Professional Documents
Culture Documents
ElixirofPonyo 1
ElixirofPonyo 1
Published by MyPonyo Omni Media Copyright 006 by Lewis Lowe All Rights Reserved. ISBN 978--443-069-0 No reproduction of this book in whole or in part except where specifically indicated, or brief quotations for review purposes in relevant periodicals and newspapers in any form, may be made without the expressed written authorization of the publisher. Printed in the United States of America Fiction $14.00 US $20.00 CAN Contact: elixirofponyo@yahoo.com http://www.myspace.com/ponyo Cover Art: Chris House of INKOSI DESIGN STUDIO 34-36-3984 Permission in writing must be given for all quotations or reproductions.
Lewis Lowe
Lewis Lowe
Dedicated to a True Ponyo Michael Thomas
A novel by
Lewis Lowe
Lewis Lowe
Ponyos Theme
Consciousness is a timeline Display upon the screen of your mind a straight line. See it? Now, observe a line with waves, minute ripples that wave. Now see upon your mind screen a perpherated line, you know a line with a bunch of potholes, breakage. Now see an erratic zigzag line... Being honest, which of these said lines best describes your life? Ninety-five percent of the species is a living zigzag, a nervous wreck. Theyre erratic, discontented, disappointed, nonharmonic perpherated people with trapdoors in their consciousness. Lifes events and disappointments left unresolved and unforgiven. Someone hurt them here or they hurt someone there. Their father deserted them. Their mother locked them out of the house when they were seven. They believe theyre unattractive. All this static creates potholes in consciousness producing dysfunctionality in life disqualifying you for the Elixir. Ha! Now dig this. Even that wavy line cant go for the Elixir. You know that jet aeroplane that brought you out here today is lovely but how much turbulence did you experience? Science and the engineers of this present world cannot produce a smooth ride because the scientists themselves are narcissistic, confused and bumpy brained. The Divine Chariot of Universal Awe, that bird aint surfing on no waves up in the air. Its as smooth as my Brionni suit, man. That vehicle glides on a smooth slice of air with perfect harmonics, exquisitely balanced. Well, thats my life. My timeline is smooth. I have consciously removed the potholes. Anything that might damage the structural integrity of my mind, anything that might cause the ride of my life to be bumpy is gone. Every day of my life, from four years old to right now is perfectly clear. Its like looking down a bowling alley and seeing those pins at the end. When I drop my ball down the lane Im gonna hit all them pins. Every time. I havent deceived myself. I know who I am, I know who is God, and Im conscious of everyone else on the playing field. Theyre playing life on a lane of potholes wondering why their ball goes in the gutter every time. Then, theyve got to go sit down and wait for the next opportunity to deal. Well, you may never get another chance! Why waste time striking out? Why not bowl a perfect game?
Lewis Lowe
Overture
If consciousness is a timeline, what then, is the theology of time? Why does infinity flirt with temporality? Could one dance outside and inside of time? Could one dance inside and outside human and divine? Why the dividing line? Maybe there is no line, could it all be in our minds? Eternity forcefully penetrated my concept of temporality in my seventh initiatory year in the Science of Universal Awe. Now I know there are real live men and women existing outside time, operating in a fashion some call divine. Flesh, blood, bones, and mind. The Great Halijee is one such man. He is my master. Not a slave master, but a master of circumstance, a master of life, now a master of death whose life is lived solely to give life. Heard of him before I dont suspect, but its possible, maybe youve be elected History has no need for him yet he can claim direct responsibility for many climatic shifts in global culture this past century. Hes been the starry star in many a dream All cosmogonic myths, folklore, fables, and fairy tales, hieroglyphics and Holy Scriptures have whispered about such mysteries, which sound like fantasy in present reality. Still we all are actors in this drama. The writers, producers and directors in the drama are called Lightholders. They are the light of the worlds. They are the matriarchal marrow of existence. They can easily look back 100,000 years and forward 25,000 years as present as they are now, there. They can communicate effortlessly across continents with thousands of persons at once while eating dinner (when they decide to eat). I know this sounds fantastical, but such fantasy, for me, has become reality. We call this reality Universal Awe. My name is Tabriz. I will be your host for this magical mystery tour, this quest for the Holy Grail: the elixir which sanctifies existence. Me? Im just a wild-mannered barbarian, a ruffian. I jest. Actually Im quite a cosmopolitan cat. The entirety of my brief life has been an exploration of the above mentioned themes. 1999. After returning from a lost weekend of debauchery in New York City I returned to my little loft in the plaza area of Kansas City. Even though I was a serious student in the Science of Universal Awe, I was going through a dark night of the soul. I had rebelled against all the moral tenets of Universal Awe, even developing a fondness for over-the-counter sedatives. I had flown back for a late-night recording session, but had absolutely
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didnt want to go with him. The unknown was too unknown for me. Gently, I pulled away or maybe gently, he pushed me away. Soon I was back in bed, back in my loft, trembling with that tangible feeling of loveliness all over me still. I luxuriated there until I had to pee. Damn. Now if I get up will this feeling end? I contemplated this until biology took over. Reluctantly I arose to slowly, painfully reenter the real world. Back in bed I curled up foetus-style, reviewing the chain of events. There was no doubt in my mind that I had actually met my master. So why would he come to me now, when I was in Lucifer mode? I picked up the phone and called my dear friend and brother in Universal Awe, Roberto. It was three in the morning, one in Los Angeles. Excitedly I ran down my experience. T, call Ponyo. Write it all down and report it to Ponyo. He gave me the number. Apparently, Ponyo and Michael Thomas would be in LA to visit Roberto in a few days. Yes! I needed the beach. I needed to enjoy California, enjoy the ocean for a few days. That morning I left a message for Ponyo. Ponyo and Michael Thomas each had forty years under their belts in the Science of Universal Awe. They were highly respected and their legend had taken on mythic proportions. Currently, they disguised themselves as traveling salesmen and were making their way from Texas to California. Those highly advanced in the Science of Universal Awe cloak themselves by participating fully in the contemporary world, particularly sales or other endeavors which keep them untraceable. Theres no hermit trip at all. I flew to Los Angeles, rented a car, and drove to Robertos condo in Santa Monica. A bond was formed. Three days were spent with Ponyo and Michael Thomas. On the third day I asked Ponyo if I could write the story of his life. He laughingly explained that a psychic in Kansas City once predicted great wealth would come from the publication of his life story. Before we go forward, I must offer a brief description of the life of this party. Ponyo stands approximately 59. Admiring glances circle him like Cessnas. Hes a dashing figure, who imports the finest suits and watches from the East, so hes always draped immaculate. Occasionally hell transition into a hip-hop type jumpsuit with a baseball cap or simple silk pajamas when at home. He has a light caramel complexion and closely cropped curly black hair with natural silver highlights. All in all, if Ponyo were to walk pass you in a grocery store, youd notice something spectacularly unusual about him. Youd notice something magnetic pulling you his way, especially if youre female. Ponyo would charismatically greet your curiosity with a nod of the head and a twinkle of the
Lewis Lowe
Illumination and
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some booty for itself! They escaped 150 miles to the majestic Blue Ridge Mountains. There Ugoma and the village of Nur met and mixed with the Blackfoot Indians who populated those mountains. That marriage produced the people who founded Illumination, Virginia. A people who escaped chattel slavery. They were my ancestors. Now those Blue Ridge Mountains are to North America what the Andes are to South America. Or what the Himalayas are to Asia. I grew up at the base of those mountains. I speak from my own experience. As a child Id walk those mountains, ofttimes with my best friend Michael Thomas. Wed get into such a zone of clarity and inspiration I get chills just thinking about it. And that has not changed. You could go there now and youll know what Im saying is true. Little did I know as a boy, but those mountains were the setting for some heavy, heavy ashrams back then and now. Great Yoganandas, Maharishis, Buddic and Sufic masters got down in those mountains. I suspect we all were charged on the same circuit of power. We know that all-encompassing circuit of power as Universal Awe. I first was introduced (informally) to Universal Awe when I was four years old. It was an initiation of sorts, which set me out for the work I would do in manhood. I was born in 1941. My father, William Roberts, was in France serving Americas war effort. My grandfather was the head chef for the a prominent and fabulously wealthy New England family. My grandmother was the head housekeeper. My mother was a chambermaid. She was pregnant and decided to live and work with my grandparents at our benefactors mansion in a suburb north of New York City. I remember stables, horses, trees and more trees. I developed a fondness for one of the little heiress girls. Wed play up, down, and all around that estate. It really was some kind of wonderland for a child. The Vanderbilts traveled back and forth to Europe leaving my family in charge while they were gone. So we grew accustomed to the best that society had to offer. My grandfather, Mister Lushus, in particular lived that Great Gatsby lifestyle. He wore the finest suits with only the finest shoes, driving only the finest cars, socializing in the sweetest haunts with the sweetest company. Like most introductions to Universal Awe, I had to go through some type of trauma. In my case I had to damn near die. At four years old I was rushed to the hospital with inflamed adenoids and tonsillitis. Right now I can see the doctors working on me with my family in an adjacent room worried to death. It was serious. The doctors had to wrestle me down to put the anesthetic mask over me. Mister Lushus intervened to calm me down. Apparently, an ether-based anesthetic was given to me at an improper dosage. I do not believe this was intentional.
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fire my questions at her, shed think a minute and submit a rebuttal. She was a very good sparring partner. I had already developed a negative attitude toward church because my grandfather, whom I regarded as one of the strongest men on the planet, would go to church every Sunday, pull out a handkerchief, break down and cry. Every Sunday! I didnt like that shit. Anything that made a man that strong break down and cry was suspect to me. My intuitional self was fully awakened by the aforementioned outof-body experience on the operating table, so I had to reconcile this religion, Miss Odoms bible class, and my own experiences in church with my mystical tendencies. I was a natural mystic. As a child I experimented with many powers of the mind: astro-projection, clairvoyance, clairaudience, and remote viewing to name a few. At night when I went to bed, a whole other world opened up to me, which I could initiate and navigate. I thought everyone did this. Maybe Mozart thought his little playmates could write magnificent concertos too. I had a little friend who never shared his funny books with me. In my night journeys I decided to stop by his room and read them anyway. The next day I told him what all the characters in his prized comic books were doing. I soon realized I was pretty much alone in this realm of things so I felt a little isolated from my family and everyone else. But I was not a loner, quite the opposite. I just could not reconcile my reality with the reality every one else believed. Never have I been a prospect in the marketplace of that reality. One night I felt very depressed over these things and I went to my mountains for solace and reflection. I was maybe twelve years old. I just sat there and cried. Then I heard a voice. Not in my head, but a clear, audibly masculine voice spoke to me. Get up! Get up and cry no more. Walk into the world. You will not have to worry about anything ever again because I am with you. Get up! I am with you. And what did I do? Man, I stepped off that mountain with such a sense of empowerment, such confidence in myself. I had zero grief and zero fear. And I havent permitted grief or fear into my life since. I developed a recurring mantra, which epitomizes it all, Somebody up there likes me. Back to this church thing. My whole family was involved in the religion known as Christianity. After my Mountain Experience and much contemplation I made a decision: I dont believe this. One Sunday morning my mother called me to go with her to church. I walked downstairs and told her, Mother, Im not going to church anymore. Not ever.
