sing-along!

Your thoughts are not like the water in your bong.
They are not even the smell
that you smell
when you smell something 
and say, "What the hell?!"

Thoughts are not a thing,
Nor do they make you “do” things.
Do your thoughts make you a person, as opposed to a "thing"?
Thoughts do not make you better 
than that rock.

Thoughts are not the thing that make you feel "Better,"
Feeling better is an observation. 
Feeling is a production of thoughts,
And thoughts are not real.

But if thoughts exist not,
What is the paper on which you read this ink blot?
Thoughts are the words you read.
Read is a word that means two different things 

in the English language.
Have you read?

Ha! Thought you would think the word read,
and not reed

or about a water melon seed,
or about the color, red.
Twisted out of your head
your ego builds it's homestead.

You can evict ego,
just like you can stop recording that song.
Though it is a process 
that takes very long.
After all, shouldn't your ego just go "run along!"
But would thoughts run away with ego,
like ego and thought are friends?
Or is ego a bunch of thoughts
all holding hands, when broken apart,
They alone cannot stand?

How to break that hold
Of the ego
Is not much a lesson,
as it is a story to be told.
And it cannot be told through thoughts and feelings.
It can only be told by living.
Ego can be discarded only through forgiving!

Forgiving lasts a longer than a while.
Holding grudges plays a frownie-faced clown song forever,
while the clown of your conscious tries to crack a smile.

Listening to words of a song that he wrote
In order to forget that same very song!
The song needs to go, 
As does the hurtful ego.
So, to evict the ego,
‘Tis a process that time spent in forgiveness.

Forgiveness can only be proven through a smile.
the eviction process takes a while.
Never complain for it to go away.
Your process has made it this way;
and like an engine in a car, 
to start, some parts have to move first.

What could be worse
Than a car that, instead of the starter spinning first,
The first thing to spin
Would be all four of tires?

Seems there is a process in play,
Otherwise, when you turned your key,
Your starter won't work,
Because your tires 
Would already be on their way!

Seems like you're broke down.
Like the deshevled waitress,
You put your guard down.
You don't even try to look like a smiling, 
frownie-faced clown.
You let your expression fall down,
And your sad song is the only thing you hear,
Over and over again, that same sound.
"Turn the beat around."

Let your eyes be like disco balls.
Your face is already a mirror.
Your thoughts are not what steer you.
It is what you think of your thoughts
That can clear you.
Trick is to forgive,
but it is a process to let go.

Forgiving of yourself 
is something you have to let the rest of your mind know.
It takes daily action,
Daily practice
to reach a point
where you, by deed, practice what you preach.

When you think by example, 
You can live as one.
Not just an example,
But instead of being just a sample,
you are the complete you.

Simply Whole, not a hole,
because wherever there is a hole,
There is always the thought,  "What's inside?"
And people would never let preside,
Within the camps of thought within their minds,
That you are a big A-hole;
Unless you proceed to act that way,
or continue to process things in your mind
the way that an asshole do.

The only difference between pointing at someone and declaring,
"This is Me.  That is You."
Is that you think that when I poo
It is something different from you,
Like you and my poo are two.
But I think there is a oneness 
between my poo and you.
Like this thing we call "life" is a shit stew.
I must be the potatoes.  
Are you still going to be you?

You might just drown,
If you don't carrot-up,
Do you think that you could breathe 
submerged in poop stew?

But I don't think I see
The picture the “I” wants my eyes to paint for me.
Seems I squint sometimes
At things I find.
Either they are strange, 
Or my binoculars are out of range,
but the canvas seems to have already been painted all over
and changed.
It seems I am only doing touch-ups
As I try to fit my Paint where it would fit the whole picture.

You are You and I am Me.
My poop is separate from you,
But at what moment did it become separate 
from me?
At what point is your A-hole no longer a "hole"?
But just part of you
And at what point does it become your whole ass,
not just your asshole.

And how did your asshole leak onto your thoughts,
Covering them with shit,
making you feel lost,
like you’ve lost your grip?

If you have shitty thoughts, 
You exist in shit.
If you see shit and say, 
"I am one with that shit!"
Than you've got it!

As your music changes through the process.
Sort through this shit.  
thoughts are what you find
when you attack your own mind.

When you seek that which cannot be taught,
Your words are at a loss.
You are as serious as a monkey
With a handful of oneness
Moments just before the toss.

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Diatribe 2016

I’ve pondered why there exist anomalies that seem to separate science from religion as well as separating insanity from solid ground. I retreated to solitude and considered this happening for months. In loosing my identity on the social level, I had also victimized my psyche and allowed the emotions of depression to experiment with me both mentally and physically. I write things that make sense only under particular circumstances, while attempting to apply the universal happening as the overseer. With all crazy thoughts and written declarations, when reality is not always what we think it “should” be, the line of sanity is historically defined by witch hunting societies and academically nurtured falsehood bearers (those falsehoods being society’s conditioning of humans to be polite and to pay taxes and to follow certain laws and customs, how we view our interdependencies with our physical environments, along with our political and social assimilations.) So the people who define “sanity” are the most introverted and insane of the bunch- insane because they think that their town is secure and that their fellow humans will assist them in their daily plight to be comfortable and to accrue more money; all the while, they are stealing from and lying to us with the wink of the political eye. How insane is it for a politician to lie, then pretend that the lying never happened; then to ask his fellow men to vote him into political power? It is even more insane that the people reelect lying politicians! One must wonder if that such dichotomy is the “fine line” between rational thought and insanity! I must interject the following: how are we comfortable if it is always a plight, a fight, a legacy? In other words, how does society protect us when social conformity is the exact same thing we frequently fight to change? What good is being civilized when we do so only by allowing certain evils, such as war, to protect us?
When a man loses his identity within any social construct, he begins to exhibit behaviors that are not familiar with his conditioning. He becomes “different” when compared to the norm. Unfortunately, society does not pedestalize the fact that he’s different until he looses his shit and shoots-up his office building in an extensively planned renegade spree. The crazy man shooting a gun at coworkers is viewed as insane, whereas a government body that collects money from citizens then wastes it on personal extravagance (lying to the citizens as to where their collective monies will be allotted)… These government bodies are considered to be the norm and are comprised of “sane” participants and are absolutely necessary in order for us to be civilized. They are the criminals who get away with it. Most times, after they’ve been caught, they “deal with it,” which is a way of… still getting away with it.
It is collectively agreed that the “crazy man with the gun” must be dealt with, analyzed and “bought to justice”. The government bodies that steal from you and me- they are analyzed using flawed, self serving “logic” and are bought to justice infrequently and merely on a non-measurable, arbitrary scale. Every single person on this planet is insane for enabling each other to create an environment in which a man will go “crazy” and shoot his fellow citizens. Can you admit that you understand at least part of the crazy man’s ultimate frustration with human interaction? We would be insane not to admit that the system we live in drove him crazy, not the individual people he shot.
Before writing the crazy words that began this sermon, I wrote the following, whether relevant or not:

How to not react to your environment:
First, realize that it is Your own micro-environment. You create the environment via your thoughts. You feel things- situational factors are of your own definition. Mental Conditioning shapes how you perceive the environment; therefore, you define the environment, rather than being a mere player within it who is also defined by it. So as to not be an actor, nor the director, one must shift their perception, not only of the situation, but of themselves. A paradigm shift in totality. It is difficult to use skills we do not have; furthermore, to think in a language that we have not yet learned is a seemingly impossible thing to do; but when you change your mind about who you “are”, how you act and react, if you want to change all the things that (to this point) make you “you”, you must become Not you, therefore come-up with a new way in which the voice in your brain talks to you.
You must exercise to change perceptions that the inner voice brings to your attention. When that voice no longer comes from the “you” that you perceive yourself to be, and begins to question and becomes unfamiliar with the environmental change, only then can a new brand of thought and a new person emerge. We are frightened by things unknown, just as we are positively excited by the unknown. As the voice in our head uses what it knows to make sense of any given environment, when the unknown is strived for- a language in your head becomes a new, learning adventure! After creating this new realm and becoming conditioned by it, you again fall under the repetition of that new conditioning. Not really a fallacy- it seems to be the nature of the human mental process. The moments between the paradigm shifts are the moments of clarity and wisdom. The moments between paradigm shifts are the reason for paradigm shifts.

January 28, 2020

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Southern Pole

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The Seven Directions:

 

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“For I know the plans I have for you,

plans to prosper you and not to harm you,

plans to give you hope and a future.  

Then you will call on me, and I will listen to you.  

You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart.  

I will be found by you, and will bring you back from captivity. 

I will gather you from all the nations and places where I have banished you, and will bring you back to the place from which I carried you into exile.”

Jerimiah 29:11-14

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Do not conform to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind.

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Premable

We, the Ancient Mariners, in order to form a more perfect union, establish justice, insure domestic tranquility, provide for the common defense, promote general welfare and secure blessings of liberty for ourselves and our posterity, do ordain and establish this constitutional Templar with un-gloved hands, open hearts, lovingly-clenched swords and a newly found soul; so that he shall hereafter be judged by self-guided, wise prudence. To our posterity, our Grandchildren, We, individually, pledge to do our best to do our duty to god and our countrymen and to persevere by way of the Laws of the Tribal Antiquities.

“Dear Children, let us not love with words or speech, but in action and in truth.”

1st John 3:18

The Templars’ Way of Life:

The Book of James

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Ominis Cellula e Cellula

“All Cells come from cells.”  Rudolf Virchow

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The Two-Hander

“Wisdom”

“Their voice has gone out to all the earth, their words to the ends of the world.”

Romans 10:18

“We are lead by grace,… At the present time, there is a remnant chosen by grace. And if by grace, it cannot be based on works; of it were, grace would no longer be grace.” (Romans 11:5-6)

Men have always gone to war. To say that there will come a day that all wars will end is altruistic at least, unrealistic at best. Why is this so?

Why is mankind’s survival so dependent on war when one man’s survival depends on staying out of war? Why must one man who develops no enemies be forced to fight another man? Where does an enemy originate from?

What makes a simple man a coexistent one day, then a combatant the next? Is it mankind’s religion to wage war? Is it one man’s mission to wage war? And, if so, why don’t his fellow men stop him from waging war?

World War One was postulated as, “the war to end all wars”. But then, we had World War Two, then, Vietnam, Korea, the phantom, Cold War, Iraq,… a non-ending cycle of wars which have altogether revolutionized the definition of, “war,” and have re-natured war as an on-going, forever-looming-skirmish-seeming-necessity through which all nations must navigate and participate in to ensure each nation’s survival!

Few men desire to commute to a foreign land to create an enemy out of complete strangers, yet many men are called to do so! By what? By whom? What reason does all of mankind have to engage in perpetual wars when mankind’s survival hinges on staying out of war? Few people recognize the answer to this question, even though it is so obvious. War’s function is the toll of each skirmish.

How do we create a generation that does not suffer the onslaught of war?

The answer starts with Area. Geometry. Which area or how large of an area chooses to be peaceful and avoid war? Motivated by tolerance and understanding, such an area could be mapped-out and recognized. Therein realizes the Ultimate Question (which leaves in its wake a multitude of related queries,)… Where is the wall that surrounds to protect that Area of peace, or, equally, what is directly on the outside of that wall? Because the wall must be guarded, by Whom, from whom?

Peace is so simple in philosophy and motive, it therefore stands as mankind’s Ultimate Goal. What is stopping each individual man from acting-out that goal on the day he is called to go to war? Who is empowering the jailors to jail the man who refuses to wage war? What single man is the jailor?

Who absolves himself of accountability in that regard? How dare you claim it to be the groups surrounding your group! How dare any individual man agree to kill a stanger against better judgement? How does a war, “end all wars”? As if adding fire to a fire extinguishes the fire, or adding water to water dries the water out,…

It warrants to point out that adding peace to peace creates global peace; and adding war to more war creates global war.

“All day long, I have held my hands out to an obstinate people who walk in ways not good, pursuing their own imaginations- people who continually provoke me to my very face,…”

Isaiah 65:2-4

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Tribal Scribe

“Strength”

“…and so it is to the journalist, the recorder of Man’s deeds,…”

John Fitzgerald Kennedy

“Do not spread false reports. Do not help a guilty person by being a malicious witness. Do not follow the crowd…”

Exodus 23:1-2

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As of the year, 2020, wisdom is no longer the storefront of the nation’s success. Timing is the new emperor. The journalistic profession is no longer graced by the fact-telling anchors of Walter Cronkite who used to read the straight news and finish by saying, “That’s the way it is.” Instead, the profession now begins episodes.

It begins episodes by implying, “This is the bad stuff that might happen; here is my opinion on that conjecture; and I, ‘Leave you with these words.'” Editorialization is the new journalism; but editorializing is, by definition, the opposite of journalism. Instead of impartial reporting of what happened today, we hear scripted, co-produced narrations of what actors filmed other actors doing, pre-recorded, rehearsed and faulty.

Turn off your TV! Go outside; have a look-see. I’ll tell a vision to you; you tell a vision to me. THAT is a report. Reading scripts is nothing more than acting!

The journalist is the recorder of Man’s deeds, which holds mankind accountable for what we witness. An actor reads a writer’s lines to give our imagination some entertainment to pass some time. Since the monopolized news industry has become nothing more than a perpetuation of opinion and conjecture, and the word, “journalist,” has been gerrymandered in to, “judge and or juror,” what function does the news-watcher serve?

As in the game of chess, if the news-watcher is the pawn, the pawns seem to be preforming the en-passant on the opening move, capturing imaginary pawns, making incorrect, unwarranted moves that are not even true to the game! It is commonplace that a story does not even have to be true, but if it is reported first, the objective of today’s news is to report guilt as the verdict until proven innocent by technicality! Truth no longer dons the crown or wears the signet ring; for Timing is the new emperor, and the Emperor Wears No Clothes!