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What incentive would anyone hace to try to live a good, moral life when someone else already died for your indiscretions? Thats ludicrous. Third, a woman cannot have a baby without a man. Thats common sense. So my intuition is telling me this is not right. There are many different religions in the world and I will go on a search for one that fits me. I will do a comparative study of religions and choose one for myself. But this one I dismiss as fantasy. I went a little further. Look at the reverend, hes messing around with all these women and everyone knows about it but says nothing. When I go pass lovers lane, hes winking at me like hes one of the guys when hes supposed to be a moral example. And all the other affairs going on in church What does this have to do with religious worship or a Higher Power? I dont understand. I went on and on until my mother threw up her hands and excused herself from the table. The room was quiet. She returned with desert. When she sat down I gave my closing remarks. Until its proven to me who or what God is, Im God. This was my response to anyone who attempted to proselytize me. Weve been praying to Jesus to save us all these years and still got lynched, still got our feet, ears and privates chopped off. Still the nigger got boiled in a pot. Why cant this Jesus help us? If he does come back and knock on our door Ill whup him for being such a chump not to answer my peoples prayers from slavery on up to now. Besides how can the slave and the slave master have the same God, the exact same religion? Hes thanking God for all the wealth these niggers have given him while were praying to a God that will kill him and free us. How can both parties be Christians and if hes such a Christian wheres his Christianity towards us? This was in the 1950s in Illumination, Virginia. You sound like a hophead. Are you smoking something? Where did you get all this outlandish stuff from? Never had anyone critiqued and analyzed her religion. She had no defense. Personally, church didnt make me feel holy but it did make me feel lustful. Seemed like all the fastest girls in town were all in the church. Whyd I have to go someplace dedicated to a higher power and get a hard-on? The whole church thing had an undercurrent of perversity to me. My psychic antenna was wide open and I felt the lust in the room. Maybe that halfnude fellow on the wall aroused these girls cause I felt their heat all over me. I had no problem with that at lovers lane but in a church? No, somethings wrong here. And the preachers daughter was the wildest of them all! I didnt share those arguments with my mother but never again did she
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Brotherhood: Orion
and Michael Thomas
I first saw Jack Johnson when I was maybe six or seven. Hed slip into town, without observation and set up at Rosewood. Rosewood Academy was quite famous in Virginia for both its sports and dramatics departments. Our entire educational career from the third to twelfth grade was at that school with a class of twenty-five or so students. We had a very dynamic auditorium, which Jack Johnson utilized each fall. His production began with a theme song hed put on the phonograph: Lucky ole son, Give him nothing to do But roam over heaven all day That was his theme. Jack Johnson was a small wizard looking cat who didnt have a race. He could go amongst any group and fit in. He always wore a dark grey suit, white shirt, and tie which never got soiled; an achievement since hed always be seen walking out of the mountains. He looked like he was in his thirties and despite his small frame was strong as an ox. He was a very unusual looking cat who spoke in terse riddles youd have to rewind a few times to decipher. He had this sweet smell about him too. Hed walk out as Lucky ole son wound down. Hed look up and dramatically shout Amarjah! Give me power! Amarjah, give me power! Then hed run across the street to a graveyard with everyone chasing after him. There a six-foot shallow grave would already be dug with a pine box at the bottom. Jack jumped in and called for two people to put the lid on the box and nail it shut. Dirt come to breath, cover body! His words mumbled together in a dialect of English unique to himself. The two helpers climbed out and shoveled dirt back atop the crypt. A big mound covered the grave and hed be down there nailed shut. Just as we made our way back to the auditorium a helper cued his theme song Lucky ole son, Give him nothing to do, But roam over heaven all day Amarjah! Give me power! Out comes Jack Johnson walking gingerly up the aisle to the auditorium stage. Next hed have someone else tie him up in a barber chair with huge double-knotted rope around his feet, legs, waist, and chest. After the helpers tightened the ropes Jack Johnson looked up and
Lewis Lowe
Why werent you in church! Lady, I had to work. This went on a while longer until she threatened to throw him out the window if he wouldnt tell her the truth. He was telling the truth. She didnt care or didnt believe him or both. She grabbed him heading for the window. He cuts loose running to the back of the room, leaving her by the window. He picks up these empty milk bottles and began hurling them at her. Mop! Mop! Mop! Who is this dude I wondered? She didnt bother him anymore. That winter I noticed him again. A devastating blizzard hit town. We were in the middle of a test; he comes in late with nothing on but a little Tshirt, raggedy pants and a pitiful excuse for shoes with no socks. He had no paper, pencils, or school supplies and his hair was wild, long and curly. He just sits down unassumingly like this was the most normal thing in the world. I had a big notebook and plenty pencils, so I got up and gave him some supplies. He thanked me. Ten minutes later he gets up and turns in his test. He got a perfect score! This with no books, no supplies, and apparently, no study. So we struck up a friendship. He had nothing while I had it all. I adopted him like a play-brother. My fathers businesses were beginning to take off and Mister Lushus was a legend so I enjoyed a kind of prestige in the community. Being from Moppingtown, MT enjoyed a kind of infamy, so we made a good team. All the Moppingtown boys worked at the Virginia Country Club. Thats where MT was that Sunday he had to defend himself against that crazed teacher. The country club catered to all the upper crust white bread of Virginia. When Mister Lushus moved back to Illumination he was the obvious choice to take over the kitchen. He worked all the big affairs, weddings, fundraisers, etc. Id accompany him and help in the prep work: cutting onions, carrots, selecting choice cuts of meat, anything he needed. When I became a teenager I wanted to hang out with MT and the Moppingtown crew. They were the caddies at the club. Like any fraternity, one had to prove oneself prior to admission. One day I walked up to the caddy shack where they all were. MT and all the fellas were sitting around a fire. What the fuck does this yellow nigger want! Get your yellow ass outta here! I aint going nowhere. Who you think you are? You know what you bout to get into? Look, I aint scared of none of you. Im gonna work up here this summer and I aint going nowhere. The leader, Lee Lee, puts a poker in the fire and holds it up. Michael Thomas is grinning. Aint no punks up in here. You gotta take the brand. I aint taking nothing.
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Bet you aint gonna throw no knife at me. Swap! MT threw it right into his thigh. We had no fear of anything. Once a white boy called him a shaggyhaired yellow nigger and ran. Michael Thomas shot off like lighting. He caught up with the dude by the lake and took him down; bashing his head against a big rock. Then he put the boys head underwater. Another Mexican standoff. O, Ill kill him unless you tell me to let him go. Kill him. The poor boys mumbling bubbles through the water, his body trembling. Go on and let him go. MT lets up. The boys all blue. This is just the way we grew up; rough and tough manhood 101. Back in the tenth grade I had a teacher who for whatever reason did not like me. One of my fathers businesses was a funeral home. At that time, an ambulance service was a part of the funeral business. Occasionally I assisted him in driving an ambulance after school. I was scheduled to drive a patient to the hospital for cancer treatment immediately after class. But this teacher wanted to discipline me by having me stay after school. Im sorry but I have a very important appointment after school. Youll have to schedule me for another afternoon. I was very polite. I said you will stay this afternoon, Mr. Roberts. Pardon me, I do not want to repeat myself but I told you I cannot stay this afternoon and I dont want to say it again. When that bell rings Im walking out the door. You do what you got to do but Im gone. Another Mexican standoff. Here comes the principal, When one of my teachers gives you an instruction, you follow his instruction Mr. Roberts. The wolverines coming up and Im getting angry as a hornet. One last time, I told him, now Im telling you I have important business to attend to after class. Ill gladly stay another day but not today. Thats it. Mr. Roberts, youre staying here. Well see, cause when that bell rings Im walking out the door. Now hes standing over me to block any movement on my part. Damn! Why do they want to fuck with me? The bell rings, I get up. The principal grabs me. I snatched him by his shirt collar and his crotch, picked him up and body slammed him to the ground. I ran over to the bookshelf and one by one began hurling the books at him. He crawled out the room on all fours, bloodied and bowed. Im banging him all the way. Youre expelled Roberts! Youre expelled!
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New Excitement
New York City has always been a playground for the biggest egos. Mine could climb the Empire State and eat airplanes with a fine Harlem debutante in my arms. Mister Lushus first exposed me to the wonders of the city as a youngster. In those delectable summers, Michael Thomas and I would take the train into Grand Central Station. The whole world would seemingly be there; buzzing, busy little bees. At LaGuardia Airport wed watch the planes take off, imagining ourselves landing in some exotic locale wet for adventure. Id even accompany MT to the symphony where hed play air conductor to Beethovens bravery or Mozarts magnificence and wake me when it was over. Not to mention Coney Island where wed gorge on the worlds best Rueben sandwiches and Nathans Hot-dogs. Like a bashful baby-sitter, New York turned into a scandalous temptress in our teenage years, ready to give us new pleasures, new excitement. I worked at the summer boardwalk at day then rose with the moon at night. My cousins and friends were all players in Harlems early sixties renaissance, i.e., club owners, drug runners and pimps. Jazz was recreating, rebirthing itself; exploding across New Yorks skyline in extraordinary sonic fireworks, thunder announcing lightning. Americas Mozarts, Beethovens, and Bachs all held court in Harlem. (Einsteins, Shakespeares and Platos too.) Not only did the best artists, musicians, and writers matriculate here but the most brilliant thinkers thought and the fiercest revolutionaries fought through megaphones there in Harlem. You could catch James Brown and the Famous Flames tear down the Apollo Theatre twice a day then walk outside where Malcolm X was mercilessly slaying devils on 125th Street. Have you ever heard My Favorite Things? Not until you heard Coltrane rip out its guts, then perform delicate plastic surgery on the wounds for 45 minutes straight. That man could turn Mary had a Little Lamb into an epiphany, and probably did. The Village Vanguard, Birdland, The Baby Grand, Smalls Paradise: thats where it all went down. Castro held court at the Teresa Hotel, calling the comrades to Cuba to fight la revolucion. In Greenwich Village you could philosophize with the Beats joyfully molesting the English language.
New Pleasures,
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Psycho-Neurosis
No sugar, no salt, no alcohol, just rice. Brown rice that is. There is a wisdom tradition that adheres to a diet centered on brown rice. Apparently the brown rice provides all the nutrients and amino acids needed to bring the body back to a state of equilibrium. Obviously, alcohol dulls sense perception and stunts electromagnetic receptivity, paling the chakras. Sugar is a straight up poison producing static in the subtle body, in ones thinking, inhibiting Supreme Consciousness. Salt taints ones bodily fluids producing a high acidity, again blocking the ability of the human to receive and transmit light. Every cell of your body is a receiver. So the brown rice diet was part of an effort to cleanse and stimulate the human body, to reverse the atrophy. As there is a bleaching process turning brown rice into white rice, brown sugar into white sugar, and a fermentation process to produce liquor, there was a process which turned noble, proud Africans captured during slavery into a Negro, a necro, a zombie with no will of his or her own. Lynching, quartering, tar and feathering, all the sadistic torture techniques were just bulwarks to enforce the damage done. Thus producing the psycho-neurosis of slavery: deeply embedded morays, habits, ways of thinking, acting, reacting and not acting at all cemented firmly into the collective Black American psyche still evident today. One of the many outgrowths of the psycho-neurosis of slavery is a matriarchal society among Black folks. Black men were totally demasculinized, physically and psychologically; our innate masculinity robbed. The X and Y chromosomes functioning only biologically. Watch a male hawk. The male organically searches for a mate, a female hawk. Hell present her with gifts, maybe a mouse, showing his ability to hunt. Hell successfully fend off any would-be suitors, showing his ability to protect and defend her. Then hell take some twigs and grass, fly to the highest point of a tree or mountain and build a nest, a little home for the two of them. They consummate the union. When the babies come, the brother hawk goes to work triple-time to feed his children while simultaneously killing any would be aggressors to his family. Then papa hawk teaches his children how to fly and fend for themselves, imparting all his hawk-knowledge passed down hawk-to-hawk
of Slavery
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Higher Education?
Michael Thomas and I graduated high school at the top of our class. MT scored a full college scholarship, academic and athletic. We were linked by an umbilical cord of intuition, sharing an entirely freelance view of the world. We despised religion, particularly the Jim Crow Christianity mumbojumbo. The civil rights movement was completely insulting to our sense of self. Why would I permit someone to beat me upside the head in a march? Why would I sit down and demand to be served in a filthy restaurant or sit on a nasty toilet? We considered ourselves superior to white people. I had my own toilet and I could go to the store and buy my own food to cook in my own kitchen. The civil rights agenda of integration was complete foolishness to me. The burgeoning black power movement was still very abstract, but we totally agreed with the kill my dog, slay your cat philosophy. Damn right. But in the main nothing was a challenge for us, nothing was hip enough. We considered ourselves the masters of it all, probably the sentiment of most twenty-year olds. Going into college my self-confidence verged on ego mania. New York City had sharpened all my life skills, my power with women, and my street knowledge. I was a dashing aristocratic cat. I was walking in my grandfathers footsteps, always immaculately dressed and smelling like paradise. I styled myself as the swashbuckler who miraculously showed up and took charge, vanquished the evildoers and ran off with the girl. College was a hell of a disappointment. My parents businesses were taking off so I could go to any school I wanted. I chose a historically Black college in the state of West Virginia. Integration was all the rage, but this college was integrated in reverse. White teachers and students had been slowly migrating there for years. As a result, the accreditation standards were far above the standards of other Negro schools, it had quite a prestigious reputation. The entry exams were elementary to me. I aced all of them except English. I was put in a remedial course called Bonehead English. That hurt me. Im Orion Roberts. What the hell do I look like in a class called Bonehead English? What could I do? The first day the instructor gave us an assignment. We were to write an essay on our life experience. Growing up in the South, I wrote about Jim Crow and my contempt for southern society. That paper saved me the embarrassment of being a bonehead. Immediately I was put in a college level
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went down on all fours and started barking. All the freshmen did this. Except one. I took a seat to have some breakfast and watch this foolishness. An upperclassman comes up to me, Are you a freshman? Yes, I am. Another guy interrupts him, Hey, man thats Louie, hes cool. Leave him alone man. Word had gotten around, dont mess with Louie from Illumination. That was their nickname for me. Everywhere I went I heard it, Lou! Lou! Hands off Louie. Damn right. I developed a real bad attitude towards every aspect of that school. A contemptuous boulder was growing on my shoulder. The college seemed to have two classes of people: the athletes and the bourgeoisie with the athletes dominating. I blocked myself off from both groups and developed a real intense, no-nonsense attitude. I had a hair-trigger temper. If an ant stepped to me wrong, Id shoot the ant into the ground. But I had a real comic side too, like a little Richard Pryor. That helped mask my contempt for these fake-ass people around me. I had a hawk on one shoulder, a dove on the other. The women loved it. Ive always been strong with women, thats inherited. But at that sissy college it was magnified. I was the only lion amongst a bunch of pussycat men and duncical buffoons hugging a football. Soon the finest women either belonged to myself or Moms. Moms was a notorious bull dagger with a string of drop-dead gorgeous ladies but Ill be damned if any woman is gonna outdo Orion Roberts. Shed stroll through with her harem of lovers and I rolled out with mine. She respected me because I was in reality what she could only pretend to be: a man. She flaunted her power over her lovers, but I already knew the pimp game from my cousins in New York City. The pimps I knew in New York were some glorious cats who decorated themselves like boxes of candy housed with a lot of bitter chocolate (women). I befriended many of them usually at the pool table where I watched the game unfold. From time to time in my life, women have approached me to be their pimp. Graciously Id decline. No, darling, Id have to beat your ass. Id have to mistreat you, you know youll need that to really be effective for me. Im a lover of women and the pimp has no authentic love for his women. He takes a womans fascination and distorts it into an ugly thing. I could never manipulate someone like that. Ill take that fascination and plant a botanical garden where the pimp always leaves the same land barren and withered. When Id travel back to the city, Id ask my cousins about New York Slim, Chicago Brass, Little Joe the Mighty Mo; all the top pimps. One by one, Id
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you freak of nature futherfacker. I went completely ballistic. I whipped his ass in three languages. I ended up locking him in the closet of his office and threw the key in the dumpster. Pompous Asshole was hospitalized and it became the scandal of the year. The dean called me in to kick me out of the school. I aint going nowhere! Mr. Roberts, you are to leave the campus immediately! No Im not leaving the campus. But I will go to the faculty and tell them about I called the role on all the athletes he was screwing. His lover was the Head of the Dramatic Department; but he didnt know his lover was fucking half the football team. Ill expose you to the world you perverted ass mamma-tamma! I was excused with a passing grade and went about my damn business. Word quickly spread of my successful vanquishment of the evil, pompous one. For the next week the campus chant was Lou! Lou! Lou! People thought I was superman. I say all this only to say that college was diametrically opposed to the natural mystic Id cultivated since childhood. These were weak people (the Negro elite) whose only goal in life was to fit in with white people. To get a good job in some big corporation, to integrate a neighborhood, to stay in your place, and dont cause any waves in white peoples sea. Well I was a self-power, a self-entity. These were people to be pitied. College was just another way to turn brown rice white, an indoctrination making well trained, modestly paid slaves; making you forever a subordinate. Even if youre vice-president of this or C.E.O. of that, you will always be looking up to the real power signing your checks. Like pilots who can land only where air traffic control clears him to land. I saw that clearly then and even clearer now. Around that time I took an excursion up north where I saw an Indian (subcontinent) man running a marathon. He was a fakir. This man fell and sliced his leg open on the side of the road. With my own eyes I witnessed this man put himself into a trance and clot the blood until medical help arrived. Thats the kind of knowledge I wanted. Why cant they teach that in college! Fuck being a pawn in the hands of the blue-blooded overlords. Toilet water blue that is. Every day of every semester I was in college that intuitional voice of dissention grew stronger, What the Sam-hell are you doing here! In fact in my junior year the voice told me if I didnt get out of college at once, he (my intuitional voice) would cease communication. All I could do was soak up all I could, anything that would be of some benefit to me. I wanted to learn everything about finance, so I got straight As in economics. Mathematics intrigued me, and of course, the mind so psychology was a real passion of mine as well.
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They all were special. Tanya Hanyes was a jet-black goddess; she was ninety pounds of pure sensuality. Olivia was the polar opposite; she looked like a White girl. In between were many whose names Ive forgotten, they came tall and short, every hue under the sun but I loved them all. One was my party girl, my dance partner. One was my carnal delight, another was my intellectual stimulation, and yet another was my soul mate. They each fed all the various compartments of my self. They all knew about each other. Why lie? If you get tired of this arrangement go about your business but know this: nobody will love you like me. That was and still is my guarantee. One day my dad asked me how many girlfriends I had. At that time I had three. He didnt believe me. If you bring all three to dinner at the same time Ill let you drive my Fleetwood. That was his challenge and I loved driving his brand new Cadillac. So the next night I invited all my girlfriends to dinner to my dads enjoyment and my mothers disapproval. Afterwards I drove them all home in my dads Fleetwood. That being said, only one made me contemplate marriage.
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Elixir: Love
June Donahue was my first major love affair. Her father was a juvenile court judge in West Virginia. The Donahue name easily tipped the scales of influence and prestige in the state of West Virginia. June was a vision of ultra-feminine mystique. Like a young starlet in the glossy pages of Vogue or like Elizabeth Taylor in National Velvet, she possessed an equestrian refinement that would easily magnetize even the queers at college. She was a young socialite, a debutante, a miss this and a miss that. Shed host elegant affairs at the home of her father, the judge. She had a younger, equally adorable sister. C.J. scored an invitation to one of her spring socials and invited a few friends to accompany him. Always open for adventure I decided to go. We drove into a stately, gated mansion encompassed on all sides by lustrous automobiles of status. Being the swashbuckler, I stepped in all continental swagger, like a young Errol Flynn. I wore a tan turtleneck, a mahogany blazer, black pants, chestnut shoes and cap. I sat down to assess any prospects and there she was, this slender, dark cinnamon diamond with huge doe eyes. She wore a low-cut cucumber-green gown, which offered a glimpse of two delightfully plump breasts, her accouterments translucent enough to invite your eyes down the curvature of her body - the intelligent arch of her behind, the subtle sway of her hips. We made eye contact and the earth ceased to revolve. I observed her greeting each guest, playing the genial host to this suarez. While all the bourgie boys made their plays, she graciously flashed a heartbreaking smile my way. Patiently, I waited for the perfect opportunity. As she made her way through the crowd I stood up and introduced myself. Sweetheart, Im the best dancer in all of Virginia. May I treat the lady of this affair to a dance? Again, she flashed that heartbreaking smile. The chemistry between us exploded on the dance floor. I picked just the right song to show off all the latest moves Id mastered in New York. It was Cotton Comes to Harlem in Virginia. I threw her up in the air, round my back, between my legs, the works. All eyes on me. The lights went down and the slow jams began. She was melting like caramel fudge in my arms. My phoenix rose and softly we merged, gently grinding, right there on the floor. It was nonverbal seduction; Id hardly spoken a word. I simply displayed my machismo; she simply wanted nothing more. Valiantly, I threw down the gauntlet. Look, its you and me now. Lets
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June, its me. Its Orion. She looked up and the sun it seemed dawned in her face, her beautiful cinnamon hue begun to glow again. Orion! She jumped into my arms. We held each other for maybe an hour, no words were spoken but volumes were said in the silence. From then on, the house was mine, the car was mine, the bank account was mine, and June was mine. The judge became a little boy around me. Never did I reveal to June my knowledge of her and her sisters dark past, but thats what it was now, the past. Her sick father would never again go near them. She was free.
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Meritocracy
Crystal Roberts shook her head. Orion this is your senior year. Youve gotten excellent grades, the tuitions paid, were proud of you. Youve have a bright future ahead of you. Why would you dropout of college? Why not complete your education? The crux of my argument was this: Ive got two good legs to explore this world, college would only break one of my legs and give me a crutch, a degree to limp around with. Then Id go limping through life depending on that crutch to get ahead. Thats not me. These college people are the fakest, most pretentious bunch of pogoniggers Ive ever encountered. My father and your father both made their way through this world on their own meritocracy, not with a worthless piece of paper. Im going to make my accomplishment through the mastery of my own genius. Youll see. Crystal Roberts just shook her head. Around that time General Electric began cracking its doors a little for Negroes to elevate above custodian status. One of the executives clued Mister Lushus in who, in turn, clued me in. I went up there and completed a battery of tests. As always I aced it. The hiring officer was this Northern cat, Allen Goldberg. Everything about me, my dress, my verbiage, my background, my attitude, just bedazzled him. Goldberg made me an offer that day. I would be the first Negro in upper management. Shall I do a little buckdance for you? The money was good and the work was lite. I bought a sparkling white 1957 Chevrolet. Six months down the pipe I go to the doctor for a routine checkup. Im diagnosed with high blood pressure. High blood pressure? Im twenty-two years old, in tip-top shape. What the hell am I doing with high-blood pressure? The doctor asked me if Id made any major life changes recently, if Id been doing anything different. Nothing, except maybe my new position at General Electric. My intuition kicked me in the ribs. If this job has given me high blood pressure after six months, Ill be dead by twenty-five. This is the advancement were marching for? Michael Thomas came down for a visit. He was facing a similar dilemma. College is bullshit. So what you gonna do Bo? I dont know. If you catch something clue me in. If you catch something clue me in!
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A New Constellation
Cryptographic hieroglyphics: computers speaking in tongues a multiplex of information. Words are numbers are symbols are signals. As psychoanalysis strips away layer after layer of ones pysche until the real you is laid bare, signal analysis unravels layer upon layer of information, purposely encoded to obscure its core, its secrets. I would be trained in radio telemetry, signal analysis and wave propagation. How appropriate! My hearts desire was to strip myself bare of all artifice, until the genesis of me, that voice of the soul that loves me, is all there is of me. To strip away all the bullshit until I am tabla rasa, a clean slate, a clear mirror, free of dust. Transmitting and receiving radio transmissions is a facsimile of the process of mental telepathy. So why not learn the art and science of radio telemetry which is akin to the art and science of the mind. Why not uncover the secrets of the world? Why not listening in on the secrets of nations, governments, all the power players on behalf of the biggest power player America? I wasnt under any delusion of patriotism. No. I wanted to understand Americas position in the world. How the white people kept their edge over the planet. Information! Whoever has the information has the power. This is why, as well later discuss, Universal Awe is the only true power. The Lightholders have no need for electronic surveillance to unveil whats been veiled. No telescopes, televisions, telephones, wiretaps, etc. are needed. Just a pure heart and mind! Ha! These so-called powerful people with all their equipment are nothing to the Lightholders of Universal Awe! But Im getting a little ahead of myself. MT and I gingerly entered this new phase of our journey in Vista, Virginia. We went through another battery of intense physical and psychological examinations. Sure enough, we were surrounded by the best and brightest young men from around the country. Geniuses in mathematics, computer programming, engineering, and linguistics, senators sons and whatnot. And now two hotshot niggers out of Illumination, Virginia had crashed the party. Immediately we took charge. All the candidates were addicted to gambling, so we took them for everything they had.