The news preachers of today are no longer the journalists whom JFK had pleaded with to resist The New World Order’s grip on all information exchange. They are now the bishops whose tow-chords are so tight around their throats, it is a wonder any of them can draw-in their next breath to rant-out the newest, fear-mongering word!

There seems to be only two distinctions of reporters anymore, and the true journalists have dwindled since that fateful day in Dallas! As for the news-watcher, history proves that there are three types of people in our community:

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-1 .) People who listen to and agree with the newest common conjecture.

+2 .) People who do not agree with the newest common conjecture, who do not listen to it.

or

-3 .) People who know that the newest common conjecture is false, yet they listen to it and help to spread it.

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What is “The Newest Common Conjecture”?

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The answer is:

Look at your Calendar; read the news; repeat what you just read.

Definition of “The Newest Common Conjecture”

The word, “conjecture,” means without fact and based on assumption. In other words, conjecture is a guess.

The word, “common,” refers to something that is available to every person. Commoners, or “The Common Man,” refers to you and me, our families and neighbors and the masses of people sojourning to local voting booths to vote for congressmen, the President, councilmen, mayors, governors.

Kings, queens, chancellors, Parliamentary figures, … these are NOT the common man!

Police Chiefs, Majors, Lieutenants, and constables, these are not “The Common Man”, for they are historically above the law, or free to break most (or any,) law and never be publicly held accountable, nor reprimanded. That leaves defining, “The Common Man,” as the remaining population and the majority of humans on this planet.

Whatever is, “new,” is relative, for the telephone was, “new,” in 1876, but it is not considered new today. The newest iPhone is, “new;” but the iPhone 7 is no longer considered to be new by today’s culture. That being stipulated, “The Newest Common Conjecture,” is simply this week’s newest assumption, news story and novel idea. It is the newest opinion, contrived by today’s standards and, because of editorialization’s monopoly on journalism, it is, indeed, propaganda.

We all recognize the array of emotions the sentiment of, “Propaganda,” stirs in us all. Emotions are indicators of our understanding of our environment, our senses, how we glean logic from our perceived situation. People who are intransigent and senseless do not use logic. If the Newest Common Conjecture causes your senses to make you feel uneasy as propaganda does, maybe The Newest Common Conjecture screams that you question its validity and intent!

If something feels wrong, what action do you desire to take? The answer to that question begins with which type of person you are: 1, 2 or 3.

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You are the Source of the News

This week’s majority’s assumptions are derived from our news sources. As a nation, as so a community, there is a common agreement of the state of the union. We tell our neighbor what we heard on the news; then, our neighbor tells his family, friends and co-workers. In telling your family and neighbors the news, you are a source of the news; you spread the news. If your source of news is not completely factual, what did you just spread?

There is no such animal as, “Fact Checking”. A fact is a fact. If somebody points at the moon and says, “That is the moon; it is a fact,” do you go and check that fact? If so, how?

A person who checks the fact that the moon is the moon is …

Any news source that tells you it is, “fact checking,” is telling you that they do not believe facts! They are checking to prove that the moon is the moon! Are you the type of person who checks if the moon is the moon, or do you look at the moon and maintain logic?

Person Type -1

agrees that the moon is the moon; and if you tell them that it is made of green cheese, they believe you and will tell their neighbor, “The moon is made of green cheese.”

Person Type +2

agrees that the moon is the moon. However, if you tell them, “The moon is made of green cheese,” they will ask you how you know that the moon is “made of green cheese”.

Person Type -3

Person Type -3 Knows that the moon is NOT green cheese, but, Person Type -3 spreads the faulty story, telling his neighbors and coworkers, “The moon is made of green cheese! it was on CNN; it’s a FACT!” Person Type -3 knows they heard a lie; they spread the lie, becoming a teller of the lie! Person Type -3 agrees to be a liar and treats being a liar as someone who is good and a truth teller s someone who is bad!

What is your Source?

From whence, where and whom cometh this information?

If CNN published a story saying that the moon is green cheese, Person Type -1 believes it and asks no questions. They repeat to their neighbors and friends and family that the moon is made of green cheese.

“It’s True! I heard it on CNN!”

Person Type +2 asks for the source of the conjecture and does not report it to his neighbor or family as fact.

Enter Person Type -3:

Person Type -3 knows that the moon is not made of green cheese, but Person Type -3 purposely spreads the false story, telling his neighbors and coworkers, “The moon is made of green cheese! It’s a Fact; I heard it on CNN!” Person Type -3 knows they heard a lie; they spread the lie, becoming a teller of the lie! Person Type -3 agrees to be a liar and treats being a liar as someone who is good, but a truth teller as someone who is bad!

It behooves logic to indicate: lies are not facts.

Promoting lies, or, “Fact Checking,” to see if the new lie aligns with the newest, approved Common Conjecture is amoral, faulty and detrimentally abusive and destructive to the good of Common Man! Logic furthermore behooves society to question conjecture and to not make the Newest Common Conjecture an agreed upon consensus, but compels us to compare conjecture to factual conclusions

The difference between theory and fact is simple: Theory is not proven; whereas fact is proven beyond any reasonable doubt. Any man or organization of men who says the words, “facts must be checked,” or, “We are fact checking that fact,” those men are either insane, stupid or both. Why would CNN reports something, then advertise that they are not sure if they are telling the truth or not yet?

When the moon eclipses the sun, the moment the two bodies begin to separate, we see a, “wedding ring-like” affect of light. It is a ring of light from the sun around the the moon, and when the sun first peeks though, (or midway,) a portion of light shows on the top of the outside ring of light, which looks like a diamond on top of a wedding ring. This event is called the “Corona Affect”.

Astronomy, and even aerospace engineers all agree that the Corona Affect is a visual observation of a physical, astrological event and that this event is not caused by any virus. The beer brand, Corona, displays the Sun on its bottle and is golden in color, as is the sun. The Corona Affect has been witnessed throughout history and is a predictable, factual event; nothing new; not an event of conjecture.

CNN has fixated on a particular Corona Event. To mislead the public knowingly or even unknowingly is damaging to society, to the journalistic profession, (even to the editorial profession;) and it is criminal.

Pennsylvania penal code, Chapter 18, Section 4904 (a-f) clearly clarifies such criminal activity as wrong-doing. Federal codes concerning falsification of documents or misleading the public exist.

For any news organization to tell the public that thousands of people are dying, (“hundreds per day,”) but to never show one body bag or interview one family member of the deceased is just as questionable as not allowing families to have post-mortem examinations with lab results. It is just as questionable as not telling or showing how the thousands of bodies are disposed of or where the bodies are disposed of, or placed.

We have seen more than enough footage of the Nazi extermination camps’ piles of bodies being bull-dozed and see blood ,and we see war on the news all of the time; therefore, it would not be something we have never seen before. Society could handle it; and if it is as serous as CNN says that it is, society NEEDS to see such footage/documentation to engrain how important it is to be scared!

Where is that footage?

What is CNN hiding?

Person Type -1 = Pawn

Person Type -3 = Totalitarianism

Remaining are Martyrs.

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The Pope

“Beauty”

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“They do not investigate the material of corruptible bodies; their generation operates independently of any foreign action, sustained by prayer and divine grace.”

Z1

It is called, “Generation X”. Maybe, “X,” because mankind is once again at the proverbial crossroads. Indeed, as progress has merged computer technology with everyday human interaction, the cross that many men bear is that of clinging to the old ways amidst the maelstrom of quickening change.

Correct action and accurate recording of his deeds used to be the sanctity of Man’s reputation. Word-of-mouth took time to cross continents. A man’s reputation was the decider of his family’s fate, therefore, his actions were the strongest measure of one man’s individual rule.

With it taking no time to communicate for Generation X, that generation’s emperor is no longer correctness; Time has become the emperor, and time has no true parameters.

The truth is no longer the test of a man’s reputation. Without any moral parameters, any generation destined to fulfill its unabashed desires is also destined to arrive at the unknown, with the starting point as the unknown.

We’ve come full-circle as humanity, for we used to not know where mankind started from; then, the church, “knew,” were mankind started from, (God). Then, or Now, we again do not agree where, (or what,) the starting point of Man was. We shall continue to debate throughout the revolving door of generations, and religion has seemed to place a fulcrum under that debate, because religion gives the simplest of answers: “Do not debate it; just accept what our book says.”

For some, that simple answer is a solid rock to stand up on.

For others, that answer is but a fulcrum under the teeter-totter of stances on the great debate, and , “the truth,” may fall either way.

To kiss the ring of the Pope is historically to kiss the unknown masses’ ASS! As the Catholic Church has provenly been regarded as a citadel for pedophilia, the Pope heads that organization; and the majority of the world’s money kisses that ring most closely by way of sticking it’s globe of a head up the Pope’s ass, as so to give that unclean ass the most French of kisses!

So, we are kissing the ass of the unknown! That is human survival- always has been for security’s sake, always will be for the sake of The Powerful Unknown. Advancement of mankind has buried much of its sacred texts beneath the Vatican to keep that information safe and secure. All that sacred knowledge is under lock, and, dangling from the Pope’s neck, is one of the keys.

Though proved to be corrupt and unfaithful to The Holy Bible, the Catholic Church still maintains, or hides, the wisdom of Ages- scrolls, texts and artifacts which are not being investigated by much of Generation X. The Vatican, as does Washington D.C., operates independently of foreign action.

Though, sustained by prayer and assumed divine grace, the masses behind the Pope are now feeling the boomerang “WHACK” as The Truth has come back around. As President, Donald Trump taunts the Pope’s hand, the Pope pulls his hand away like an abused child;… that hand on which the ring of ass-spit has been juiced! The kissing-fest is over. Revolution is on the rise; but what is this unidentified revolution?

Is it is against archaic, church beliefs? Is it against the imaginary off-the-gold-standard American Dollar? Is it the revolution against the hiders of the truth and against their lies and their actual slavery of all of mankind? The beauty of the Revolution is that it is all of the above! The Baphomet is seated upon the world’s throne, and he passes his crown from Pope to Pope; so down below burns the wisdom of old! To avoid investigating the material of the Pope’s corruptible body would be to betray our loyalty to kindness, justice, religion, perseverance and thus to betray our globally shared vestige of Hope!

We need not attack the Pope. His actions, inaction and history do that for him. Nevertheless, he is protected by two Shieldsmen to his front, Archers on his sides and two Shieldsmen to his rear. “His Most Pious,” is but a figure-head-up the ass of secrecy and deceit. The Pope is a religious figure no more, but a political queen, disguised as a bishop. His castle reigns over squares, cornering the market on, “the globe,” and the illumination of the ruling class. Commoners are blindfolded to this, hoodwinked by His Most Pious whenever he graces them with his Holy Blessing.

The Pope used to be the proprietor of sacred knowledge. Regardless of that distinction, modern man has exposed him for what he has always been- the protector of secret knowledge. The time-honored attempt to pedestalize a man, calling him, “The Pope,” has been noticed by Information Age’s Generation X. They do not see him as being divine, nor as a spiritual man, nor history’s sentiment that he is a God-like, Faithful Sheppard, telling us what God wants, likes and thinks.

“Woe to him who makes God to be unto like any mode or attribute… Woe more if he make Him like unto sons of man, whose elements are earthly, and so are consumed and perish! There can be no conception attained of Him (God) except in so far as He manifests Himself when exercising dominion by and through some attribute.”

Z2

What repose can Generation X’s view of the Catholic Church’s current matter offer? Is archaism ever a driving force of young men, or is constant change and Freedom the source of young men’s desires? What actions do young men take in regards to more sacred knowledge? What less is secret knowledge? Around secret, (therefore, sacred,) knowledge, floats, frozen- the built wall! As the toll of each skirmish sanctifies our area, (our freedom to travel,) the mission of the church has never changed. Religion is philosophy, yet philosophy tends to render religious practices obsolete rather than promote them and carry on their traditions. Church gatherings are sacred. The truth is relatively shunned.

“It is time that knowledge became more accessible to whom it properly belongs.”

James Burke

 

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The Archer

“Protection”

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There exists a protective covering over all, like a helmet, firm and perfectly fitted. Some hold-firm to their religion as their protection, some to their wit, philosophy or even some to their stupidity, knowing that pity sometimes affords them latitude. Some see protection as a civil right while others know protection to be an assertion which must be constantly managed.

A glass-covered snow globe has no protection on the outside of its covering and no protection on the inside. If cracked, the protective layer of glass would permit the water to fall down and out, leaving a tiny, snowy world, but no more globe. We treasure the globe for its sentimental value, and we protect it for our posterity. The snow particles travel with the freedom to flutter about and settle down, but their freedom stops at the edge of the globe, the dome of their glass covering. It encases them- protects them. It is a “Free-dome,” so to speak…

In the shape of an arch, the dome, delicate as an angel’s singing voice, protects and serves the scene inside as a physical reminder of the places, people and things which we hold dear. The delicate protecting the delicate, he solid holding within the non-solid,… It is a common theme, as is the memorial stone- a solid structure commemorating a spiritual notion.

As a father ushers his children out into the world, his teachings are the Archer’s draw-back on the string. His aim becomes their trajectory; their path- never straight, for they are flung into the forever wind of change. The father’s protection is no longer close and at-hand, domestic and controlling, but foreign and far away, intermittent and hopeful.

The newest generation, after Generation X, bows its head to no agreed-upon god, but seems to confuse itself with The Self, The Spirit. Regardless, altruism is on its rise; circular renovation floats its westward course!

Though enslaved by (and within,) the glass of their cell phones, their freedom is won by that very slavery- their protection is their shared access to real-time knowledge. Ironically, the cell phone is a jail cell for the mind, a tracking device for the body, but a freedom weapon, a key that unlocks the trace of humility which used to rule mankind’s attitudes!