Quilted Genealogy,
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the racist society of America without getting picked off like a daffy duck. The black people were so meek and humble, so good that the majority of us felt all people had that same sweet and humble disposition. A fatal mistake. We felt you had to have some white blood in you to comprehend their game of oppression. If you look at most of the bold leadership in North America, from Fredrick Douglas to Adam Clayton Powell to Malcolm X, they all had that quilted genealogy. Later, I understood scientifically the nature behind the game. That will be coming in a few more pages. Just before we were to begin basic training we got some bad news. Michael Thomas did not pass his physical examination. Even though hed aced the academic and psychological tests, the health problems that had plagued him since birth eliminated him from military service. His kidneys, in particular, were in bad shape. The wind was knocked out of both of us. Go head man. Ill find a way in there. Well meet up in Tokyo, New Zealand, somewhere. You go on. I hated to leave my partner behind but what else could I do but go forth with our plans. So we parted. I was formally inducted into the army then took off to Fort Jackson, South Carolina for basic training.
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Prophecy of
a Gypsy Girl
Basic training was a joy to me. It was designed to train the mind into taking orders and strengthen the body to go beyond its threshold of pain. I loved the challenge of pushing my body as far as it could go and beyond. Military life suited me just fine. It sharpened me up like one of my grandfathers deadly steak knives. I was beginning to embrace a measure of freedom now from my depressed uncertainty, from the Negro drama of college and the high blood pressure of corporate America. The military looked like a perfect vehicle for me to work the full extent of my magic. Basic training put me in a high where my physical body was humming with the same intense vitality as my mind. I was under no delusion of patriotism though. On the weekends, Id enjoy the exceptional female citizenry of Southern Carolina. There was this bowling alley not far from base where every Sunday I found myself surrounded by the most sumptuous ladies in town. This dance between the sexes, that romantic ebb and flow (as by now you know) has always been my great passion. It wasnt about sex, although occasionally Id lay it on a few fortunate ones, it was about capturing a womans love and imagination. Enjoying the admiration and fascination of a woman truly is one of lifes greatest pleasures One Sunday I noticed a big gypsy man polishing an older model Cadillac around the corner from the bowling alley. He had a distinguishing air of friendly openness that was quite intriguing. He waved me over, an invitation. I walked into the yard and introduced myself. He looked like an olive-colored santa with an old corduroy fedora instead of a beard. He was an enormous man with his britches pulled high up over his gigantic stomach. Come, my son, let the sisters pray for you. Pray, for me? I wasnt interested in no shit like that. But I was intrigued and my intuition gave no opposition, so he led me inside his humble little abode. There, on the couch sat this gorgeous gypsy girl. She was small of build and wore loose, flowing clothes probably made with her own hands. She was the epitome of a stereotypical gypsy: a haphazard blend of all the best racial features, swarthy skin, and long, thick hair like mink framed her face, flowing down to her back. I heard her thoughts jump into my arms as she looked up at me. She liked what she saw, as did I. I get to do him?
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I asked my fellow bowlers about the game, how I was doing, how to score myself. No one believed it was my first time. Are you sure youve never played before? Never. Whats the significance of ten pins? I became a sensation. Everytime I was up to bat a larger crowd would form. I went into my little stance, concentrated on those ten pins and let loose. Strike! The crowd cheered! Inevitably, I bowled a perfect game. The owner came out and took my picture to put up on the hall of fame. All those gorgeous babes who acted deaf, blind, and dumb were surrounding me now. Thats when the words of the gypsy girl struck me down, Something youve never done you will do extremely well, and something you do extremely well you will not be able to do at all. Now I believe you young lady. My confidence shot to ten once again. Japan, Im coming for you.
Lewis Lowe
Cryptographic
Upon completion of my basic training I was off to Fort Devin, Massachusetts to be trained in signals intelligence, which is intelligence information derived from the exploitation of foreign electronic emissions. Now I was getting into the nuts and bolts of my training. The Army Security Agency is the military branch of the National Security Agency. The ASA can be split into two distinct branches: information assurance codemakers and signals intelligence codebreakers. Information assurance secured all internal means of communication from fighters on the frontlines to the executive branches of government up to the President. Critical intelligence can be freely discussed without fear of the communication being compromised. The other side, my side, was the exploitation of foreign adversaries communications via signals intelligence. This encompassed the collection, processing, and analyzation of foreign signals. It became immediately clear that this is how America kept its decisive edge in the world. The poor African countries and the third world nations forever are at a disadvantage because theyve got outdated, eight-track tape level equipment compared to the technological breakthroughs of America and (at that time) the Soviet Union. The ASA constantly was developing its own hardware and software to be used on supercomputers more expensive than the debts these little countries owed for the theft of its resources. Dont ever believe something has gotten past the NSA or someone cannot be found or something is not known. Everything which can be communicated on a terrestrial link was known forty years ago on the primitive equipment I was trained on which is obviously obsolete today. Morse Code is the most basic of communications. I began listening to morse code transmissions at a typewriter. Each combination of blips translated into letters Id key into the typewriter. This required extreme hand-eye coordination and a laser beam-like focus. The proficient ones would automatically decipher the codes as quickly as they were transmitted. Teletype was a little more advanced and much less stress on my mind. Id simply place the transmissions into a computer which read the decoded information back for me. I hurried up and mastered that one so fast I was placed in an advanced course in signal analysis and wave propagation,
Hieroglyphics
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shoulder. Its Lamont with the package from his cousin in San Diego. I already rolled you a hindinberg. We walked out into this open field camouflaged by trees and lit up. I took a long drag like Lamont and felt the sharpest pain strike my chest. My throat stopped up; I dropped to my knees in a coughing fit. I thought I was gonna die. Lamont cracks up. I pulled myself together and took another pull. And another... We walked to the movies. I sat in that theater for two hours and saw my own life on that screen. Every significant and non-significant event was played out on the silver screen. Those intuitional forces, my angelic guides were taking me on a tour down the timeline of my own consciousness. The marijuana was a catalyst for my own psychoanalysis. So Id get high and walk all over that one-horse and buggy town, in an altered state of consciousness, until I could see clearly down my timeline. I deciphered all the encrypted codes of my psyche, all the potholes, all the perpheration, all the disappointments and dilemmas were resolved. I walked a straight line from my earliest memory til that moment. Everything Ive shared thus far played out until I had put it all in its proper place, until I was at peace with it all. Under the umbrella of pharmaceutical enlightenment I had undergone a psychoanalysis more thorough than any psychologist could have possibly given me. The boundary between the mundane and the realm of revelation, the mundinus imaginus, can only be penetrated after such self-examination. Only when one is free from oneself can one truly transcend self. I was not oblivious to the irony of my training in electronic espionage, radio telemetry, and the breaking of encrypted codes. This training loosened the gravity and grip of the mundane on any self imposed doubts or limitations.
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Vespertine
With my signal analysis/wave propagation training almost complete and my head blown off by the glories of pharmaceutical enlightenment, I was more than a little anxious to get on with my journey to the Orient. Advisors from NSA Headquarters were preparing us for the precursor to our official assignments,which was an internship in radio telemetry. Once again we were sold on all the benefits, privileges, status, honor, and financial rewards to look forward to upon completion of our assignments. Well, I had absolutely no plans for retirement and absolutely no allegiance to anything or anyone but myself. Before entering the military I had virtually no interaction with White people except the anonymous Caucasian whod end up on the opposite side of my fist, those who fell victim to a brick, bottle or knife thrown their way or mine. I knew very well that White people yielded sanctioned privilege over Black people at every bend in the road. Every pursuit in every field of endeavor was limited; our ceiling appeared to be merely the floor of White people. Now I found myself in all relative terms the peer of the children of the countrys most privileged white people. I was the spook sitting comfortably inside the door I wanted to study this thing. I wanted to master these people. Quiet as it was kept, the wise and privileged White power people knew Vietnam was about to break out. They placed their children in the intelligence wing of the military; the most advantageous position to avoid any possibility of seeing combat. The draft was for the poor and the ignorant. Its 1962. The countercultures rising in wonderbread like yeast. The power peoples children are flirting with rebellion, marijuana, and most shocking of all - the epicurean wiles of Negro culture: our jungle music, the lascivious grind of rock and roll and the heroin blue of jazz. Id peeped these privileged youngsters in the dark corners of the Baby Grand and the Village Vanguard like pure white salt in a jar of spicy pepper that multiplied slowly every week. I decided to take my White classmates on as guinea pigs. I wanted to strip them bare, to peek into their pysche and see what made them tick. Obviously, through the inheritance of their collective unconscious, they saw themselves as the benefactors of the globe, the architects of civilization, the goose that laid the golden egg; the ones who first stood upright and went forth as the great discoverers, the great explorers. Okay. I had their little minds spinning round in circles. I challenged those fairy tales everytime I saw one coming.
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until they believed him and ran off with the money while maintaining the confidence of the very mafia cats he jacked. Vesper and his entire gangster family moved up to Boston where his pops thoroughly schooled him in every hustle of the street: the dope game, the pimp game, and every con known to man. By the time Vesper was twelve years old he was operating on the renowned plane of Iceberg Slim and his ilk. I had not seen him since high school. I now had three years of college under my belt and my own reputation in Harlem and Boston with an internship at the National Security Agency with a top secret clearance. I had a posse of rich white boys who idolized me and hung on my every word. But everytime I went out to party I missed him. He wasnt at any of the haunts he typically would haunt. I decided to look up Aunt Carla. Orion, Vespers changed. Changed? He aint no born again Christian; cause if he is Ill kick his ass! No, no, nothing like that. But Orion, if I could give up my cigarettes Id be right there with him. Im just too set in my ways. Aunt Carla! What are you talking about? This is his address, Ill let him tell you, but watch out Watch out? I hang up the phone beyond perplexed. Vespers changed and Aunt Carlas too set in her ways. Id better watch out. No, somethings definitely wrong here. Vesper was more like me than anyone else, except for him being a bipolar sex fiend. Besides that he had enormous physic strength and intellect. Maybe Ill have to rescue him, bring him back around from whatevers changed him. I had a taxi take me straight away to his address. I knocked. Yes? Ves, open up, its me, Orion! When the door opened it was him, but it wasnt the him Id known. Vesper, like Michael Thomas was tall and lanky. He was a shade darker than me, caramel-colored. But now his head was shaven. He looked like a young, beardless Osama Bin Laden. Sunken face, deeply set crescent eyes. He looked high, but a different pedigree of highness. He always had a relaxed manner but he was now so low-key he almost couldnt be seen. It was unnerving. Orion, welcome. Come on in brother. Vesper! Whats shaking man? Dig it, I got these John John Hyinasport white boys downstairs. I told them all about you. Get your rags on, we gonna get some dope, some chicks and hit the Baby Grand No. Ive never heard a no like that, said so soft and firm it stopped my train of thought. Then he flashed a peculiarly radiant smile and sat down on his little bed.
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Theres thousands of stars now... were a living, human constellation. The Black people, the Indians, the Mexicans, thousands of us. Thousands? Why am I just getting this? I prided myself as the hippest, coolest, most in the know cat around. How could there be a movement of thousands I havent peeped. I knew about Malcolm X and agreed with him. The apologetic methods of the civil rights movement were an utter joke though. All those weak-kneed Negroes begging white folks for crumbs were utterly pathetic. But Blacks, Mexicans, and Indians in a movement called Universal Awe? How could I not know about that? Its underground, just below the surface, like the blood flowing underneath your skin animating the whole person. Many Ugomas infiltrated the Americas, from Chris Columbus on down. They seeded both the atmosphere and the populous with light. Orion, how long does it take for light to be born? What? How the hell should I know? Humbled, I shook my head and threw my hands up unable to come up with an answer. They didnt teach that in your little college did they? They sure aint gonna cover it in no NSA either. You know why? I shook my head negatively. Because we have the knowledge. Lightholders seed the sphere of atoms, they impregnate ideas into the brains of geniuses or gifted people while they are still in the womb. Every advancement in the recorded history of the externals, all their inventions, every bright idea, the thought came from us. It may take a lifetime or it could take hundreds, sometimes thousands of years but that idea, that advancement, that light will be born. Ugoma and the other lightholders idea survived through the horrors of slavery, the genocide of Meso-America and the trail of tears. Now we are that idea. Something new and beautiful is cracking out of its egg. This is why youve always felt different, apart from the others. We all know instinctively that something here is off but you were never equipped with the tools to investigate that knowing. I knew youd eventually come here. Now the choice is yours. Vesper, Ive got a fist full of dollars in my pocket. A drivers downstairs waiting for me I came here to see whats happened to you. Youre my favorite cousin but I dont need you to score dope or pick up women. I can get into any spot in town on my own merit. I was just worried about you. But Im gonna send the driver away. Ill cancel all my plans on one condition. Youve got to tell me everything about this thing youre into. Take your time, tell me everything you know about this Universal Awe. You have my undivided attention.
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But the folklore of our hometown prophesied of a great king arising to return us to greatness, to power Hes come and Hes the architect of this modern flow. He is our master. He is a real live man in whose hand is that thread to weave all the puzzle pieces together. This is the greatest Luminate to appear in our billion-year timeline. Where is He? Where can I meet him? When its time Hell introduce himself to you. Look, everything you think you know must be erased from your mind. Throw it all out, its trash. So the origin of the species youre telling me theres another theory apart from Darwins theory. Ive never accepted that trip anyway. And the garden of Eden, Adam and Eve, talking reptiles. Thats just as silly as the apeman theory. Yes, it is silly but remember theyve only got thirty-three degrees of the circle. What do you expect? But we can know the origin of it all because we were there. There? Where? Billions of years ago, we were the only people there then. The niggers Orion. You and me. Modern science has conclusively proven that our seed-root (the Blue-Black man) is the master copy; the original from which everyone else is a facsimile. Brown cannot make a Blue-Black-Indigo man but a Blue-Black-Indigo man can produce a white man. Ask Leakey or Mendel and theyll both tell you. There is no such thing as race. There is only one Human Family, like a diamond or a rainbow reflecting various hues in a prism of colour, it is one light. We are that light within which exists the bud of it all. Mother Harriet Tubman established an underground movement transplanting the slave to freedom all over this country. This is the mental resuscitation, the spiritual resurrection. Its wisdom, supreme wisdom, which is slowly, methodically, removing every link of limitation from our minds. Not just from the slavery experience, but from all suffering, all injustice experienced within the entire scope of human existence. Every pothole in the consciousness of humanity must be removed. All errors, all lies, every flaw - its waste Orion, which must be removed if humanity is to survive. We cannot continue to subsist like this. All of the Aboriginals, on every continent, lie in the dust. Its not just us. And those John-John Hyinasport boys you speak of, dont let their trinkets of supposed wealth fool you, for they have benefited deliciously from the suffering of the Human Family. The culmination of this three-hundred and sixty degrees of wisdom is the restoration of us back to ourselves; to end suffering and death. Thats the exclamation point of every prophecy: peace. Will peace ever be on earth? Yes, when Suffering and Death is destroyed then will there be real and everlasting peace! Go on!
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the soul, the guardian angels. They are the true friends of the human as well as the truly human. In the Science of Universal Awe it is taught that this is the realm of Ultraviolet: complete convergence of the ordinary and the extraordinary, microcosm and macrocosm, conscious and subconscious, original and facsimile. There reside the Lightholders who have already mastered and vanquished Suffering and Death within themselves. Yet only recently has a Lightholder appeared to completely disappear into the Original Light, the Black Light, the very Atom of Life from which we all spring. He is known as the Original Friend. He has the power to destroy all of this, to uproot Organized Evil and create something completely new. Universal Awe is the primordial ocean of life. Our grand master, the Original Friend, has ceased to be a mindstream but has become one with the mind ocean of which we all are waves. The mind ocean has no shores, no harbors; therefore The Friend manifests through numberless eons in numberless universes. He is bound not to ancient nor present time, therefore The Friend is always present. From this Primordial Ocean springs the phenomenon of sages and sacred traditions. Universal Awe is the very marrow, the DNA of everything. A peaceful ocean surging just beneath the chaotic surface of human experience. Universal Awe is not a religion but that from which religions are made. All the great empires and governments, all the great events of consequence are waves which rise and fall atop this ocean. To be restricted to a race, a religion, a country or nation after a rendezvous with Universal Awe is like sitting down to a meal of salt rather than using salt to season ones meal. The Original Friend is a master chef deftly using all these disparate ingredients in preparation for a sumptuous feast. And guess what? He wants us, the niggers. He wants to serve us first at his table. My head was spinning. I needed a break.
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beneficence, compassion, or mercy, all of which are the prime charateristics of Universal Awe, the charcteristics of the true human being. Therefore, the blue-black-originals have represented the subconscious mind, the interior man, the subjective man. It is a fact that the subconscious manifests whatever the conscious puts into it. This has all been an alchemical process of transmuting the maniacal ego; the evolution of those damnable qualities residing in all peoples - must be transformed into crystal-diamond purity, into perfection if man is to continue on this planet. This imbalance can no longer exist. This is the true meaning of Christ. When one is no longer bound (rope) to his stomach, chained to his lusts and desires, but has transmuted every imperfection to perfection then and only then is one truly human. But religion, as you know, has failed. All of them have a piece of the puzzle. Veda is time. Sutra is space. Torah is light. Gospel is love. Koran is cosmos. This is the time when the transpersonal psychology will replace religion. The science of the mind, the study of self alone is our salvation. The proper housing of the personality the ego to the outer soul, the ascension of humanity, this evolutionary process towards perfection is our work. To raise a dead man, to awaken the sleeping aboriginal giant, representing the subconscious mind, this and only this will correct the great imbalance within and without. Yes! I stood up and applauded. If I was a holy roller I would have done a jig. Laughing Vesper continued Picture a shaman out in the jungle somewhere. These mystics easily traversed galaxies. They might be in trance, in samahdi, fana or supreme consciousness for weeks. No pulse, no signs of life registering on the person at all. His attendants checking him regularly to make sure hes still alive. When the great shaman returned to this plane of things the whole tribe celebrated and waited for a word from the master. The master had no words. To conceptualize Universal Awe was impossible. He could only say that it was beautiful, a mystery beyond words which cannot be described. Now this is true of the African, the natives of northern and southern America, the Dravidans of India, the Nanuks of China, the Aboriginals of Australia; all have this oral history amongst their peoples. But the European, representing the conscious mind, is not satisfied with that answer. The Western man went on a quest of external discovery. We now have a myriad of innovation and information based on the discovery of all the eye can see and all the ear can hear, articulated and calculated clearly. Instead of telepathy we have a telephone. Instead of remote viewing, we view with a telescope, microscope or a television. Instead of bilocation, one can travel on an airplane, a car, or a train. Instead of the Akashic records we have libraries. (Now the internet!)
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They make no noise, can move in any direction, even two directions, topping speeds of several thousand miles per hour. They move by the will of the pilots minds. Stop! Youre telling me that U.F.Os are not only real but that they were built by these illustrious Lightholders who operate them by some form of telekinesis? Yes I am. Youve seen people who can bend a spoon with the power of their mind. Thats just the beginning, the baby level. Maybe Ive said too much. You cannot give babies meat. Im just a baby myself. I know nothing. Im a neophyte. Maybe Im not articulating myself clearly. We all are atoms and what Ive said wouldnt fill an atom in the sun of this knowledge. And Orion, there is a peaceful use for atoms that will be introduced to us Vesper seemed to disappear in the gravity of his own thoughts, possibly befuddled by his own exegesis. Then like drunken thunder his deep baritone burst into song, the holy friends are past description their ways are manifold every breath a prayer, every life a door... everywhere I look I see the Holy Friend, universal life as universal light Everywhere I look the friend alone exists soul of my soul life of my life Silence. You will go now. Whether the Holy Friend will come to you and give you this wisdom is not my decision but it is my prayer. Ill leave you with a word, it is the ancient name for this wisdom, for Universal Awe. Maybe in your travels youll meet masters and if theyre authentic they will know the power behind it. The ancient name...Tasawuuf. Thank you for stopping by. Much success to you. What could I say? Vesper and I embraced. I went out into the Boston night more than a little perplexed.
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Okane Club
Far from the wistful ambiance of a buddhist garden with its intricate horticultural serenity or the snow-kissed mountains of pagodas dressed in cherry blossoms, I was assaulted by a caffeinated metropolis bent on outWesting the West. I was shuttled to the Airwait Hotel at Tokyo International where I stored my gear, showered, ironed my finest suit, put a fresh polish of shine on my shoes, wet my body with a gorgeous fragrance, and hailed a cab. I must have looked like a million yen! I jumped in the backseat, Jazz partyget high marijuana... take me! Marifauna? Yes, take me! The driver turned around inspectingly then sped off. Little did I know but marijuana was ultra-taboo in Japan. During the Buccaneer days the British Empire imported boat loads of both opium and marijuana to Hong Kong as a gift of welcome, providing the perfect conditions for conquering the lands just as the party was getting started. Still, every demand automatically produces a supplier. We drove at breakneck speed through the garishly glowing neon of downtown Tokyo. The city seemed to be wearing a petitely gaudy halloween costume of New York City with three times the populous. People atop of people blending into yet more people. The driver took a few back alleys where the stench of meat markets ruined my previously acute appetite. We stopped outside a black brick building, the driver ran up to some distinguished yet dangerous looking gentlemen in tuxedos. They gave me that same glance of inspection while speaking to each other in deep abrupt rumbles of dialogue. One of the penguins knocked on the door, another tux motioned me in. In broken English my host welcomed me to the Okane Club. Okane means money and that was an apt description. The club was an ultra-exclusive joint run by the Japanese mafia, the Yakuza My feet sunk gently into a deep paisley carpet, which seemed to be massaging my feet. Suddenly I found myself in the height of Western opulence with an all-Asian cast. Like an outlandish and very expensive halloween replica of the finest five-star restaurants in Manhattan, the place was elaborate beyond elaborate.
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delicately exotic creature stood before me. She resembled the achingly beautiful Chinese actress Ziyi Zhang in her boundless yet youth sensuality. Evidently shed been specially selected for me and I did not hide my satisfaction. The tuxedo cats looked at each other happily and grunted to each other in a flurry of Japanese. These tuxedo cats were some ultra-macho dudes. They reminded me of some Italian cats Id met in New York. I was their royal guest. My manner, good breeding, or maybe just good luck, had impressed them. They were going to show me the time of my life. I communicated the best I could. If they spoke English (probably so) they spoke very little to me. Ziyi took my hand, escorting me to the jazz level of the establishment. Here was a very refined creature who moved in graceful fluidity, like smoke. She must have been groomed from girlhood as a courtesan. Her response to the most subtle of my whims was that impressive. Her anticipation was impeccable - shed pour my drinks as soon as I thought about. We spoke not one word to each other, wasnt necessary. We related on a completely sensual frequency. Like one of my fabulous babes in the city she had her own with me on the dance floor. Eventually, she made it quite evident she wanted me all to herself. She escorted me to yet another level, where a king-size bed, plush and crimson, awaited. There we completely exhausted one another. When I awoke I found a new suit hung against the wall. On cue, she came in, looking just as staggeringly beautiful as she did the night before. She dressed me (the suit fit me perfectly) and we walked outside to catch a cab. I hadnt spent a dime on anything, this was cart blanche treatment. She took me to one of the famous Japanese bathhouses. Never have I seen such uninhibited folks. This was a unisex place, both men and women together stark naked. Women bathing women, women bathing men, men bathing each other. Even though I witnessed no copulation, no one was hiding their pleasure and no one was shy. Each human body was an extraordinary phenomena to be treasured with admiration and touch. In fact, it was common for folks to pause their eyes on each others privates without embarrassment between them. So when Ms. Zhang and I disrobed and walked through I heard all the curious whispers of Tony Tawny? in addition to the delighted exclamations of Okee Chimpo! Chimpo means penis, okee means big. Women and even some men pointed at it in fascination. My escort lowered me into a lusciously warm and sunken tub. She bathed me, massaged me, kissed me, bit me, massaged me, and washed me all over. It was rapturous. Id completely lost myself in the expertise of her tender affection.