The most skilled marksman is forever the Archer, because he takes aim on the move while guiding a freely-willed horse below him! Agreement, precision and Intention formulate both forces: Mankind (As Above) and The Beast (So Below). The horse knowingly risks its life and protects man via its loyalty and unconditional love. Man risks the lives of many via his assumed royalty and the conditions he grows to love.

The Archer is the most feared warrior in battle, for his arrows come from far away, unseen, When you see him, you are already too late! Up close, his quickness, spirit and agility make his enemy inherently cower even before the Archer engages in his most intimate attack- he aims for the heart! He protects his liberties by far and wide parameters. He rides into battle without a shield from the close-quartered sword or the long reach of the spear.

The Archer’s horse, so much more honorable than the Archer, himself, is beyond description, more noble, honest, irreplaceable and genuine than any man could ever work to become. More true-to-heart than Man has ever been, the horse is a slave to mankind’s freedom. The horse is mankind’s protector while the Archer protects mankind’s material gains. The horse is devoted to serving man, man- devoted to serving Mankind. The Archer’s arrow protects his domain, his kingdom, his government, his religious leaders and his woman. He is a man of great value, spirit and tradition, practicing the strongest of man’s attributes. When given the word to attack and protect, he never draws-back from his word.

“The word has become, ‘Man,’ but not until the word becomes, ‘Woman,’ will the world be saved. The maternal genius of religion must instruct men in the sublime grandeurs of the spirit of charity; then will reason be consolidated with faith, because it will understand, explain and govern the sacred excesses of devotion.”

Monk, William Postel

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The Scout

“Anarchism”

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“In arrogance, there is great ruin and great instability. In idleness, there is loss and dire poverty, for idleness is the mother of famine.”

Book of Tobit 4:13

“Do not keep with you overnight the wages of those who have worked for you, but pay them at once. … Be on guard, son, in everything you do; be wise in all that you say, and discipline yourself in all your conduct. Do to no man or woman what you hate yourself.”

Book of Tobit 4:14-15

In the Cub Scouts and the Boy Scouts, young men all take the following oath:

“I promise to do my best to do my duty to God and my country and to obey the law of the pack.”

Boy scouts teaches a young man both survival and social skills, requiring him to do things for the community, perform the basics of starting a fire, setting up camp, sewing clothes and a sheath for his knife; and it also requires him to delve into his own personal interests and to share his unique personality with the rest of the pack.

Moving up the ranks, there is rarely an idle moment. Boy Scouts is a fraterinity that teaches a long-lasting, long needed foundation upon which building one’s manhood is cememted. There is no secrecy in Boy Scouts, but to learn the next step, you must complete the current task required to reach the next level.

I attended both the Boy Scouts (then, The Royal Rangers, later in life). The Ranger is a scout, a man of self-reliance, survival and resourcefulness. He has a mission and a purpose and travels paths unmarked, unseen by most , and he accomplishes The Greater Goal. After he reaches his destination, it is his duty to report back to his people, what he learned and saw, heard, smelled and tasted. He shows them what he experienced. He is the eyes and ears of the pack.

With each young man individually choosing to do what is honorable, the Scouts are a vast, respected group who all work toward a common goal. The American Boy Scouts show a Bald Eagle as their highest emblem; and the Royal Rangers use the Compass Rose. Freedom and navigation are the Scouts’ and Rangers’ forefathers. Duty, Honor and Loyalty are their fathers. Boy Scouts learn to navigate the social environment while The Royal Rangers master navigating the earthly environment; both instilling humble beginnings; therefore, far-reaching benefits for all of mankind. When enough young men act in correctness and servitude to what is right, it is near impossible for the outside force of corruption to control the population.

“If mankind is indeed so depraved and immoral that it requires a militia and an armed police force to keep its members in line, than no defense for Anarchism can be made.”

James D. Foreman

The Scout is a man who must carve his own path in order to survive. He carves that path with the pocketknife of humble beginnings, serving the community through kindness with hard work. He does so regardless of the wrong that goes on around him. Even when the government around him persists in doing wrong, the Scout chooses to do his best to do his duty to God and his country; so let us recognize that his, “country,” is not of the government, by the government, for the government. The Scout’s country is of the People, by the People and For the People.

In the religious esteem, God is supreme over man. God’s law is not the law of man; and the law of God supersedes any law written by man. The Scout vows his duty to God’s law. Secondly, he vows his duty to his country, not necessarily his country’s government(s)! He vows to obey the law of the pack.

A pack of wolves is a small group when compared to the planet’s entire population of wolves. It is this third vow, “to obey the law of the pack,” that ensures survival from the small scale which promotes survival on the planetary scale. If swearing your allegiance to the common man, or smaller packs which comprise the entire population, is, “anarchism,” than so mote it be; and sign me up for Anarchism!

Since the Scouts and Rangers are the younger generation, now, the generation after the “Millennial Generation, ” it is they who hold the torch and we who hold-firm, the grip on that torch, to teach them how to hold it up; how to hold up The Light before we are destined to let it go. We are hard-pressed and steadfast to not make it fall out of the sky!

The Scout is on both sides of the formation, scouting the land for adversaries and for allies. He scouts the land to which the tribe is to arrive. The formation, as it’s treasure, the, “jewel in the crown,” escorts the tribe’s Scribe along with its second most valuable artifact, the Pope. (Most times, the tribes’, or villages’, most pious, or high priest, is in place of the Pope.) The Scribe is the recorder of Man’s deeds. The Pope, … has been covered by previous chapters of history. The Scout is the Lonesome Glory of the world, for he is both its ambassador and its warrior. He is a navigator and a spy. Not all spies are bad. Not all Scouts survive our mission.

The Scout wears the least amount of armor. He sets up camp in solitude and travels alone. He is self-sufficient by trade. When anarchy ensues around him, he has neither defenders nor guards, no shield or cannon to hide behind. He either fights in the skirmish or he evades the skirmish. One-by-one, the Scout’s survival is crucial to the tribe’s survival, for he is, along with the Archer, the eyes and ears of the world, reporting his observations back to the pack. He never sits at idle, either in action or at heart. He seeks-out the Truth, finds those who do not ask for him and sees people and places unfamiliar to the new.

The Scout goes by compass, both morally and navigationally and ventures only to glean the best of the whole. Mankind is dependent on The Scout. Information is The Holy Grail. Clarity is the Treasure! In our Scouts, our Rangers, the young men of the old, Mankind instills its faith.

Isaiah 40:3

“So for that knowledge is its own reward. I suppose that it may be worth its cost; but if any department of research should be ruled out of the sphere of operation processed by this truism, it is occult science and philosophy, so far, at least, as the majority are concerned. The labour involved by their exhaustive study repays those who undertake it only in a few cases.”

Z7

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The Front Shieldman

“Faith”

“I heard a sermon from a creaky pulpit with no one in the nave. I paid a visit to the synagogue, and I left there feeling blame. No one could tell me what to do. They had not the ability to answer me.

What the world needs now is some answers to our problems. We can’t buy more time, because our tender is invalid. If your soul needs love, you can get consoled by pity; but it looks as though Faith Alone won’t sustain us no more!

Watch the scientists throw up their hands conceding, “Progress will resolve it all!’ I saw the manufacturers of earth’s debris ignore another Green Peace Call! No one could tell me what to do. They had not the capacity to answer me!

What the world needs now is some accountability. We can’t buy more time, because time won’t accept our money. If your soul needs love, you can always have my pity. But it looks as though Faith Alone won’t sustain us no more!”

-Dr. Greg Graffin

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(N+) MAGNETISM (-S)

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-The Right of West Never Becomes the Left of East.
-The Right of East Never Becomes the Left of West.

As Amelia Earhart sent out her final transmission, she had faith in her instruments. She believed what her instruments were telling her, even though the top aviators of the time might suggest that which she had discovered was not physically, or magnetically, possible! Maybe, she was actually flying from North to South, but told the tower she had embarked from West to East. Her last words are reported as being,

“…On line North and South … Line North AND South!”

Stories have survived that she had disappeared within the Bermuda Triangle which is southeast off of Florida, in the waters near Cuba. Tracing her flight-path on the Federal Aviation Navigational website, seekers find the end of her flightpath to be near Vietnam. If seekers trace her coordinates on Gleason’s Map, (the map of the world as it is,) we find something.

…

May it be what Amelia was looking for and had found? All in all, Earhart had faith in her instruments, for whenever do magnets reverse their polarity; or how could a North Pole be the same as the South Pole?

Even when you cut a magnet in half, each half has its own north pole and south pole. You never have a North-Pole-only magnet or a South-Pole-only magnet. … Or could you? …

“The crown is concealed; so also is the metallic root.”

Z4

Faith is more than a notion, and it is not exactly an instinct. Faith is governed by belief in something we do not see at the moment, but accept its existence. “Faith in God,” is an example. If your instruments indicate a reality that you have not seen, however you believe such indication to be true, you have faith. Faith in certain things is not necessarily faith in accuracy, but faith in accurate instruments surmounts mere belief and illuminates reality- Truth.

Frequently, our instinct battles the perils of survival’s dilemma. Instinct “gets us through” to survive the moment. Having faith means trusting the unknown to be true. The fight between positive and negative is just as electric as the pulse of the north side of a magnet attracting the south side of another magnet; but one piece of magnet never implodes on itself, nor explodes as a result of itself! Why is that?

May it be the secret to the universe or no secret to those who know the True Source, it remains a mystery that magnetism and electricity, (both the same force of a spectrum,) both give and take life. Magnetism is a pull-and-push relationship. Electricity is an on-off relationship. Electro-magnetism might be more accurately called, “magnetronics,” or “Magnet-electronics”.

Mankind’s survival is the display of the positive and negative fight. The result of that (ironically) is harmony. Harmony is a musical term. We’ve all seen the depiction of a person who has an angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other, and both are convincing the person to either do the good deed or the bad deed. This is an ancient understanding.

“The Zohar explains it as follows: ‘When a man comes into the world, it appears to him at that moment the evil spirit which always arraigns him. …The evil spirit never forsakes man from the day that he is born into the world. But the spirit comes to the man… at the age of thirteen years. Then, he (man,) joins himself with both spirits, one on the right hand and one on the left; and these are the two spirits which are appointed ever to remain by man. If he strive after perfection, the evil spirit is restrained, so that the right rules the left, and then both unite to secure him in all his ways.'” (Z5)

Language makes no mistake in making a synonym of the word, “right,” with the term, “correct”. Furthermore, language correlates the word, “left,” with abandonment. If you are, “left,” you are, “left behind”.  When you are right, you are, “correct”. When mankind’s understanding becomes, “right,” about something, it leaves what is, “wrong,” behind. In humanity, people rendered as being incorrect are left behind by those who are correct. This is true of the animal kingdom, for the weakest or injured animals are many times left behind; because one injured animal attracts the danger of many predators. Faith does not ensure survival in the animal kingdom.>

What function does faith serve the survival of mankind? The face we show others is our front, our shield. Our facial expression is a display of our faith. We believe that our faith, alone, may protect us. However, I point out that having faith that the torch’s flame shall shed light, (faith, alone,) does not procure, nor ensure of any location of a source of fuel for the flame.

In order for mankind’s survival to sustain its ilfe-giving flame, we invest faith in the unseen. While taking action in accountability, that which humankind does and sees itself do constantly changes. Nothing seems to last forever. Ancient wisdom suggests a remedy, or contradiction to such a sordid conclusion:

“Three things last forever: Faith, Hope and Love. The greatest of these is love.”

1st Corinthians 13:13

“Do not conform to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then, you will be able to test and approve…”

Romans 12:2

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The Back Shieldman

“Diligence”

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“Consider it pure joy when you face trials of many kinds, because the testing of your faith produces perseverance.” 

James 1:1-3 

The father lets his children out into the world and watches from behind as they move forward.  He may still protect them through guidance, but he is no longer their leader, for they must lead themselves.  If he hath exercised due diligence, his offspring shall carry-on his course, however their flair; their spice. 

Bruce Lee commented about perfecting martial arts practices,  “Add what is useful; discard what is useless.”  Bruce Lee died of unreported cause.  He did say, in a television interview,  “You say the earth is round; I believe the earth is flat.”  That leaves no wonder why he was murdered soon after at the age of thirty-two! 

Of course, I did not see anybody murder Bruce Lee, just as nobody saw Lee Harvey Oswald carry a bold action rifle into the book depository, nor did they see him walk it up to the top floor, nor put it on the ground at the door leaving the building.  We all did see the Zapruder film and Kennedy’s head essentially explode before our eyes, but the media somehow produced footage of the dead president on a gurney with his once-exploded head back intact with just a small hole in his neck!  How those facts do not match reality,… how that all was physically possible is a Neil Armstrong helmet-scratcher, for sure!   

Protecting the Newest Common Narrative are the Shieldmen of the federal law.  The judge is in a foreign truth.  My own father’s findings regarding Kennedy found my father dead, and justice remains blind to his findings.  What remnants he left me are far from trite, however, my contribution is as feasible as the shadow of the figure on the grassy knoll.  My father’s legacy lives-on; our findings- as buried as Julius Caesar!  The statue of justice wears a blindfold. 

George Washington owned slaves while fighting for freedom.  My family’s foundation, however nostalgic, contradicts itself only in reality, but survives diligence by notion, or idea.  To Marth Custis Washington’s personal servant, (slave,) the idea of freedom must have been far-fetched; the notion of it not entertained by the color of her skin!  With distant cousin, Martha, I share many notions with her late, presidential husband, The General; but I discard his claim of, “freedom,” for his plantation and mistress shared not that freedom with him, though they supplied such freedom to him- physically, economically and socially!  It would escape diligence to avoid reporting Washinton’s home-life, for Washington’s home is our country. 