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high so he could spare a few. He reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a packet of six and put it into my hand. I popped one. Nothing happened. I popped another. Still nothing. Disappointed, I sat down at the bar to catch some jazz. Twenty minutes later I exited the club and walked out into a hyper-real translation of Kosa Four Corners. The cars moved faster and colors percolated brighter seemingly loosed from their hosts. The sky had new depth and volume. My ears were seeing and my eyes were hearing. Was I happy? No. High? Uncomfortably so. I went back into the bar to calm down. I found myself at the table of a demure young woman. She recognized me from who knows where but she was not a prostitute and spoke a little English. I needed something to focus on, an anchor to put me back on Earth. She stabilized me somewhat and eventually a relaxing modicum of happiness descended on me. She recognized the change. Generously I shared my happiness with my new friend. She took me to an apartment and we tripped on these happy pills all night. Armed with a new psychic aid, Japan once again became the polestar of my wanderlust. Okinawas well was quickly running dry. Of course Okinawas well was literally full of shit. It was a damp, humid, mosquito magnet about the size of my big toe. I did have a few colleagues in this new Black manhood. Austin was a metaphysician cat who secretly despised the Western world but played the slow role with the White folks. He planned to retire to Canada after his tour was over. A psychic told him the military life would be an easy one for him which made me wonder, do all brothers consult psychics before entering the armed forces? His medium was as sharp as mine for military life couldnt get much easier than this. He was the private chauffeur for one of the generals who had a jones for an Asian cough syrup. The two of them drove all over the island completely blasted. Im not sure what the active ingredient was in the stuff but it acted like a tranquilizer on my system. I drank a little once and woke up face down in Kosa Four Corners. Even though Austin had this privileged position he still held the lowly rank of private. One day the Inspector General for Asia came through and broke Austins cover of docility. What the hell is this private! Austin had pictures of Marcus Garvey, Elijah Muhammad and Malcolm X in his locker. Austin had a deep Barry White baritone voice that could rattle windows when he got excited. He didnt punk out. If these White boys I bunk with can hang filthy pictures of nude women in they lockers, surely I can have pictures of my heroes.
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Smile Sapporo
The relics and antiques of Honshu ( Japans main island) were warmblooded realities in Hokkaido. Beautifully stubborn, this dreamy prefecture accepted Western modernity with suspicious discrimination. Alaska is, culturally and mythically, to America as Hokkaido is to Japan. Descending onto this island on a Japan Airlines 747 was like landing a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away. Hokkaido had one major season and one minor season. It snowed, on average, nine months out of the year with a three month vacation in spring. We arrived in a little town called Shiktosu which housed one of the most critical military bases in the world due to its close proximity to Russia. Shiktosu sat elevated on a mountain, perfect for peeping into Russias business. Okinawa was like boys camp compared to the front-line position of Shiktosu. Now we were handling the most sensitive tactical information which put our lives in precarious jeopardy. Abductions of careless field agents resulted in harsh interrogations including all manner of torture up to death. Abduct me! Ill tell it all, just take good care of me. I pledge allegiance to me! Shikotsu was noted as a rest and recuperation zone for Japanese soldiers in World War II. Some six hundred bars were in operation in this little military town which slept under the sun and bloomed under the moon. My team was given immediate leave upon arrival. How could I be content letting some bar girl suck my wallet dry? I set off alone, wet for adventure. Japan has one of the best engineered train networks in the world. I did a little research and boarded one of these plush vehicles to Sapporo. I had a pocket full of elixirs (happy pills) and a trusty English-Japanese dictionary. I melted into a merlot pillow of a seat and did my best to blend in. I was on the Orient Express. My height, average in America, seemed gigantic here in Japan. Being inconspicuous wasnt much of an option. Again I heard excited whispers amongst the locals. This time it was kirei kokujin! The word Negro didnt exist so I was kokujin, Black man. But beyond that I was kirei, beautiful. They looked at me and saw a beautiful Black man. Yes! Thank you. Id fascinated the whole train! I was deep into my kingly ego, feeling ecstatically royal, taking a royal elixir of kings, pure refined opium. Drugs didnt seem to have a negative connotation here. Everyone, it seemed, was high on something. I was drinking in their admiration, which fed my kingly ego to the
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was attempting conversation. The clientele seemed to be college kids. Everyone was high. An elixir complemented my tea. A menu was tacitly placed on the table but instead of entrees patrons selected their favorite jazz cuts coded by numbers. These people took their jazz seriously. They had new shit even I hadnt discovered yet. I sat back marinating in the propulsive rhythmic stew of Elvin Jones. Here I sat over ten thousand miles from the epicentric birthplace of jazz and wondered just what were my young Japanese friends listening to. I knew what this music and its craftsmen represented to me but what were they hearing? What mystic melancholy could they feel in Miles piercing cry? What drunken heartache could they feel in Billies blues? What sassy sensuality aroused their mojo in Betty Carters pleas? What transcendent flight could they ride in Ellas scats? What exhilarating wonder bewildered them in Birds bop? What grinning insanity was recognized in Monks meanderings? What menacing manhood was understood behind Armstrongs mile-wide gravelly-voiced smile? And what spiritual inheritance could they reclaim right here, right now, on the ascension of Tranes Afro-Blue? One wonders how jazz even survived its first trimester in such hostile environs. Surely it was an immaculate conception spontaneously followed by a miraculous birth in a manger. This bastard child, a mulatto hybrid born of the most immoral fornications, was dismissed as voodoo music by White society and subsequently maligned by their lackeys in the Negro bourgeoisie; forbidden to be played except in those bucket of blood juke joints populated by the proudly ill repute. I knew the lily-white boys and girls who populated the Black clubs in Harlem almost unanimously did so for the forbidden thrill of mixing with niggers. These little ones had not the ears to hear this messianic music of the despised and rejected. What need do White folks have for a messiah anyway? What need have they for a saviour? What do they know about miracles or the inexplicable daily triumph of survival? What do white folks know about pain and chaos or blissful ecstatic epiphanies? What do they know about life? Seems all they know about life is what they learn from our fight for it. Being neither black nor white or even American, I suppose these young Japanese surrounding me were hearing the miracle itself in all its pure unadulterated genius, untethered to prejudice or pedigree. Towards the back of the cafe was an area reserved for socializing accented with cushioned futons three feet off the ground. Again my broken Japanese did nothing to quiet the excitement of having a movie star come to the Smile. A fascination developed between myself and a young lady. She spoke no English so I patiently searched my dictionary for interpretation. Ryokan. She wanted to treat me to an authentic Japanese bathhouse! What
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These bathing rituals are an aquatic meditation designed for physical and spiritual regeneration, a therapeutic baptism to cleanse all the stresses, worries, impediments, and potholes of the day. They call it the kamiyu or divine bath. As a so-called Negro from America, I wanted to lie here in these healing waters and let the collective suffering of an entire people wash off us all. I lowered my body into this most sensuous whirlpool. A new Hyminaal kept me kingly. I closed my eyes... Time disappeared, for how long? I dont know but something was off. Where had my escort gone? Where was my change for my $10,000 yen? Id been played. I was already so immersed in this Onsen Elixir I sunk deeper into the volcanic bliss and put myself in a deep vortex of absorption. Upon the screen of my mind I visualized the entire city of Sapporo, a place Id never seen before today. I had no acquaintances, I spoke not the language, I didnt know where I was, how I got there nor who brought me here. All the hairs on my body stood erect. My mind was made. Every penny of my money will be in my hand before dawn. I was so content, so relaxed, enjoying the fullness of the moment. I arose in complete ecstasy. The mamason personally attended to me, toweled me dry and dressed me down to my parka, hat and socks. She apologized profusely. Maybe my blissful state was frightening to her. Rightly so. The scope of the blizzard had grown into an absolute arctic assault. Good, the elements were just as angry as I. I pulled up my parkas collar and walked. I walked and walked and walked in the teeth shattering cold. Tears rolled down my eyes as my body valiantly fought the elements. The wind whirled and wailed furiously around me but an iron resolve would not permit me to freeze nor give up. No, this trick will give me my every penny back. Ahead two headlights like faint stars were cautiously approaching. I flagged the car over to me. Doko? (where?) Massugu ni! (straight ahead) Acclimating myself to the warmth of the vehicle took some effort. As my body painfully thawed my mind was deep in concentration. I directed the driver instinctually out of the country into town until we arrived at a little district probably just settling down to sleep. Stop! Another taxi sat parked outside a building with its parking lights on. I jumped in the back seat. When the driver looked back at me I saw a profound panic arrest his face. What providence is this? It was the exact same fothermucker that drove me to the bath house. Doko? (Where) The wolverine was loose. Junsa! (Police)
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Hokkaido Haiku
With Sapporo conquered I wondered if I was ever going to report for duty. Id fallen into such a blissful zone of strength all my desires lovingly fell into my lap. I discovered all the jazz haunts, restaurants, museums, and whatnot. My resemblance to a famous Japanese actor opened every door and my own kingly ego kept those doors open. The Japanese loved jazz and I dressed like Miles Davis circa 1959. One night Concierto de Aranjuez from Sketches of Spain was bleeding through the speakers when I caught the fascination of a young starlet. She was an exquisite specimen of Japanese femininity. Slightly taller than the norm and voluptuous to the max. She spoke no English but it seemed Miless mournful lament was enough for conversation. After several minutes of nonverbal seduction she walked over to me and fell into my arms. Passionately we kissed to the Andalusian flamenco meant to dramatize the dangerous romanticism of a bullfight. Soon kisses werent enough. She rushed me outside where an enormous Mercedes was parked. Furiously I unbuttoned her blouse and ripped off a dainty lace brassiere. Full, supple breasts like plump peaches melted into my mouth. Watashi to neru. A translation wasnt necessary. I lifted up her dress, slipped down her panties, and wet my hands through a tuft of fur into her misty entrance. She reached for my Faithful Servant, now fully unfurled. Her little hands were too small to grab its head. She looked at me in disbelief. Watashi to neru! The tip of my weapon pierced her gently but she moaned as if I had fully entered her. Id already learned to use no more than half my strength on these delicate women of Asia. Im no sadist. Patiently, I massaged the walls of her loving, her legs locked round my body, her body quivering with violence, signaling her climax. Generously, I tripled the strokes until she moaned out in passion. She melted in my arms, spent. In barely decipherable English she whispered, I love you, her tears falling on my chest. Im king of this mammy-tammy! Sapporo was living up to all my expectations. On a snowy but not too chilly day I sauntered down to beautiful Odori Park after eating some gorgeous food at
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articulate myself in perfect Japanese. I then learned the art of inflection. Japanese men could be divided into two classes, perceptible by their manner of speech. There were the worker ant men, then there was the Samurai - the leaders, the warriors. The former spoke in a soft, gentle, harmless manner. The latter spoke with a stabbing growl. I naturally chose the latter, meshing my inherited genetic strength with the adapted strength of the Samurai into an indomitable power. I then recognized that in Japan gardens were everywhere. On every courtyard, in every inn, temple, and restaurant. On balconies and terraces exquisite compositions of nature were compressed into the smallest of spaces. Insular ecosystems tended by epicurean hands whose persons were rarely seen. Grand imitations of the rocky shore of an ocean, a mountain precipice, or a swirling cosmos all recreated miraculously by human hands. I found myself in Odori Parks botanical garden looking down at concentric circles carved into a landscape of sand with stones lining successive meridians like planets on an orbits string. Now I understood what the Japanese heard in Black American jazz. Music pours out of the Black American soul in vibrations of sound as an expression of life. Horticulture, feng shui, and ikebana spontaneously flow forth as that same expression from Asian souls using creations most beautiful concretized vibrations found in nature, the photosynthesized light of chlorophyl and fossilized stones. This all occurred my first few days in Sapporo, injecting itself into my bloodstream.