I protect his cause; though- sworn to carry his Promethean Torch in my left hand and am obligated to carry his sword in my right.  It is in my blood, pumped from my heart. My lineage demands it of me!

Due-diligence is required of the journalist.  The heartbeat of America relies on fight, freedom, change and unwaveringness- realities that conflict with each other at some measure but are true, plumb and on the level. Diligence declares standing your ground and maintaining without moving as does the Second Amendment of the U.S. Constitution; and carrying-0n sometimes demands complete and total change of social and economic structure, as did the Emancipation Proclamation, honored by the Thirteenth Amendment. 

Diligence is a dually-tiled chess board of black and white squares; right and wrong.  The knight must move either left of right; never in a straight course.  So it is always for the Backshiledman to guard the left and right sides- one hand on the shield, the other hand, swinging the sword.  He protects from the attack of those who chase and stalk.  His tribesmen keep their faith in him as they lead the way, as a son trusts his father, as a daughter has faith in her grandfather, his time-worn philosophies and teachings; his shared experience and his wisdom and wishes.  Society feels security in our Grandfather’s will to live- this Social Security must not be squandered, stolen or lost by today’s Now Generation. 

Today’s generation must Build NOW- its structure, it’s own meaningful reproach!  If the time for diligence is not due now, than, forever, the diligence spent of our forefathers is now lost, stolen and squandered!  They left us clues- some set in stone, others printed on our money, some microscopically encoded in the letters printed at home by the ink cartridges you  pay $37.00 for, (even though it costs $3.00 to produce!) 

Generation X is running for Congress now!  Millennials, … What the Fuck are they choosing to do these days!?!  The place is now, and the time is here- if not to take back this nation, but to give back to our Grandparents- the due diligence they toiled to impart to us- the tool that greyed their hair, wrinkled their hands and reverse-mortgaged their bank accounts! 

If their plight is not enough to receive honor, than no defense for future generations can be garnered; for nothing shall protect them from the onslaught of inevitable injustice. 

The Scales Of Justice are held by the aristocratic hands of the blind.  Who is to lead by being the eyes and ears, the nose and tongue, the armed hands and marching feet, the diligent and, therefore, the Free?  If it is not you, time will tell who it is, which is We,…  

Sic Semper Tyrannus! 

The only way to last is to be free; but the only way to be free is to, first, be brave! 

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The Scout

“Philosophy”

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“Reason is the Gods’ greatest gift to man. I would not dream of criticizing yours, but other men can reason rightly, too.” 

Haemon, Antigone, third episode

“I,” “Me,” and “My,”:  Three words which corner the market on philosophy whilst also rendering philosophy useless many times.  The, “My,” philosophy can promise trouble most times.  Talking about, “me,” all the time is annoying to those around you.  “I,” is the Roman Numeral for number, one.  THAT is no mistake.  We are, “always looking out for number one.”  Realistically, if you don’t, who will, or who’s responsibility is it to do so?  The Royal Rangers make a man self-sufficient in using a compass, both to navigate the planet and also to navigate the moral attitudes of the times.  A Ranger’s concept of, “I,” is founded on the concept of, “Us and our mission,” thereafter, ends with, “My”. My ability to swim while in the company of those who are drowning is paramount, for if I were to drown, I could not help others to swim.  You have to swim, first, because, if you don’t, nobody will be there to swim after you!

The balance between self and selflessness is always a split-second decision- one which can never be lived again.  My comrade who jumps on top of a suicide bomber saves  others at the expense of himself, … the decision he only made once.  droning in heroism, he swam to his final destination so that others could keep their heads above water.  His philosophy was not, “I will do this,”  It was, “Somebody’s gotto do something right now!”

John 19:30

Luke 23:46 (O7)

“Us, We, Our.” 

The Scout ventures throughout all parameters of earthly travels and moral philosophy.  An enemy officer once questioned me,  “I saw something on the back of your paperwork,…” I pretended to be confused and to not know what he was talking about.  That was when he asked, “Are you a traveling man?”

It was at that instant, I knew , “The jig is up!” My “cover” was blown!  He knew I knew more than I had let-on.  So, I put faith in the Creed and answered,  “Sir, Yes, Sir!”  He gave me a welcoming expression on his face, paused for a moment, then, slid my cell door shut, “CLANK!”

“Who would’ve thought that your best friend would be your worst enemy, and your enemy, your best friend?”

(E1)

“Ready or not, here I come.  You can’t hide.  I’m gonna find you…” 

(E1)

Some situations are impossible to get out of.  Mankind’s sanity, as a whole, depends on positive philosophy if mankind is to avoid its self-inflicted end.  Only few are chosen to hold the power of knowledge.  Indeed, they are chosen, because the culprits who take power do so by taking power AWAY from others, creating enemies. 

Nobody chooses their king.  The king has many assassins vying to remove his head upon which the crown adorns (shame).  A chosen leader of a nation has fewer assassins scouting for his head. 

The king’s, “I, Me and My,” differs greatly from a chosen leader’s, “I, Me, and My.”

Amelia Earhart was a scout of the sky.  Bruce lee scouted the extremes of both his body and his mind- the True Martial Artist!  John Fitzgerald Kennedy was a chosen leader, dually elected and sworn (in) chief of a great nation, built of great people, by great people and for great people. 

Those three examples, three great pioneers of great precepts, were leaders of philosophy, innovation and spirit.  Their un-timely deaths, all three, a co-inside-al mystery, are examples of zero degrees of latitude. 

They lead aviation, the martial arts and political accountability with kindness, in truth, by scouting-out the farthest parameters of flight, earthliness and policy.  Their work, left undone, is a flame of inspiration which burns within us all, (that “Fire Down Below,”) as the flame which illuminates J.F.K.’s grave, in Arlington Cemetery, J.F.K.’s honor- guarded as highly as the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, his philosophy, motive, mission and intention- sought after as deeply as the oil we drill for to power our machines!

What work hath been left undone!  What injustice we witness against our wishes- in secret, but in plain sight!  Philosophy keeps The Scout alive, just as it drives us to seek-out the answers and the Answerers.   My mission had proved that there are no Answerers, at least none to whom technology rightfully belongs!  The reason for that:  

Truth belongs to those who seek pure honesty.  Honest people are taken advantage of by the dishonest.  Unfortunately, to be wise does not necessarily mean to be honest, for it is unwise to say, “Yes,” to a fat woman who asks,  “Do I look fat in these shoes?” 

However honest the true answer may be, it is not the wise answer; and social conditioning deems it to be the incorrect answer.  So, the wise are not always truthful, and the truthful are not always wise. 

Wisdom is a treasure of The Ages which compensates only many generations, not one by compartmentalization. The wise scout seeks enlightenment by way of not divulging that the Answerers have given sought-after answer.  Many times, the wise omit from their suggestions, the treasure which The Scout seeks.  It is impossible to unknow what you know; and the wise man might hesitate, but the Master hesitates not!  Omission is never admission of guilt; however, when any answer breeds further questions, it seems as though Bugs Bunny goes for a dive down his bit hole, only to  pop up out of another rabbit hole, chasing the proverbial carrot, dangling from Elmer Fudd’s stick!  The lesson to The Scout:

“Be Bewy, bewy quiet!”

In the city or in the woods, help keep America looking for wisdom.  As “Hooty,” the own slogans for Americans to clean-up their trash, to, “‘Help keep America looking good,” the wisdom attributed to the owl as a spirit animal, a quiet, ominous, nocturnal hunter and selective killer, speaks volumes; for it kills in silence at night; but it’s shit is clean!

Whosoever’s shit don’t stink must be doing something right!”

“Those who know do not speak.

Those who speak do not know.”

Lao Tzu

“Ignorance is Strength.” 

(F3)

“Word of the Master which he spoke to all of the Sons of Dawn:

‘Listen all men of heart and intelligence, seekers of righteousness; those who have searched these matters and have returned to the path of life:

Men with knowledge and men of understanding, increase by might and modesty.  You who search judgement, who know the way, increase strength; and men of truth, increase righteousness.  You who love kindness, increase humility.  (There is prescribed, an,…) appointed time which… (The Great judgement of purge shall befall and clear the land.)  You will understand the end of ages and will gaze at ancient things to know.'”

(K2)

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The Single Hander

“Illumination”

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“At a time when wise men peered through brass tubes towards the sky…”

D3

In order to start any creation, one must know where the starting point begins.  Inquiring minds want to know,  “If that was the beginning, what came before THAT?”

The church has its answer.  Scientists want you to have faith that their multiple theories are the culmination of, “The Answer”. 

Philosophers tend not to give any, “Answer,” but imply that, “The Answer,” is actually the questioning, itself, as like the layers of an onion are not layers, but the onion, itself, only composed of the core- layered of its own core. 

In the first book of the church’s Pentateuch, it reads,  “There was darkness over the abyss and a mighty wind sweeping over the waters.” (B3) 

It further notes:   

“Let there be a dome in the middle of the waters to separate the water from the water. …and it separated the water above from the water below the dome. …and God called the dome, ‘sky’.” (B4)

In other translations, the word, “dome,” is replaced with the word, “vault.”  We all know that a vault is a solid enclosure designed to be opened and closed.

Again, in other versions, this, “dome,” or, “vault,” is recorded as such:

“Let there be a firmament in the midst of the waters, and let it divide the waters from the waters.” (G1)

In yet another translation, it is recorded this way:

“…Let there be a space between the waters to separate the waters of the heavens from the waters of the earth.” (H1)

In similar accounts, translations read, “… and God called the firmament, ‘heaven.'” (I1)

We can all debate how mankind started until we are blue in the tooth, because we all do not agree about the subject; and we have countless wars which back that statement up! 

Fact or fiction, regardless, words written down are but a message.  Recorded from Ancient Man’s words, modern man delivers the words written down to another modern man; a message is sent. 

That being the state of affairs, man is just a deliverer, not the message, itself.  If you disagree with the message, shoot the message; but do not shoot the messenger!

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“Let There Be Light”

G2

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The most circulated explanation  of how Mankind began is in Genesis, the first book of The Bible, in which God single-handedly created everything in six days, then, rested on the seventh day.  The most widely agreed upon terms of that explanation are the three words,  “It was good.”  (G3)
Indeed, Light is good!  When in darkness, we all seek light.  When in search by philosophical reason, we sojourn towards enlightenment.  For most of us, the journey is a lonesome one, from church steeple to church steeple- a “Steeplechase.” 

Yes, many share in you pleasure, but glory, itself, is sun-basked in only by a few- a lonesome destination is this journey altogether; but let us not mistake being lonesome as a sad, lonely tale!  “The Walking Man,” (J1) must walk alone, not because he has been banished, necessarily, but because he is free, enjoying his travel. 

” Knowledge is its own reward.”

Z7

We are missionaries.

We travel from town to town, from country to country.  We are men of quest.  Afoot, we are, “The Walking Man.”  Tradition honors us:  Better recognized when on horseback, we are “The Single-Hander”. The degree of our angle on life depends upon our devotion to securing the messages we are rewarded with .

Tradition honors time. 

History records reveal:

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“Long ago, in a dusty village, filled with hunger, pain and strife, a man came forth with a vision of truth and a way to a better life.  He was convinced he had the answer; and he compelled people to follow along; but the hunger never vanished, and the man was banished.  Then, the village dried-up and died.  

At a time when wise men peered through brass tubes towards the sky the Heavens changed in predictable ways, and one man was able to find that he had thought he had the answer; and he was quick to write his revelations; but, as they were scrutinized by his collogues’ eyes, he soon became a mockery!

An urban sprawl sits, choking on his discharge, overwhelmed by industry, searching for a modern-day savior from another place, in plight for charity.  Everyone begging for an answer without regard to validity.  The search, it never ends.  It goes on and on, and on for eternity.  

Don’t tell me about the answer, because then another one will come along soon.  I don’t believe you have the answer; I’ve got ideas, too.  But, if you’ve got enough naivety and you’ve got conviction, than the answer is perfect for you.”  (D3)

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Many regard priests, the Pope, the scientist, government official, the policeman and the doctor as a person who has our answers; as people who understand more about life than the rest.  Policemen, especially, have no clue what the (state and federal,) laws are, or what citizens’ rights are!  Mankind has reached the precipice from which, taken flight, the notion soars that there is so much more out there than narrowly defined by our experts. 

There is more unacquired knowledge to arrest than that of the microbiologists’, more tissue to from than that from the petri dishes of the mycologists’, more particles to divide from our quantum physicists’, more glaring alchemy expected of our chemists, more induced and nullified firing patterns (induced by,) of our neurosurgeons’ and more educatedly philanthropic requisites demanded of the aerospace engineers’ current dilemma:

The Truth.

The Truth cannot be hidden so much anymore in this, “Information Age.”  The, “Corona Virus,” Genocide, meticulously covered up by fear propaganda and vehicled by creating a medical-military state, has slammed the door shut of logical human interaction.  Making-up bullshit terms like, “Social Distancing,” the wool is over the sheeps’ eyes who do not realize that, “Social Distancing,” is no more than, “Locking Yourself In Your Home, Hiding In Fear!”  Bullshit, “Self-Quarantining,” is simplify locking yourself in your home, hiding in fear!  “Social Distancing,” and “Self Quarantining,” are the new, “Active Shooter,” buzz-bullshit-words of propaganda, being employed to facilitate The Newest Common Conjecture. 

The new, “pandemic,” is not a virus of the respiratory system, but a very effective political-psuedo-medical-quasi-military action that concentrate-camps Americans by foreshadow of Martial Law.  Fear that you will get arrested for taking your children to a restaurant, going to church or driving to the bank- THAT is NOT protection from a virus!  THAT is Martial Law, totalitarianism and is,… 

The End Of Freedom!

To arrest a pastor for inviting his congregation to a church service, but to not arrest the entire congregation who showed up is:  Arresting a pastor for speaking.  He did not force the people to attend; he is one man.  Arrest them all! The truth is, people are, not only seeing the light at the end of the tunnel, too many of us know that we are in the tunnel; but the architects of the tunnel-vision have used anarchy to monarchize America; and they are dimming the light.  (o10)

If you seek illumination, turn off you television; go outside; look at the sun; observe the moon and its path.  Record what the stars are doing!  Illumination comes from turning ON the switch of individual freedom.  When twelve ounces of soda costs less than twelve ounces of water, Look Around You!  THINK!

We can no longer dodge the drones’ bullets for being the messenger; we can only survive by being exemplar, free men.  We, the people, are not subordinates to any government, scientist, doctor, policeman, clergy member, military personnel or fucking Walmart shopping receipt checker!  We ARE the government, the doctors, the fathers of scientists; are equal to our clergymen., and our police officers are but men.  We are Fellowmen of our Fellow Man.

Few, today, are even in the shadow of the Single-Hander.  Most are willing to allow both their hands to be cuffed behind their backs in the face of biochemical, or medical, FRAUD!  That subject is too extensive to cover herein.  Ironically, that subject had been the purpose for this treatise!

A man wearing a white coat is not superior to you simply because he is wearing a white coat.  Ask that man if he can start a fire with a chunk of flint and a piece of steel in the woods on a rainy day!  Any man who cannot start fire is NOT Mankind’s superior!  Any man who cannot start fire is inferior to the caveman.

The Age of Enlightenment

The Messenger

After the scouts set out to gather information, map-out the land and prepare the way, the Two-Hander leads the way on horseback.  He is the bravest, most advanced swordsman of the tribe who pledges the highest number of vows.  He is one of the few chosen to take the one, secret vow which is uttered in complete silence and at the feet of the Pope, or High Priest. 

Yes, he Two-Hander is a knight, but more, he IS a Knights‘ Knight, a knight of the Templar!  Beyond that distinction, he leads the formation.  If an attack comes from the front, he is the first to engage in the battle- a sword in each hand, protecting the church in his heart, the Pope on his mission and ensuring the passage of the Scribe as his motive.  The Two-Hander is the second-most informed man of the community.  His extra, secret vow is never spoken by him, only heard by him.  Throughout the lifetime of every Two-Hander, we never speak the words of the secret vow.  It is uttered to us by the church’s leader, (if not the Pope). 

Hence, that being noted, any leader who has spoken the secret vow to any knight can never become a Two-Hander, himself, thus the survival of our Creed; for “silence in peace” is our code.  If ever asked to vocalize our creed, make-ready your shield and sword, for two swords are your answer .

Behind the Two-Hander’s horse rides the Scribe, the village’s librarian, journalist; the church’s recorder of every man’s confessions and deeds; the Knights Templar’s most protected messenger.

On either side of the Scribe are the Front Shieldsmen who hold, each, a large shield and brandish a long-sword.  One Front Shieldsman is right-handed, the other is left-handed.  

Behind the Scribe rides the Pope, or the High Priest.  He remembers with him, sacred knowledge, regarded as more highly classified than that of the Scribe’s.  

Protecting each side of the Pope are the Archers.  These two are the eyes and ears of the formation, with little armor to, “clang,” and make noise.  They vigilantly watch the front, the sides and the rear of the formation and can send a fatal arrow in danger’s way before any enemy horse can sneak-up on the group.

Staggered behind the Archer are the two Back Shieldsmen.  They offer the same protection as the Front Shieldsmen, but they are the security force for the Pope.  They take one, special vow- to sometimes stay in place if the event occurs that the Scribe must be rushed ahead for safety.  They protect the Pope overall and are the fortification of the formation.

Completing the formation is the fearless Single-Hander.  His goal is to protect the formation of attacks from the rear.  He sometimes carries a shield.  He is armed with a broadsword, also, a short sword, daggers, throwing blades, a crossbow, poisons and close, hand-to-hand combat weapons.  He is as fierce as the Two-Hander ,but wears lighter armor and riders a quicker horse, for his mission is to protect and carry information primarily, and to protect the formation secondly.  He serves as the Pope’s right-hand-man on the journey and his personal bodyguard for the voyage; that is, until the formation reaches its destination.

 …

The Single-Hander takes a secret vow, himself, which he never utters aloud during his lifetime under the penalty of death.  It is his obligation and duty to report the new information back to his home town after the formation has met with their destination’s scribe and after confirming transmission with the Pope.  For that reason, his horse is fast, usually a thoroughbred. 

The Single-Hander takes an additional, secret vow, similar to the Two-Hander’s.  He is equipped with smaller, lighter weapons, because his journey back home must be fast; it is alone, dangerous and very, very valuable! He has the resourcefulness of the Scout, the fearlessness of the Two-Hander, the fortitude and security of the Shieldsmen, the weaponry of the Archer, the information of the Scribe; and he carries the Pope’s message.  He holds the apple of wisdom.  Realistically, the Single-Hander is more valued and more highly respected than the Pope!

The Single-Hander is one of the Sons of Light. (K3)  We are the Torch-Bearer, (K2) the living record of the Old Order of Royal Knights Templar. (K1)  He is The Illuminated Hero.

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Omina In Numeris Sita Sunt.

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“Such was to be the course of the war in its earthly dimensions.  but it would possess in addition a cosmic quality.  The hosts of the Sons of Light, commanded by the ‘Prince of the Congregation,’ were to be supported by the angelic armies lead by ‘The Prince of LIght,’ also known in the scrolls as Archangel Michael, or Melchizedek.  Similarly, the ‘ungodly covenant’ and their… associates were to be aided by the demonic forces…  These two opposing camps were to be evenly matched,… Intervention alone would bring about the destruction of evil.” 

(K3)

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The Dark Hero

“Shadow”

Sygnum de Capella de John Novus

Read the Knife’s Handle.

“A friend loves at all times, and a Brother is born for a time of adversity.”

Proverbs 14:15

Only by light can we see shadows.  Only by comparing to darker hues can we distinguish lighter hues.  Evil doers foster rebellion against honesty.  The Messenger of Death has been sent upon them.  The Dark Knight is the most merciful of all.  After all, even the Angel of Death brings relief from anguish.

“Woe to those who call evil good and good evil, who put darkness for light and light for darkness, who put bitter for sweet and sweet for bitter; who acquit the guilty for a bribe and deny justice to the innocent.  Woe to those who are wise in their own eyes and clever in their own sight, who draw sin along with chords of deceit and perversity, vanity and wickedness as if with cart ropes.”

(O10)

“I urge you, watch out for those who cause divisions and put obstacles in your way that are contrary to logic.  Keep away from those people!” 

Romans 16:17

“Though your people be like sand by the sea, only a remnant will survive.  The Almighty will carry-out the destruction decreed upon the whole land.”

Isaiah 10:21-23

Intelligo Ut Credam

“In keeping with the revelation of the hidden mystery of long ages past, but now revealed and made known through prophetic writings…”

Romans 16:25

Credo Ut Intelligam

The secret vow of the Two-Hander, along with the craftiness of the Scout, strength of the Scribe’s words, beauty of the Pope’s secret knowledge; the security of the Shieldsmen, the freedom of the Archers’ movement and the fortification of the Single-Hander’s enlightened skill altogether account for the twelve, sacred positions of the formation.  Most obscured by history’s demand is the Thirteenth member of the congregation. …

-Ride Tight.

Since war is historically unavoidable, how do we teach a generation to not embark upon the onslaught of war?

“The enemy is no longer foreign and far away, but up close and domestic.”   

John Fitzgerald Kennedy

War is Peace

Freedom is Slavery

Ignorance is Strength

George Orwell, 1984

We Are Watching.  (K2) & (F)

The Begining

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This concludes this treatise: “The White Book”

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Operation Loincloth shall forever remain the Twenty-Second step taken by the 3rd US Infantry Unit.

Arlington, Virginia, November 22, 1963

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“The truth is relative.  This relative view is generally shunned.  It is supposed by the left to dilute commitment and by the right to leave society defenseless.  In fact, it renders everybody equally responsible for the structure adopted by the group… knowledge would then properly include the study of the structure itself. Such a system would permit a type of ‘balanced anarchy’ in which all interests could be represented in a continuous reappraisal of the social requirements for knowledge and the value of judgement to be applied in directing the search for that knowledge.  The view that this would endanger the position of the expert by imposing on his work the judgement of the layman ignores the fact that science has always been the product of social needs, consciously expressed or not.  Science may very well be a vital part of human endeavor, but for it to retain the privilege which it has gained over centuries of being in some measure accountable, would be to both render science itself and society a disservice.  It is time that knowledge became more accessible to whom those it properly belongs. 

 

(A1)

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432 Hz.

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FOOTNOTES

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O. Holy Bible.  2011, Biblica, Inc Copyright; 2011 by Zondervan, New International Version.  ISBN: 978-0-310-62387-8 1.  ISAIAH 65:1  “I revealed myself to those who did not ask for me; I was found by those who did not seek me.  To a nation that did not call my name, I said, “Here I am.”
2.  ROMANS 10:18
3.  ROMANS 11:5-6
4. ISAIAH 65:2-3
6.  MATTHEW 3:3  “Prepare the way for the Lord.  Make straight paths for him.”
7.  “It is finished.”  Jesus
8.  GENESIS 1:6-8
9.  ISAIAH 5:18  “Woe to those who draw sin along with chords of deceit and wickedness as with cart ropes.”
10.  ISAIAH 5:20-21,23  “Woe to those who call evil good and good evil, who put darkness for light and light for darkness, who put bitter for sweet and sweet for bitter.  Woe to those who are wise to their own eyes and clever in their own sight.  Woe to those who acquit the guilty for a bribe but deny justice to the innocent.”

B.  The New American Bible Copyright; 2010, The Confraternity of Christian Doctrine, Inc. Washington D.C..  ISBN: 978-1-60137-484-4
1.  BOOK OF TOBIT 4:13
2.  BOOK OF TOBIT 4:14-15
3.  GENISIS 1;2
4.GENISIS 1;6-8

A. The Day The Universe Changed. Copyright; 1984, James Burke.  NY  ISBN:  0-316-11706-4
1.  page 337

Z.  The Doctrine and Literature of the Kabalah. Copyright; 2015, Cornerstone Book Publishers; Arthur Edward Waite, LA.  ISBN:  10: 1564592790
1.  Page 451
2.  Pages 35-36
3.  Page 360
BEFORE.  Pae 312
5.  Page 203
6.  Page 473

D.  Bad Religion.  Geffin Records.  Greg Graffin. 
1.  “Faith Alone”.  Album:  Generator.  1992 2.  “Against The Grain
3.  “Faith Alone”.

E.  The Fugees.  Copyright Capital Records, 1997.  Album:  The Score
1.  “Ready Or Not”

F.  1984.  George Orwell.  Copyright; 1977, Sonia Brownell Orwell, Penguin Books, LTD.   ISBN:  0-451-52493

Page 17

G.  Holy Bible. Copyright; 2010, Ameican Bible Society; PA.  King James (Joseph) Version.  Philadelphia, PA.  ISBN:  9781585169863

H.  The Life Recovery Bible.  Copyright; 2015, Tyndale House Foundation, International Version.  ISBN:  978-1-4964-2758-8
1.  GENISIS 1:6-8

J.  “Walking Man“.  Copyright; 1972, James Taylor

K.  The Complete Dead Sea Scrolls.  Copyright; 1962, Geza Vermes; Penguin Books, LTD.  London, England.  ISBN:  978-0-141-9731-9
1.  Pages 165-167
2.  Pages 241-242
3.  Page 85

C.  America:  What Went Wrong.  Copyright; 1984, James D. Foreman.  New York. ISBN: 978-0836270013

O

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Ego is the corruptor of the human soul.  Ego has no name, therefore, is a most powerful force, because that which is unseen and unknown is feared most; for there is neither weapon or action against the unknown.  The easiest name for, “Ego,” is, “I”.  What war, or which weapon, shall a man wage against himself, albeit the teeth of the snake devouring its own tail? 

To, “keep your friends close, but your enemies closer,” in order to know thine enemy fails survival if thy self is the enemy, and you stand closer to the despised than to your most precious ally!  To know your enemy, or to know your own ego, is a most prized attribute of war and is the most powerful utensil for serving peace.  To know how to avoid developing an enemy avoids war, but to know what your Loved Ones love most equips you with the prize which outlasts war.

Faith, Hope and Love are the unseen weapons against war, for love is the spoiler of war.  Fear corrupts the man’s mind.  Despair corrupts the man’s faith.  Rage interferes with the man’s ability to grow love.  Faith, Hope and Love are the undetected weapons against Fear, Despair and Rage. 

Man does not fear himself.  Man already is born with faith in himself.  For Mankind to develop rage against himself is a compelling culmination to investigate; but for a man to refrain from investigating his own rage becomes a physically palpable manifest, or force, which other men are affected by. 

The Ego is not a pride for Nation, but only a pride of the self.  National Pride is rather a confusing of the individual with the group that surrounds him/her. The corruptor of the individual soul is the notion that another man’s deeds are your own deeds, that his successes are consequently, your own successes; therefore, his failures are considered to be your personal failures, too!

To defeat the most powerful attraction of The Ego, a man must forfeit his selfish actions and thoughts.  Only after that may the unknown;be ascertained and won.

-Ride Tight.

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Bill Of Rights

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Amendment I

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.

Amendment II

A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms shall not be infringed.

Amendment III

No Soldier shall, in time of peace be quartered in any house, without the consent of the Owner, nor in time of war, but in a manner to be prescribed by law.

Amendment IV

The right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures, shall not be violated, and no Warrants shall issue, but upon probable cause, supported by Oath or affirmation, and particularly describing the place to be searched, and the persons or things to be seized.