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His face was turning as red as his neck. You have only two things over me, the stockade and a firing squad. I fear neither one so you have to deal with me man to man. I knocked the salt right off that cracker. He looked like he might have an anxiety attack or something. Mr. Roberts, you are excused. I saluted him, about faced and left him shaken and castrated. I sat back down at my station and resumed my duties. I had expected to be arrested or at the least dishonorably discharged yet the day passed uneventfully. The Rebel Sergeant ceased his racist diatribes and whenever I was addressed, the tone was pleasant and respectful. Just when I was becoming convinced Id damn near gotten away with murder, the Black captain sent me a note to see him. Roberts, are you a member of the Black Panther Party? I was stunned. No, Captain, Im not. Why do you ask? Brody has identified you as a sympathizer and you know the Black Panthers are considered a major threat to national security. I dont know whether this is true but you are being investigated. The wolverine in me flamed up so quick I bolted out of his office to confront the bastard Brody. Brody looked like a carbon copy of Sonny Liston, a big menacing nigger who reminded me of those punk jocks at my college. He was on the telephone, a bowl of noodles to his side. I lifted up the little desk, threw it aside and hurled my whole body at him. Both my hands were at his throat wringing life out of him like a wet rag. I got high hearing him struggle and gasp for his. Soon the Hyinasport boys jumped atop me, pulling me off him. Now Im really pissed. I was throwing White boys off me like I was on PCP. Now Brody was on his feet and stuck me in the jaw. Like a big bear he had me cornered and lunged toward me. I applied the same technique I used on big Bumba nearly ten years ago. I threw aside his arms, slipped behind his back, tightly locked my legs round his waist and locked my arms round his neck to cut off his breath. The White boys approached and I tightened up. This is Tony Tawny niggero! Ill kill every one of you peckerwoods as soon as I knock off Brody! No one dare come near me. Now I gave him his last rites. You beg me, beg me for your life! Right now Im God. Pray to me if you want to live! The Black captain broke through the crowd. Roberts, dont do this. Hes just a flunky. You should go after the head not the tail. But not like this. Not like this.
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I sat back in my chair high as Fu Man Chu. Count me in. The perfect murder. Gibbons and I meticulously obsessed over the minutest details of our nefarious plot. I took a 13 day leave the day of execution. Meanwhile, Gibbons had laid out plans for the party of the year. Alas, after weeks of preparation, the day had arrived. A blizzard erupted paralyzing the city. It was colder than a nuns titty. Snow drifted several feet high off the ground. Marijuana, Hyminaal, and jazz buoyed the momentum but exacting revenge on the Sergeant was my greatest high. Who knew how many lynchings and killings he and his pappies had been apart of in his day? This was righteous indignation, justice. Showtime. Even in the midst of a blizzard the party was still a go and the Sergeant was coming. I left the Ibiku coffee shop and was hit by an arctic blast of wind. It was freezing. I wrapped up in my parka but retribution provided sufficient warmth. In the distance a glow, a woman, all bundled up was approaching. As she came closer I found myself enraptured by her beauty. Only her face peaked out of her heavy clothing but this was still the most beautiful face Id ever seen. She looked up at me and smiled. Samui? (Its cold, isnt it) I inquired. In perfect English she responded, Yes, it is very cold. I stopped dead in my tracks. Darling, you speak English! Yes, she said laughingly, I do. My name is Yasiko. She extended her hand. I responded. Yasiko, Im Orion. What providence is this? On this dreadful, gloomy day I meet the one person in all Hokkaido who speaks English and shes beautiful. Bashfully, she smiled. Im an English major at the University of Sapporo. I knew Id meet plenty of English speakers here in Shikotsu to practice with. And you can help me with my Japanese. Beautiful! I know the perfect place to sit down and talk. I escorted her back to the loft Gibbons and I rented down the street from the Ibuki. As she unwrapped the layers of protection and removed her knit cap, I saw how stunning she really was. Yasiko was three inches shorter than I. She had a lustrous mane of densely black hair which perfectly, gracefully fell into her face before she pulled it back. She was like a exquisite Japanese doll. Her face, eyes, nose, mouth, her
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revenge. Who knows what karmic debt I would have to pay for such a thing? If I had to choose between vengeance and romance, romance would win everytime. Thus began a brief yet epic love affair.
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Yasiko Moon
I had already planned to leave town, now Id have a companion. Somebody, up there, down here, or somewhere likes me. We stepped out like Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor. We boarded a Japan Railways train the equivalent of the QE2. We secured a sleeping dining car and took off for the mountains. With Yasiko sexual intercourse was a mere aspect of our lovemaking, another form of communication always seemed to be taking place. Our emotional bodies, our angelic bodies, our light bodies, our etheric bodies, our very atoms had fallen in love, perhaps remembering some nostalgia we once knew, some desired constellation we once were. After a thoroughly invigorating lovemaking session we left our car to socialize. She had an aristocratic inheritance, a natural egoefficacy, everyone naturally deferred to her and her Kirei Kokujin. We both had plenty of money and I carried a treasury of elixirs: cartons of marijuana-filled Lucky Strikes, Hyminaal, and my latest greatest pharmaceutical achievement, dextro amphetamines chased with ambutol. Immediately, we secured great friendships aboard our luxury train amongst these ultra-wealthy families. Yasiko was my spokesperson while I played the subliminal supporting character. I stayed on the top floor of enlightenment. I had that look of bliss on my face: eyelids resting over pupils, which made my eyes shine like a radiant moon piercing the darkness of an eclipse. My few choice words I spoke struck my listeners like lightening flashes cracking pitch-blackness. Yasiko had instructed me in what I dubbed the Samurai inflection of Japanese. This was the speech of the ruling class. She said an extensive vocabulary was not necessary but perfect pronunciation was. It was excellent advice. A love affair is always infectious if not contagious. This Asian princess and her beautiful Black American prince easily won our fellow passengers affection. Our first stop was the quaint little town of Hakodate, a rustic village that had never seen a black man. It was late when we arrived at the historic Wakamistu Ryokan, a stately and elegant hotel. All the gracious staff were clad in minimalist kimonos and served tea in the lobby while we checked in. Once we secured our room, a grand feast, Kaiseiki, was set up for us in elaborate fashion.
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affection. I couldnt help but get aroused. So again my penis, my Okee Chimpo became a source of fascination in these public hot springs. Many women whispered their excitement to Yasiko, many wanted to touch it, and some wanted to have me for themselves. Yasiko loved this attention for she too couldnt get enough of my Okee Chimpo. She begged me but I never permitted her to perform fellatio. Such behavior, in the folklore of Illumination was unthinkable. Among us it was voodoo to allow a woman to swallow your essence. She then had power over you. And God forbid a man drinking the lust of a woman. She did bless my Jade Stalk with some intensely deep kisses though. In the old culture of Japan the highest honor a man could give another man was his wife. To give ones best friend access to your wife was the pinnacle of friendship. Not only did Yasiko receive requests from women to have me, but several prominent men became so taken with me they wanted to give me their women to sleep with. My heart (and my okee chimpo) was with Yasiko. She wasnt jealous and didnt object to these offers, but I could not give myself over to another. Id patiently explain to these illustrious men that although your culture regards this as a noble practice, in my culture this is the ultimate disrespect of true friendship, the ultimate form of betrayal. Eventually, they understood. How beautiful this was to be seen in such a light, with such honor, respect and trust! Never have I been met with such great sincerity. We spent a few days at the Noburi-betsu onsens. We held court at the Daiichi Takimotoken hotel where we dined on red-miso soup, ramen noodles with garlic and seaweed, Genghis Khan barbeque feasts, and tender grilled lamb. Next we arrived in Sapporo to participate in the wonders of the Sapporo Snow Festival where whole neighborhoods morphed into an opaline dream world. Artisans displayed amazing ice constructions of palaces and pyramids, gods and monsters, angels and children with all the glitz of a Hollywood blockbuster. That night I was warmly welcomed back to the Presidential Suite of the Sapporo Grand Hotel. We went out on the ski slopes amidst majestic mountains of snow. Enlightened with a little marifauna and dextro amphetimines I put on some goggles and skis and hit the slopes like an Olympic athlete! I was high in every definition: on life, on love, on elevation, and yes, drugs. Everywhere on earth has its niggers. Here, I tuned up on the Ainu Indians, the Indigenous people of Japan who, to me closely resemble the Eskimo. They had truly been shit on by the rest of Japan. Yasiko and I secured great friendships with them as well. Id lost complete track of time until Yasiko took me back to her University. There I met her friends and colleagues, all good, upstanding people. Alas, it was time for her to resume her studies.
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Marifuana Mikado!
Gibbons and I had gotten real tight behind the murder plot on the Rebel Sergeant. Gibbons was a chemist, a pharmacist and I was a seeker of enlightenment. What better basis for friendship? We both shared a fascination with Zen and the martial arts and had balls enough to explore it. We both had seen examples of men whod achieved the state of Supreme Consciousness and the resultant demonstrations of that power. We knew these adepts disciplined themselves training under a sensai, a ruthless master who severely tested his students under the harshest conditions, sleep depravation, astonishing physical endurance, even mortification. After years of training maybe one or two students would themselves become masters, awakened ones. Where would we find such a teacher? And who had time for such training? We saw pharmaceutical enlightenment as a shortcut to this exalted state and verified it with our own experience. Gibbons had an idea. Ambutol was an opiate, an anesthetic used in surgeries. Dextro-amphetamine or speed has, of course, the opposite effect. He could cut these drugs with a timer so you wouldnt get blasted all of a sudden. The ambutol would put the mind in a hypnotic state, while the speed would awaken you in the dream. One night we caught Art Blakely and the Jazz Messengers headlining at a downtown Sapporo theater. This was his classic lineup with Wayne Shorter and Lee Morgan. They played their asses off through a murky cloud of heroin. Backstage Gibbons copped while I floated on an ambu-hyminaal-speed cocktail. Putting spikes in my arms was where I drew the line. I sat back undulating between the thick strings of an upright bass when Gibbons handed me a fat philly. Puff... Apparently there was a single source of cannabis in town: an old papason who lived out in the country side. Gibbons gave me the address. Gibbons worked a traditional nine to five day with two days off while I worked a rotating shift; five days on, four days off. My next day off I journeyed way out to this farmhouse in the country. A pleasant old fellow was outside tending a garden. Ohayo gozaimasu. (Good morning) No response. Ohayo gozaimasu. Nothing. Marifauna?