Amendment V

No person shall be held to answer for a capital, or otherwise infamous crime, unless on a presentment or indictment of a Grand Jury, except in cases arising in the land or naval forces, or in the Militia, when in actual service in time of War or public danger; nor shall any person be subject for the same offence to be twice put in jeopardy of life or limb; nor shall be compelled in any criminal case to be a witness against himself, nor be deprived of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law; nor shall private property be taken for public use, without just compensation.

Amendment VI

In all criminal prosecutions, the accused shall enjoy the right to a speedy and public trial, by an impartial jury of the State and district wherein the crime shall have been committed, which district shall have been previously ascertained by law, and to be informed of the nature and cause of the accusation; to be confronted with the witnesses against him; to have compulsory process for obtaining witnesses in his favor, and to have the Assistance of Counsel for his defence.

Amendment VII

In Suits at common law, where the value in controversy shall exceed twenty dollars, the right of trial by jury shall be preserved, and no fact tried by a jury, shall be otherwise re-examined in any Court of the United States, than according to the rules of the common law.

Amendment VIII

Excessive bail shall not be required, nor excessive fines imposed, nor cruel and unusual punishments inflicted.

Amendment IX

The enumeration in the Constitution, of certain rights, shall not be construed to deny or disparage others retained by the people.

Amendment X

The powers not delegated to the United States by the Constitution, nor prohibited by it to the States, are reserved to the States respectively, or to the people.

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Pennsylvania Statutes Title 18, Subsection 4904

§ 4904.  Unsworn falsification to authorities.

(a)  In general.–A person commits a misdemeanor of the second degree if, with intent to mislead a public servant in performing his official function, he:

(1)  makes any written false statement which he does not believe to be true;

(2)  submits or invites reliance on any writing which he knows to be forged, altered or otherwise lacking in authenticity; or

(3)  submits or invites reliance on any sample, specimen, map, boundary mark, or other object which he knows to be false.

(b)  Statements “under penalty”.–A person commits a misdemeanor of the third degree if he makes a written false statement which he does not believe to be true, on or pursuant to a form bearing notice, authorized by law, to the effect that false statements made therein are punishable.

(c)  Perjury provisions applicable.–Section 4902(c) through (f) of this title (relating to perjury) applies to this section.

(d)  Penalty.–In addition to any other penalty that may be imposed, a person convicted under this section shall be sentenced to pay a fine of at least $1,000.

(Nov. 29, 2006, P.L.1481, No.168, eff. 60 days)

2006 Amendment.  Act 168 added subsec. (d).

Cross References.  Section 4904 is referred to in section 6116 of this title; section 2344 of Title 3 (Agriculture); sections 1518, 3905 of Title 4 (Amusements); sections 102, 134, 142, 8998 of Title 15 (Corporations and Unincorporated Associations); sections 761, 911, 3101, 3175, 3908 of Title 20 (Decedents, Estates and Fiduciaries); sections 4308.1, 5103, 5337, 6344.2, 6711 of Title 23 (Domestic Relations); section 1714 of Title 25 (Elections); section 4110 of Title 27 (Environmental Resources); section 7923 of Title 35 (Health and Safety); sections 102, 1904, 5552, 5903 of Title 42 (Judiciary and Judicial Procedure); section 101 of Title 54 (Names); section 13A08 of Title 65 (Public Officers); section 2301 of Title 71 (State Government); sections 1510, 1920.2 of Title 75 (Vehicles).

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The Gettysburg Address

“Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.

Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battlefield of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.

But in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate – we cannot consecrate – we cannot hallow – this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember, what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us – that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion – that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain – that this nation shall have a new birth of freedom – and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.”

November 19, 1863

Abraham Lincoln

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“Do not think of yourself more highly than you ought, but rather think of yourself with sober judgment.

For just as each of us has one body with many members, and these members do not all have the same function,

Though many, form one body, and each member belongs to all the others.

We have different gifts, according to the grace given to each of us.

If your gift is prophesying, then prophesy in accordance with your faith;

if it is serving, then serve;

if it is teaching, then teach;

if it is to encourage, then give encouragement;

if it is giving, then give generously;

if it is to lead, do it diligently;

if it is to show mercy, do it cheerfully.

Love must be sincere. Hate what is evil; cling to what is good.

Be devoted to one another in love. Honor one another above yourselves.

Never be lacking in zeal, but keep your spiritual fervor.

Be joyful in hope, patient in affliction, faithful in prayer.

Practice hospitality.

Bless those who persecute you; bless and do not curse.

Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn.

Live in harmony with one another. Do not be proud, but be willing to associate with people of low position. Do not be conceited.

Do not repay anyone evil for evil. Be careful to do what is right in the eyes of everyone.

If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone.

Do not take revenge, my dear friends.

On the contrary:

If your enemy is hungry, feed him; 

if he is thirsty, give him something to drink. 

Do not be overcome evil by doing evil, but overcome evil by doing good.”

Romans 12:1-21

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Entered Brethren Ordainment Sermon

Third Sermon

“Donning the Master’s Sword”

            The hands of your fellow brethren have laid the foundation of this temple; and the hands of your fellow brethren are now beginning to complete its stronghold.  Through your studies and actions, we, under this delicate ceiling, are Awake, as if from humanity’s deep sleep. (Zechariah 4:1) 

            What are you, mighty mountain?  Before Brothers’ building, you shall become level ground!  We are the Twelfth Tribe and together are obligated to bring out the Capstone.  By way of might and power, the Light of the ancient spirit  burns within each of us!

            Who is the man here tonight who despise the day of small things? (Zecharaih 4:10)    

            What man here tonight doth say these things:

            “Meaningless!  Meaningless! 

All perception proves meaningless! 

What do people gain of their daily labors which they toil under the sun?

            Generations come; and generations go.

            The earth is all that is forever.

            Sunrise; sunset; marking counted days.

            It returns and rises again from where it had risen.

            The wind blows to the south and turns to the north. 

            ‘Round and ‘round it goes, forever returning on its course.

            All streams flow into the sea, yet the sea is never full.

            To the place where streams flow from, there they return again.

            All things become wearisome.

            The eye never has enough of seeing, nor the ear its fill of hearing.

            What has been will be again.

            There is nothing new under the sun.

            It was all here already, long ago.

            It was here before our time.

            No man remembers former generations; and

even those to come

will not be remembered

by the generations to follow them.”

We have gathered here to rebuild David’s fallen tent.  Its ruins- we now rebuild, and we restore it!

Do not seek revenge or bear any grudges against anyone.  Now, from this zero hour, and beyond, love all of our neighbors’ lives as much, or more, than you value your own happiness and safety.  Love is the ruler of this plane.  Fear, or hate, is the perpetuation of their global deceit.  Fellow Brothers, let us not love with words or speech, but by actions and in truth. (1^st John 3:18) 

What good is it, Brothers, if any one of you claim to exercise good faith, Fathers, Brothers and Sons, if you do not prove so by deeds?  If a person is without clothes and daily food, and you say to them, “Go you in peace; keep warm and well fed,” but you neglect to provide for their physical needs, what good, and where is your faith?  Faith alone, if not accompanied with action, is dead.

The first vow which every man here tonight must prove, in order to become Unrecognized as a knight of the Old Royal Order is explained by First John in Chapter Three, verse Eighteen.  This is the most important vow; therefore, illuminates this Tribe as, “Most Distinguished”.  To spell it out, “Go You!”

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Green Spring Hounds

I used to say, “back on the Midnight Ghost,” but I never jumped off of it! The memories I knew I was building put me in a state of “nostalgia-for-the-now”.

I have always lived this nostalgia-based mental paradigm; it is a bit of a depressive tone, I agree, however, it has been the bass-line of the music in my head ever since I can not remember. This sad tone has been understood to be the result of my empathic intuition. Being an empath, I have been living the inner-life of a bodhisattva.

The conversations between me and Charlie have become mute and moot. The thought crossed my mind that I have become Charlie. That, in fact, has become the case. I am no longer that young jockey, aspiring to build a future. The future is here. This is it! And the main sing-song is that baseline that thumps in the back of my psyche.

Why Do I Feel This Way?

you ask yourself

Well, maybe, Jordon Peterson said it best when he said,

So, I Guess This is what they call a “mid-life crisis””.

“…The change that has occurred within the racing industry is not something that is lasting.”

Retired Journeyman, Christopher Van Hassel

I had always planned to train racehorses after I retired from my successful riding career, but I had not predicted that the racing business would change the ways in which it has. The change that has occurred within the racing industry is not something that is lasting. Why do I say that? Because the change is in the function of racing in our culture, not our culture’s function in racing.”

The difference is that, “evolution,” is a gradual shift towards further survival; whereas, “change,” is not a gradual shift, but a metamorphosis.

The Racing industry young adults of today are actors in is completely different than that of the scene we enjoyed just back in the 1990’s and early 2000’s. This change is parallel to the change you see in our culture’s lean towards this social-media-society; and the old ways of doing business and interacting with (even family) has completely changed.

This societal change has created a racing business that looks forward more to the money, and less back at the horse.

All in all, I am lucky, because I have lived my dream; I was a top-notch jockey. I lived the fame, the money, the travel. But I walked away from it all, …

“If you can’t find it here, you’re not going to find it anywhere.”

Dr. Wayne Dyer

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February 21, 2022

I will never forget the way You looked at me last night!
That look is what life is about!
It was the best moment of my life that day.

June 3, 2022

Throat-Root Exersise

The,”Throat-Root Tiangle,” begins with Dynamic Tension of the Root Chakras (located within the feet,) constantly pushing down against the Earth Energy (which constantly pushes up). (The existence of this process is referred to as a “Current Mediator”.) The “Center LIne,” or “G-Line” of the root chakras (for this exercise,) starts at the tilt-top of the root chakra and bushes down, whereas the G-Line of the Throat Chakra starts at the upper 1/3 of that Chakra. These two dynamic tensions imaginations create the posts between which an “Area of Convergence” is created; and this “Area of Convergence,” is located within the Solar Plexus area, which is below the Heart Chakra area.
It seems obverse to focus on the root chakras, first, as the “Throat/Root Triangle Exercise begins (in the imagination,) from the top of the G-Line of the Throat Chakra, then, pushes down upon the top of the Root Chakras in order to create the Convergence Area. The reason for this order of operations is thus: the practitioner must establish the parasympathetic activity of the Root Chakras to establish a base for the upper chakras to have as a reference point off of which to bounce. This establishment also creates distances and vectors within the body- giving the imagination parameters within which to direct the force of energy which it is compelling to summon. This Root Chakra Establishment becomes, … well, The Root of your practice. All plants and trees grow from their established root systems.
So, assuming that the Root Chakra Parasympathetic Exercise is already in motion, let us focus on how using “the G-Line”, promotes growth, circulation, condensation and viability of the chakras. Viability, in this case, equals initiation. A practitioner must initiate a process before the benefits of that process may be experienced. In the cases of all “Triangle Exercises,” the development and establishment of two separate parasympathetic processes have already been established before the “Area of Convergence,” can be fully conjured up in the practitioner’s imagination.
The Area of Convergence, though (it is) exactly the same process of the upper and lower chakras’, is it’s own, new focus which, forgetting the steps of the prior attainments, may only produce a physical response of acceptance in result of the establishments of current mediators.
“Current,” meaning both: the time right now, as well as the flow of energy. The two, prior processes forgotten, the new process becomes it’s own strength/ the practitioner’s New Focus, or Mantra; and the practitioner may thereafter progress to the next level. It is an Art, indeed, for it requires imagination before any physical components by deed arise to fruition. Growth is not the top of the mountain, but is the snow which piles on top of the already established mountain. That is why the “Triangle Exercises” are Triangular; for the base is always wider than the top, and the only way to strengthen the top, or capstone, is to add to the base. The only way for a tree to be the taller is for its root system to be firmly, actively growing downwardly.
The “Throat-Root Triangle” exercise results in strengthening the Solar Plexus Chakra. The resulting color is yellow; and the Solar Plexus Chakra’s function is “Power.” The Solar Plexus Chakra is the “Area of Convergence”. From that middle point, afferent growth may be directed both up and down as well as inwardly and outwardly. From there, the practitioner may, “go back to basics,” in order to progress to a higher level. The Knight of the Solar Plexus has established his base and begins solidification of the Temple Within. The human body os The Temple.

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July 6, 2022

Essence of the Fellow Craft Degree

“…because their Beehive Mind has absolutely corrupted the Craft…”

The essence of the FC Degree is the ablative of means through which Masters operate.

After the intermingling of speculative members with the remaining true operative members (actual stone cutters,) (on or about The month of June in the year, 1717,) action became no longer the essence of their work (I do not include myself, because I do not hoodwink people;) . Therefore, the essence became speculation and not action- thought, not physical work!

Side Note:

(Interesting Observation: there is a new holiday on or about June 16th called “Juneteenth”. There was a time when the Mason Dixon line separated certain things. When blacks were notably NOT accepted members, there was a divide. This divide continues; and it is what the Black Lives Matter operation is all about.)

Selection used to go the way of Gregor Mendel: one third of the population was (allowed to be,) enlightened. (I believe that is what is suggested in ISAIAH 13:6; Zephaniah 1:14; Zechariah 1:7; and others.)

The Dark Generations, or those never taught the Greater Mysteries, (in my estimation.) were (recently,) from 1991 thru 2003 and also 2010 thru 2018. But…

the lodges hath continued in error from then, knowingly, therefore, grievously, because the newer generations have not venerated the old Masters, and, in conjunction, the old Masters rescinded from teaching; so the gap of ignorance is no longer sequestered to one or two generations (the new world order,) but has been peppered, (more heavily than not,) with the misdirected population on the whole! Therefore, selection is no longer as simple as a number, age or generational marker; selection can only be done overtly if the original mysteries are to ready themselves to be learned of. 

There is an obstacle in the way of my learning, and the building of our new lodge (ACTS 15:16) being that the Masters of today were never taught the true mysteries, therefore, The Essence is almost as dead as the original, true word. 

I am yet to be grasped and raised by the lion’s paw; I plan to be raised outside of any existing lodges, because their Beehive Mind has absolutely corrupted the Craft. Our grandchildren need to be taught that which our children have been neglected to have been taught. The complication in this is that there are fewer and fewer Past Masters who, both, Know, (or have been taught,) and fewer surviving Masters who are spiritually inclined to teach those of us who are worthy of the knowledge. “It is time that knowledge became more accessible to whom those it properly belongs.” (The Day The Universe Changed. Copyright; 1984, James Burke. NY ISBN: 0-316-11706-41. page 337)

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July 8, 2022

The Conspiracy Within

My common-core disgust had been skewed to a a new side. This disgust for people’s meanderings, never disheveled, (this core-disgust,) but always evolving, a metamorphosis from disgust to utter disgust permeated all emotional plateaus which created another level of judgement of my fellow man. Not that it helped anything or made anything worse, however, became a conspiracy of sorts between the mental state which I had worked so hard over the years to achieve and the positive psyche which was the ablative of means by which I had arrived at that mental state (on it’s continuous level).

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October 6, 2022

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Temporal Permanence

It is known that the never-changing state is the state of constant change.

Spun Off Axis

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Typical Trainer

October 8, 2022

Purchases Equipment one day;

Bitches that you are using it the next day!

Dakkuan

 

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October 10, 2022

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THE BOOK OF JAMES

CHAPTER 1

Greetings

1. 1. To the twelve tribes scattered among the nations:

Greetings.

Twelve Tribes of Israel:
1. Manasseh
2. Rueben
3. Simeon
4. Ephraim
5. Judah
6. Zebulun
6. Issachar
8. Asher
9.Gad
10. Naphtali
11. Joseph
12. Benjamin

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Joseph and Levi

Trials and Temptations

² Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, ³ because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance. ⁴ Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything. ⁵ If any of you lacks wisdom, you should ask God, who gives generously to all without finding fault, and it will be given to you. ⁶ But when you ask, you must believe and not doubt, because the one who doubts is like a wave of the sea, blown and tossed by the wind. ⁷ That person should not expect to receive anything from the Lord. ⁸ Such a person is double-minded and unstable in all they do.

⁹ Believers in humble circumstances ought to take pride in their high position. ¹⁰ But the rich should take pride in their humiliation—since they will pass away like a wild flower. ¹¹ For the sun rises with scorching heat and withers the plant; its blossom falls and its beauty is destroyed. In the same way, the rich will fade away even while they go about their business.

¹² Blessed is the one who perseveres under trial because, having stood the test, that person will receive the crown of life that the Lord has promised to those who love him.

¹³ When tempted, no one should say, “God is tempting me.” For God cannot be tempted by evil, nor does he tempt anyone; ¹⁴ but each person is tempted when they are dragged away by their own evil desire and enticed. ¹⁵ Then, after desire has conceived, it gives birth to sin; and sin, when it is full-grown, gives birth to death.

¹⁶ Don’t be deceived, my dear brothers and sisters. ¹⁷ Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows. ¹⁸ He chose to give us birth through the word of truth, that we might be a kind of firstfruits of all he created.

Listening and Doing

¹⁹ My dear brothers and sisters, take note of this: Everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry, ²⁰ because human anger does not produce the righteousness that God desires. ²¹ Therefore, get rid of all moral filth and the evil that is so prevalent and humbly accept the word planted in you, which can save you.

²² Do not merely listen to the word, and so deceive yourselves. Do what it says. ²³ Anyone who listens to the word but does not do what it says is like someone who looks at his face in a mirror ²⁴ and, after looking at himself, goes away and immediately forgets what he looks like. ²⁵ But whoever looks intently into the perfect law that gives freedom, and continues in it—not forgetting what they have heard, but doing it—they will be blessed in what they do.

²⁶ Those who consider themselves religious and yet do not keep a tight rein on their tongues deceive themselves, and their religion is worthless. ²⁷ Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress and to keep oneself from being polluted by the world.

Favoritism Forbidden

2 My brothers and sisters, believers in our glorious Lord Jesus Christ must not show favoritism. ² Suppose a man comes into your meeting wearing a gold ring and fine clothes, and a poor man in filthy old clothes also comes in. ³ If you show special attention to the man wearing fine clothes and say, “Here’s a good seat for you,” but say to the poor man, “You stand there” or “Sit on the floor by my feet,” ⁴ have you not discriminated among yourselves and become judges with evil thoughts?

⁵ Listen, my dear brothers and sisters: Has not God chosen those who are poor in the eyes of the world to be rich in faith and to inherit the kingdom he promised those who love him? ⁶ But you have dishonored the poor. Is it not the rich who are exploiting you? Are they not the ones who are dragging you into court? ⁷ Are they not the ones who are blaspheming the noble name of him to whom you belong?

⁸ If you really keep the royal law found in Scripture, “Love your neighbor as yourself,” you are doing right. ⁹ But if you show favoritism, you sin and are convicted by the law as lawbreakers. ¹⁰ For whoever keeps the whole law and yet stumbles at just one point is guilty of breaking all of it. ¹¹ For he who said, “You shall not commit adultery,” also said, “You shall not murder.” If you do not commit adultery but do commit murder, you have become a lawbreaker.

¹² Speak and act as those who are going to be judged by the law that gives freedom, ¹³ because judgment without mercy will be shown to anyone who has not been merciful. Mercy triumphs over judgment.

Faith and Deeds

¹⁴ What good is it, my brothers and sisters, if someone claims to have faith but has no deeds? Can such faith save them? ¹⁵ Suppose a brother or a sister is without clothes and daily food. ¹⁶ If one of you says to them, “Go in peace; keep warm and well fed,” but does nothing about their physical needs, what good is it? ¹⁷ In the same way, faith by itself, if it is not accompanied by action, is dead.

¹⁸ But someone will say, “You have faith; I have deeds.”

Show me your faith without deeds, and I will show you my faith by my deeds. ¹⁹ You believe that there is one God. Good! Even the demons believe that—and shudder.

²⁰ You foolish person, do you want evidence that faith without deeds is useless? ²¹ Was not our father Abraham considered righteous for what he did when he offered his son Isaac on the altar? ²² You see that his faith and his actions were working together, and his faith was made complete by what he did. ²³ And the scripture was fulfilled that says, “Abraham believed God, and it was credited to him as righteousness,” and he was called God’s friend. ²⁴ You see that a person is considered righteous by what they do and not by faith alone.

²⁵ In the same way, was not even Rahab the prostitute considered righteous for what she did when she gave lodging to the spies and sent them off in a different direction? ²⁶ As the body without the spirit is dead, so faith without deeds is dead.

Footnotes

1. 1. James 2:8 Lev. 19:18

1. 1. James 2:11 Exodus 20:14; Deut. 5:18

1. 1. James 2:11 Exodus 20:13; Deut. 5:17

1. 1. James 2:20 Some early manuscripts dead

1. 1. James 2:23 Gen. 15:6

Taming the Tongue

3 Not many of you should become teachers, my fellow believers, because you know that we who teach will be judged more strictly. ² We all stumble in many ways. Anyone who is never at fault in what they say is perfect, able to keep their whole body in check.

³ When we put bits into the mouths of horses to make them obey us, we can turn the whole animal. ⁴ Or take ships as an example. Although they are so large and are driven by strong winds, they are steered by a very small rudder wherever the pilot wants to go. ⁵ Likewise, the tongue is a small part of the body, but it makes great boasts. Consider what a great forest is set on fire by a small spark. ⁶ The tongue also is a fire, a world of evil among the parts of the body. It corrupts the whole body, sets the whole course of one’s life on fire, and is itself set on fire by hell.

⁷ All kinds of animals, birds, reptiles and sea creatures are being tamed and have been tamed by mankind, ⁸ but no human being can tame the tongue. It is a restless evil, full of deadly poison.

⁹ With the tongue we praise our Lord and Father, and with it we curse human beings, who have been made in God’s likeness. ¹⁰ Out of the same mouth come praise and cursing. My brothers and sisters, this should not be. ¹¹ Can both fresh water and salt water flow from the same spring? ¹² My brothers and sisters, can a fig tree bear olives, or a grapevine bear figs? Neither can a salt spring produce fresh water.

Two Kinds of Wisdom

¹³ Who is wise and understanding among you? Let them show it by their good life, by deeds done in the humility that comes from wisdom. ¹⁴ But if you harbor bitter envy and selfish ambition in your hearts, do not boast about it or deny the truth. ¹⁵ Such “wisdom” does not come down from heaven but is earthly, unspiritual, demonic. ¹⁶ For where you have envy and selfish ambition, there you find disorder and every evil practice.

¹⁷ But the wisdom that comes from heaven is first of all pure; then peace-loving, considerate, submissive, full of mercy and good fruit, impartial and sincere. ¹⁸ Peacemakers who sow in peace reap a harvest of righteousness.

Submit Yourselves to God

4 What causes fights and quarrels among you? Don’t they come from your desires that battle within you? ² You desire but do not have, so you kill. You covet but you cannot get what you want, so you quarrel and fight. You do not have because you do not ask God. ³ When you ask, you do not receive, because you ask with wrong motives, that you may spend what you get on your pleasures.

⁴ You adulterous people^,] don’t you know that friendship with the world means enmity against God? Therefore, anyone who chooses to be a friend of the world becomes an enemy of God. ⁵ Or do you think Scripture says without reason that he jealously longs for the spirit he has caused to dwell in us^[b]? ⁶ But he gives us more grace. That is why Scripture says:

“God opposes the proud
    but shows favor to the humble.”^[c]

⁷ Submit yourselves, then, to God. Resist the devil, and he will flee from you. ⁸ Come near to God and he will come near to you. Wash your hands, you sinners, and purify your hearts, you double-minded. ⁹ Grieve, mourn and wail. Change your laughter to mourning and your joy to gloom. ¹⁰ Humble yourselves before the Lord, and he will lift you up.

¹¹ Brothers and sisters, do not slander one another. Anyone who speaks against a brother or sister^[d] or judges them speaks against the law and judges it. When you judge the law, you are not keeping it, but sitting in judgment on it. ¹² There is only one Lawgiver and Judge, the one who is able to save and destroy. But you—who are you to judge your neighbor?

Boasting About Tomorrow

¹³ Now listen, you who say, “Today or tomorrow we will go to this or that city, spend a year there, carry on business and make money.” ¹⁴ Why, you do not even know what will happen tomorrow. What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes. ¹⁵ Instead, you ought to say, “If it is the Lord’s will, we will live and do this or that.” ¹⁶ As it is, you boast in your arrogant schemes. All such boasting is evil. ¹⁷ If anyone, then, knows the good they ought to do and doesn’t do it, it is sin for them.

Footnotes

1. 1. James 4:4 An allusion to covenant unfaithfulness; see Hosea 3:1.

1. 1. James 4:5 Or that the spirit he caused to dwell in us envies intensely; or that the Spirit he caused to dwell in us longs jealously

1. 1. James 4:6 Prov. 3:34

1. 1. James 4:11 The Greek word for brother or sister (adelphos) refers here to a believer, whether man or woman, as part of God’s family.

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October 14, 2022

Inside The Box

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‘Tis a strange experience, being an expert in my field, surrounded by people who are beginners, however, these beginners act and feel as though they are superior! The, “Dunning Kruger affect,” comes to mind. I will not chalk it up to saying, “They are simply ignorant, so have compassion for their immaturity,” because they purposely create a toxic work environment.  Any psychologist can resolve that these people are, “acting-out,” aggressively as the result to their  own inadequacies, (either consciously, intuitively or not).

It is a waste of journalism to describe the everyday instances where their petty, selfish stupidity interferes with the success of business. There is a higher level of thinking to exercise. There is a better way to live; there are smarter ways to conduct ourselves. There are ideas which we cannot even begin to ask if they exist. There is a smarter human being on the other side, and those who choose to be stupid are only looking into a foggy mirror, and shall never be worthy of breaking through to see the other side. Should we investigate this stupidity? … No.  May we point it out with the purpose of teaching the younger generation about these people? We MUST! We must point them out, if not to hold them accountable, but to entertain our own intellects, for the intellect is a muscle that requires both exercise and humor!

 

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Allegory Thyme:

The Thirteenth Black Book:

 

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October 23, 2022

     Well, Charlie, as they are not even attempting to reinvent the wheel, but just sitting on one with their thumbs up something… I heard a man say in an interview,

“You are what you continue to do.”

Aristotle

     Ray was gearing himself up to be a big player, a big teacher, to play an important, memorable role. The world as he perceived it was finally open and free enough to accept the wisdom passed- down.  He had been fortunate to have been taught by the most skilled and most successful, people who were unique and who were Masters in many regards. 

      Unfortunately, the world Ray has finally grown up in to is a very different, rather undefinable plethora of lack of culture melting-potted into a lack of yearning for betterment.  He had prepared himself for a world that no longer exists.  This comes to mind:  

“Don’t force your children into your ways, for they were created for a time different from your own.”

Plato

The Ideas were created for a different time than our own. Charlie, Ray and his old buddy, Charles, used to camp in a tipi at primitive rendezvous camps, mostly members of the Muzzle Loaders’ Association. The culture Ray  had prepared for would never exist, so, he would have to reinvent his expectations of the unidentified, future Ray. The Answer to his question was: There is no audience other than yourself. As history has proved to you, nobody has the interest in the things that you do; you are a lone traveler;… Lonesome Glory. Consequentially, there is no consequence to Ray’s  penned words, only self-satisfaction.

Similar to Jack Kerouac’s On The Road Scroll, ’tis time to Ramble on, maintain that ,

Dharma upon this Midnight Ghost! Chilly wind biting my face; frostbite eating at my feet. This boxcar is not my boxcar; I do not own it. However-way, down the tracks it goes, and Ray has written the rest for you and for Charlie to read, or to scroll and blog about, or blog-about, whichever you would prefer.

The Midnight Ghost has always been (as in the Aerosmith song, “Living on the Edge”) a journey, not a destination.

Famous people are Ghosts, actually, that, in essence, is why I wrote about the, “Ghost”.

So, with the change in culture, the lack of students for a teacher to teach, what does that teacher do with his efforts and his perceptions, for this outcome was unforeseen?

 

Back To Shaolin.

Ride Tight

Operation Loin Cloth’s Instruction Book

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SOURCE: The Black Book

VOICE: Paul, the Tent Maker

Circa: February 1, 2022

Overtly Shining the Lamp of Diogenes Through Example via Action

Notes on reigning-in the Aggressive Power of The G.A.’s Intention:

{This continues The Black Book, as, “The Midnight Ghost,” is but a chapter covered by The Black Book.}

QUANDRY:

Meritocracy is dead.
How does a (an operative)
Laborer survive
in a selfish (Inactive/Apathetic; speculative) World?

1. Short-Term Advice

2. Long-Term Advice

RELATED QUANDRY:

Which Actions and Mindsets must a man adopt to regulate his passions for his desired outcomes?
After MATTHEW 6:6-8,
Doing what The Good Book says,…

Pass on your orders.

‘Tis a stage! … the world is. In need of a Tyler? Maybe, indeed, three or more. Solomon’s words ring true, as the next generation will not recall the generations which came before us. The generation which came before we did,… they were tough; and they were tough on us!! They maintained a level of courage which seems far, if even few, between; and the organic family concept has become, if not obsolete, but rarely the norm; and this decay, or breakdown, of societal nuances hath propelled into physical existence of human species which interoperates the world by-whole, completely differently than those humans born only thirty years ago. There is, (one would suspect,) a very, very large number of people procreating (at always-increasing amounts,) and are either not teaching their children at all, or they do not act as parents, but as uneducated, unrefined teenagers. The result of that is what we see now.

the Bible says that, “The meek shall inherit the earth…” As you look around, and whilst you converse with your peers, you find people you have know for a long time are somehow peculiar to you in the way they interact with the world around them. You fee outnumbered in some sense by people who do not have mutual intentions, either for community, commerce, small town, (or even employing the, “it takes a village to raise the child,” concept) with the necessary due-diligence, harbored by the wisdom of delayed gratification. That, I tell you, is the most perverse metamorphosis I have seen over my lifetime which the, “human race,” has spiritually, mentally and physically undergone, and knowingly all along, purposely teaching others what they, themselves, know (however never acknowledge to know) that which is incorrect, detrimentally.

His name is Chaplin Bob Miller. I cold-called him, asking for help one day. When he returned my call, he was driving back from the airport with his wife; they had just arrived home from Cuba.

Bob was warm and inviting. He understood my situation. He had a lot on his plate at the time, but he took a couple of moments to meet with me and briefly listen to my quandary. Little did he know, I hadn’t told him

my true quandary– the real reason I had sought Chaplin Bob-out.

But Chaplin Bob gave me exactly the help I needed. I needed a place to sleep and shower and shave and get off of the road for an evening. I needed a job. I needed money to buy food and put gas in the Jeep

Bob forked-out $118.00 at the Red Roof Inn in Ocala Florida and insisted that I take the room- wouldn’t let me sleep in the Jeep that night.

“I’m giving you the last bit of cash I have.”

Chaplin Bob smiled as he handed me a ten dollar bill from his wallet.

He attempted to furnish me with a pair of work boots, but he couldn’t find a pair that fit me, even though I insisted that I would be able to afford a pair of Ariats in a week or so. He put his hand on my shoulder and, though he had only known me a few hours, he treated me as if I were his best friend’s grandson.

 

November 27, 2022

His name is Chaplain Bob Miller. I cold-called him, asking for help one day. When he returned my call, he was driving back from the airport with his wife; they had just arrived home from Cuba.

Bob was warm and inviting. He understood my situation. He had a lot on his plate at the time, but he took a couple of moments to meet with me and briefly listen to my quandary. Little did he know, I hadn’t told him my true quandary– the real reason I had sought Chaplin Bob-out.

But Chaplain Bob gave me exactly the help I needed. I needed a place to sleep and shower and shave and get off of the road for an evening. I needed a job. I needed money to buy food and put gas in the Jeep

Bob forked-out $118.00 at the Red Roof Inn in Ocala Florida and insisted that I take the room- wouldn’t let me sleep in the Jeep that night.

“I’m giving you the last bit of cash I have.”

Chaplain Bob smiled as he handed me a ten dollar bill from his wallet.

He attempted to furnish me with a pair of work boots, but he couldn’t find a pair that fit me, even though I insisted that I would be able to afford a pair of Ariats in a week or so. He put his hand on my shoulder and, though he had only known me a few hours, he treated me as if I were his best friend’s grandson. I spent the night at the Red Roof Inn- one of the best- sprawled-out across the bed sleeps I’d ever had! The next morning, I skipped work and went to Chaplin Bob’s Sunday church service.

Ocala Farm Ministry Sunday Service

November 27,2022

ALMOST THE MINUTES:

Announcements

Chaplain Bob described his visit to a Sports Camp in Cuba. It is a camp for young boys between the ages of 14 and their early twenties. He briefly described Santa Clara, which is the third largest city in Cuba. “We did some sight seeing, but not much.” Bob’s wife’s brother, Hugo, snapped quite a few pictures. Here they are: ……..

Deloris Lights the First Candle of Advent. “We are lighting our first candle for advent. This is the first week of advent, and the message of the first week of advent is:

FAITH

She cited PSALM 27:14.

“Wait for the Lord;
be strong and take heart and wait for the Lord.”

PSALM 27:14

Then, she cited Hebrews 11:3.

“By faith we understand that
the universe was formed at God’s command,
so that what is seen
was not made
out of what is
visible.”

HEBREWS 11:3

Deloris spoke about how, before David battled Goliath, “David already knew that the battle was the Lord’s.”

“Now, I light the candle as we await the 25th.” D. said.

When she said that, I thought, “What is the twenty-fifth?” I pondered for a moment. “Today is November 27th;” I thought. “What is the 25?,… Oh, Christmas!” I remembered.

Deloris said the phrase:

“…The Plurality of God…”

Joey Sings two beautiful songs, then shares, “I was going to keep on driving, but I said, ‘You know what?,… I’m going to Church!”

“Though we walk in the shadow of death, he is always with us. … from the tips of your toes to the top of your head!”

Joseph (Joey)

Joey is very, very high energy!

Clear Is Kind.

Chaplain Bob approaches the pulpit and announces:

“The Tennessee Tattler!… I know he’s got something to tell!”

Ronnie Shares some truth and some humor.

“The Holocaust was legal, but those who hid the Jews were criminals.”

Ronnie

“Our government and their laws are not God’s ,too! On a lighter note, … received a notice in the mail that his car warranty has run out!”

Ronnie

Doug Kindred shares his thoughts and chooses not to buy a Lincoln.

“I realized I was Sinning!”

Doug Kindred

"I'm the first child; I'm the stereotypical first kid!"  Doug proclaims.

He then lists the chapter headings for the book of JOEL and describes the progression of most profits.

“It’s almost always about wealth.”

Doug Kindred

He references ROMANS 10. “Heart and Mouth.”

 “For it is with your heart that you believe
and are justified,
and it is with your mouth
that you profess your faith
and are saved.”

ROMANS 10:10

“The only thing I’ve ever coveted before is Michelin Tires!”

Doug Kindred

Then, Doug touched upon First JOHN, chapter two, verses fifteen through seventeen.

“For everything in the world- the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life- comes not from the Father but from the world.”

1st JOHN 2:16

Chaplain Bob delivers the body of the service.

Doug Kindred shares how Hearing the word is most important.

“Just reading it isn’t enough; there is something about hearing The Word that does something for the Spiritual part of your mind.”

Doug said.

Chaplain Bob mentions how there are not many people in the congregation. (Before service had started, he sat next to me and said, “Well, you’re going to be about twenty percent of the church today.”)

“I was talking to Chip earlier about the Pareto Principal.” He vocally pondered how we could do differently to attract a larger following.

“…You could go driving around town in a new Lincoln,…”

He Joked!

“I want to talk about three things.” Chaplain Bob began:

 

1. 1. Patience

1. 1. Forgiving

1. 1. Mercy

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“Love Is The Essence of God.”

Chaplain Bob Miller

“What will keep us from being like Adam and Eve?”
He challenged us.
You see, Adam and Eve were in paradise;
didn’t need anything,
but they still chose to disobey God.
“What will keep us from choosing free will
and sinning
when we are in heaven?”

He begins the discussion and quickly concludes that it is too deep of a venture to fully entertain this morning, but is one that requires the next day’s of thought to bring that such conversation to the pulpit.

“Men choose to shine the light of darkness, because their deeds are evil.”

“God’s love is constant”

Chaplain Bob Miller

“Let light shine out of darkness.”

“ For God, who said, ‘Let light shine out of darkness,’ made his light shine in our hearts to give us the light of the knowledge…”

2 Corinthians 4:6

“I should probably be trying to figure out something simpler.” Chaplain Bob then said.

“We will be like him when we see him face-to-face.”

Chaplain Bob Miller

HARMONY.

Practice Silence; interrupt with neither word or expression.

“Arrogance (is what usually) leads to conflict.”

Chaplain Bob Miller

“Live in harmony with one another. Do not be proud, but be willing to associate with people of low position. Do not be conceited.”

ROMANS 12:16-18

“By the sweat of your brow
    you will eat your food
until you return to the ground,
    since from it you were taken;
for dust you are
    and to dust you will return.”

GENESIS 3:19

Chaplain Bob mentioned,
“There’s a country song that goes, ‘It’s hard to be humble when you’re perfect in every way!'”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dg8NPPEms54

After that, Chaplain Bob referred to a Bob Dylan song, saying, “…People won’t want to be around us if we are honest all the time.”

He Cited Colossians 3:12-17.

“…clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience.
Bear with each other and forgive one another
if any of you has a grievance against someone.
Forgive as the Lord forgave you.
And over all these virtues put on love, 
which binds them all together in perfect unity.
Let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts,
since as members of one body 
you were called to peace. 
And be thankful.
Let the message of Christ 
dwell among you richly
as you teach and admonish one another
with all wisdom 
through psalms, hymns, and songs from the Spirit,
singing to God with gratitude in your hearts…”

Colossians 3:12-17

He touched upon how a Man Of God should comport himself.

“People knew (early) Christians from their walk and demeanor,” he said. “They were a Peculiar people; people were not used to others who were in sincere service (to others).

“People knew Christians from their walk and demeanor.”

People had not before experienced such sincere service to their fellow man!
Because of that, early Christians were viewed as, “a peculiar people”.

Chaplain Bob Miller

“I am eternal; I have plenty of time. … but, then I get in my Lincoln…”

Bob chuckled, poking fun at Doug!

Then, he expressed how it is difficult to navigate in a world where people are leery of honest, sincere people. However, he spoke how:

“He has created a new group of people who are like-minded.”

Then, he advised:

“Have the mind of Christ,… who humbled himself to death.”

“Faith in what? … You gotto have faith in something!”

Chaplain Bob Miller

Doug spoke about how important it is to HEAR The Word read out-loud:

“There is something about hearing that changes the soul.”
He stated.
Reading is not good enough;
you need to HEAR the word read/spoken;
for the musical reason,
the sense of hearing
beckons
the curiosity of the soul.

After the service, Doug and I spoke in the kitchen about his distain for marijuana, and he shared a personal story. Upon leaving, he handed me some cash to put food in my belly.

“I wrote a book. I want to give it to you,” he said. Doug handed me his work.

Joey wanted to help me, so he told me to follow him He took me to a Waffle House where we shared a big meal over relaxed conversation. He took me to the Silver Springs Motel and asked the manager if he had any vacant rooms, but the manger thought we were homosexuals and said, “No.” So, he took me to a shoty place up the road where I stayed. That place was quite a gem!

Joey helped me find lodging, and he paid for it!

That place had no Bible; neither did the Red Roof Inn.

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Observation of the Influence Which Emotion Wields Over a Man’s Ability To Reason:

It seems Bob and Jordan Peterson are experiencing a similar force by-which emotion over-takes their ability to reason efficiently. They get teary- eyed and tend to venture off from an analytical, only-guided-by-logic approach to an appeal to an emotionally propelled, open-ended query, propelling their thought process into a realm which is non-congruent with the original topic.
Though that particular human experience is a useful tool for exploring psychology, that becomes a distraction- a hinderance; … THE hinderance, one might Buddhistically suggest.
Washed-out in a face full of tears, (these two) men tend to forget the question they were seeking to ask; and therefore tend to create the, “the questioning, itself, is the answer,” paradigm! In that, “The Answer,” they seek cannot materialize. Instead, the, “investigation,” becomes a self-exploration, describing the whole of humanity, fueled by pent-up emotion (which they want to share,) consequently being extinguished by the arrogant affect of being the observer attempting to objectively observe itself.
As a picture of a pencil cannot draw itself, the human attempting to reconcile with its own cognitive dissonance by way of cognition is the same as the ocean attempting to dry itself off by splashing around!

The reason I pose the above notion is because I became curious as to why Jordan Peterson has allowed his emotion to interfere with his oratory skills. Here is an example:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x6_ESSfyiYE

Harold, he’s a friendly guy; he rambles on-and-on; he’ll talk the balls off a rhino-saurus!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WQtYXsCFdZ8

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