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which took much ingenuity. We put on some heavy gardening gloves and pulled up the marked plants, placing them in the back of the truck. Wed previously placed clothing lines through the ceiling beams in our diminutive living room from which wed hang the plants upside down allowing all the resin, the sap, the atomic goody juice, to saturate the leaves making the flower tops super potent. We wrapped the bushes in wet newspaper to sustain the maturation process. We wanted no wine before its time. This would be vintage, aged and refined marijuana. After a few days, the leaves hue evolved from a deep emerald to an indigo bronze, a kingly elixir! The harvesting process was a high unto itself. As the stalks dried we built a wooden box, three feet high or so covering it with mesh wire. When we pulled the stalks down, wed rake them across the wire so the seeds, twigs and sticks were on top leaving only the pure, refined dark purple powder in the box. Being efficiently economic, we rounded up the sticks and twigs as embers for the fireplace igniting a holy fire of enlightenment, a gift to our neighbors. So we had this powder, like the fine tobacco used in a pipe. Gibbons had invested in a cigarette roller so we could camouflage our joints in a Lucky Strike carton. We produced the caviar of cannabis, the truffles of THC, and the foie gras of all pharmaceutical enlightenment. This elixir wasnt for sale. Wed have to sell a joint for hundreds of dollars on the street. No, this was for the exclusive pleasure of Gibbons, myself, Yasiko, and whomever was really, really tight with us. I dubbed it the royal purple elixir. When combined with a certain amount of amphetamine, a certain amount of ambutol, topped off with a dash of hyminaal... shhazammy tammy gawdammy! I was up there with the lamas, yogis, or fakirs. (And they looked over at me and asked, How did you get here!) Now my work was far too intense to experiment with these high explosives; where all my mental faculties had to be utilized. But on my days off, I was a pioneering Afronaut, represented the poor so-called Negroes of America in the astral stratosphere. But Gibbons in his chemetic genius didnt stop there. He cut a slice off an apple and placed it in a plastic bag atop the herb giving it a sweet flavor. As an experiment, he let a bag sit a few days to see what would happen. Well, the sap ran out the apple into the cannabis starting a whole new fermentation process which turned that fine purple powder into an oatmeallike mush. It then concretized into one hard substance like a big potato chip. Gibbons chipped off the flakes into a pipe and lo and behold! A new high had been discovered.
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The Silence
of Goodbye
My heart was beating under Yasikos left breast. We were lucid dreaming, loving altruistically, sharing every thought and ambition. She wanted to come to America with me but I was from America. I couldnt conceive of going back to second and third class citizenship let alone exposing her to it. No, America was a pothole of negativity this new life in the East was healing and she was the sweetest part of the cure. Today was the twenty-second anniversary of her birth. Id found an exquisite jade amulet, a talisman in Chinese characters symbolizing happiness. I had planned a celebration for us in Norbori-betsu on my four days off. I had been a confirmed bachelor but a lifetime with Yasiko didnt seem like a form of bondage, a restrictive proposition. Faith in felicity was breathed into me now. My only regret was I knew I had taken her away from her family. Broken homes, illegitimate children, divorce, all these things were just as taboo here as marijuana. I wanted to meet her folks and reassure them she was in good hands. Equally taboo, especially for someone from an affluent family like Yasikos, was dropping out of school. Im sure her college would take her back but I had to encourage her. These were my thoughts on her first birthday as my lover. I came home to find a silence I will never forget. The silence of goodbye. The vacuum of her absence. The heartbreak of abandonment. She was gone. No notes or notice. No kisses or tears. No resolution or reason. I couldnt believe it. I asked our neighbors what they knew. They said they saw a big towncar sit outside our apartment at least half an hour. Yasiko emerged with two stern men carrying her things out of the apartment. I suppose her family stole her back. I went to her college, she wasnt even on the books. Her girlfriends hadnt heard from her. I went to all our haunts, no one knew a thing. Nobody, including myself, had any way of reaching Yasiko. I was a bachelor again. Shiktosu was cold as hell without my lover. A blizzard descended on the city. I went back to work. I hustled and partied. I enjoyed my elixirs but still
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Beautiful Island
Ilha Formosa! Taiwan is the Asian Helen of Troy. The Manchu Dynasty of ancient China, the Portuguese, the Dutch, the Ming Dynasty loyalist of China, the French, the Japanese, and once again the Chinese, now Communist, have all rendezvoused with this beautiful island. Her body is configured in the shape of a tobacco leaf. Shes strategically situated between Korea and Japan to the north, Hong Kong and the Philippines to the south. Arriving in Taipei from Shiktosu was like landing in Southern California from Chicago in winter. From ten thousand feet deep beautiful greenery sat seductively on a water bed inviting lovers to come lie with her. You dont know how gorgeous vegetation is to eyes acclimated to bleached frost. How much better would the sun feel on my body than well, the impotent sun of winter. The airport was a bustling zoo. Everyone had their hustles from the baggage handlers to the limo drivers to the vendors saturating the air with deliciously exotic cuisine. I was immediately overwhelmed by a genuine openness, an altruistic friendliness that instantly kissed me. Smiling faces distinctively different from the Japanese in disposition as well as composition. These were soul people. As a military man I was exempt from any search of my person. I wore light summer clothes under my jacket full of plenty pouches, compartments for all my elixirs. Id still be rotting in a cell if Id been caught with this additional cargo. I looked stunningly resplendent in a white linen shirt, open to my solar plexus, tan linen pants, open toed sandals, and black aviator glasses. I wondered if Tony Tawny was a star here in Taiwan. All the airport hustlers were buzzing to accommodate me, almost all of whom spoke English. As I walked outside, a bold gentleman opened his limo door and seized my bags, kidnapping me with his hospitality. He was gracious and professional, qualities of good breeding I pride myself on. Plus, he spoke English proficiently as well. Courteously, he inquired where I was from and responded with an impressive knowledge about both America and particularly the Black and Native peoples. Many Black GIs are making Taiwan home he said. We love your people here. Really? What providence. He recommended the historic Grand Formosa Hotel in the open heart of Taipei. It was a good time to come because tonight there would be a huge
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She was young. I guessed twenty-five but nineteen was possible. She smiled as these above mentioned thoughts ran through my head. Good afternoon. I hope you rested well. Yes, sweetheart. Are you a dream or a dream come true? She laughed. My name is Teme. Im here for your comfort and pleasure. My okee chimpo visibly saluted her through the sheets. She discreetly acknowledged it with raised eyebrows and giggled quietly, hand on pursed lips. May I run a bath for you? Please darling. She floated on the plush carpet to the tub, her hips gliding rhythmically from east to west. Beautiful. She paused before entering the bathroom. In a single motion her wrap dropped to the floor revealing a well-endowed aboriginal ass. She turned around to espy my reaction, her black coal eyes speaking sensualities beyond words. She turned around to reveal an achievement of heavenly engineering: her body. She was trim with a taut little stomach, thighs smooth and shapely as large eggplants giving way to a tuft of triangular fur camouflaging her heavenly crucible. Her small dove-like breasts were accented by thick hershey-kissed nipples standing proudly from her chest. She smiled. Come. I disrobed and submitted myself to her care. She gave my body a similarly thorough appraisal as she dipped me into the tub. Barely ignoring the obvious, Teme miraculously zeroed in on the reason for this getaway. Someone has broken your heart. Teme spoke pretty good conversational English. You are as perceptive as you are beautiful. She laid me down in a tub of steaming warm water and jumped atop my back. With remarkable proficiency she kneaded my neck, back, arms, and legs like dough accenting her work with strategically placed kisses. I believe she was attempting to massage any heartbreak out of my system. She gently wrapped my body in a terry cloth robe, took my hand and guided me to the bed, my jade stalk standing a yard into the sky. Her hands lovingly caressed it, softly, gently kissing me, before cautiously teasing her entrance with its pulsing head. Ill let your imagination write the next few paragraphs... After each climax we bathed and went back for more. Our passion set the sun and rose the moon. Outside, the streets lit up in a fervor of activity. Were they madly celebrating my arrival? Teme explained that my arrival was indeed providential for tonight was one of the most sacred and festive of holidays. I had arrived in conjunction
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My Ponyo, Friend
Teme was from the Seediq people, one of the aboriginal tribes of Taiwan. Her people had a reputation so fierce that their native language had been banned in a concerted effort to break their culture. Temes grandmother was the village oracle who had initiated her into the ancient beliefs of her people. Shed also been trained in the feminine arts to make her fit for a good marriage. She was no prostitute. She was simply looking for her king. We spent the evening in bed as the festivities quieted down in both verbal and conjugal communications. When the sun struck my face that morning shed already departed to attend to her dear beloved grandmother. As I got out of bed I noticed all my clothes neatly hung in the closet, my underwear and socks folded in the drawers, and my shoes lined at the base of the door. Cool. I descended down the staircase to the lobby and was warmly greeted by the manager like an old friend. How was my evening? Fantastic. A rickshaw driver was already waiting to take me into town. This was the popular old-style buggy pulled by robust little men at that time in Asia. My driver was a dear old soul in a young mans vibrant body named Ike. We hit it off immediately. Ike was the first one to call me Ponyo. Ponyo is a term of endearment. It means my dear friend in Taiwanese. Eventually I became known throughout Taipei as Ponyo. So Im known today. He gave me a good tour of Taipei along with his expert analysis on his countrys history, politics, and optimistic future. I went back to the Grand Formosa for a siesta. When I awoke Teme was patiently waiting on the couch looking more stunning than the previous night. We indulged our passions. She dressed me and put on her evening wear for a night on the town. As we descended the stairs, the whole staff cheered us, Ponyo! Ike was right there to take us on the town. Taiwan was a great ally of the United States and housed several military bases in addition to some of the worlds finest NCO clubs. Our first stop was the Linco Chilliboo. Linco meant dance, chilliboo
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I made so much money so fast he drove me to a sweet private residential area and introduced me to the owners of a lovely little villa. I rented it on the spot. Now, Ponyo had a palace. It had two bedrooms, upstairs and downstairs quarters, a speculator kitchen and dinner table perfect for parties plus a separate area for a live-in staff of three. The property was surrounded by a solid brick walls reinforced by broken wine bottles placed on top to discourage the uninvited. Ike was connected with all the top players in Taipei. I put a wad of cash in his hands to go with my staff and clean out the markets. I was going to throw the party of the century and introduce myself to Taipei. The next night my villa was packed with all the power people of Taipei. It was a transpacific mix of Asian nationalities all of whom saw Taipei as a future mega-metropolis in its raw virgin state. Even a couple of big generals from the States made their way to Ponyos Palace as well as some European diplomats. I passed out some of my weaker cannabis elixirs while I kept the kingly blend for myself. Teme was on my arm but shared me with the female socialites and power players. She understood my position as a resolute bachelor but knew she was my top woman. Jazz and Black American soul blasted through the finest Japanese stereophonic equipment, huge buffets were lined outside with paper machete lanterns spicing the night with ambiance. It was an enormous success. The next morning everyone knew a new king was in town. The next evening I invited Teme and Ikes entire families, my neighbors, and any poor people we met that day to fill my palace. The poor peoples night kicked the rich peoples nights ass. These poor Taiwanese were the warmest, from the heart people Ive encountered anywhere in the world. They all brought me gifts even though they probably sacrificed a meal to do so. Here I saw the altruistic concept of civilization in action. All Temes relations came except her beloved grandmother who was disappointingly absent. That night Ike introduced me to the top Mamason of Taipei whom Ill call Mamason K. We developed a soulful yet platonic harmonic of deep friendship. Her cathouse was as decadent and luxurious as anything in Las Vegas. It all was designed to fleece her high-powered clientele of the maximum amount of capital. It was very successful. On a scale of one to ten, the women under Mamason K averaged fifteen, young maidens who literally looked like candy. Mamason was a petite, average looking woman with hugh charisma and a heart full of love that could turn into a black mamba if provoked. We had this in common. Mamason spoke little English but our understanding was beyond
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Montgomery, TaoYing
Word of a Black American prince visiting Taipei quickly spread throughout the city. Ike took me into the remote outskirts of the city where I buy up fresh fish, vegetables, exotic fruits, and whatnot. Everyday my staff cooked up a feast and everyone I met that day was invited. My house was full of people, mostly poor, but I never had the thought of theft, let alone of anyone taking advantage of my hospitality. Teme arrived late in the evening and wed go to the Linco Chilliboo for dancing and socializing, then the 63 club for dinner. Teme and I had what they used to call an open relationship, but I prefer the term altruistic to describe it. Id usually go out with three or four women and make love to one that night. While the girls dined Id retreat to the clubs plush garden for contemplation. I needed only the royal purple elixir to put me in the zone surrounded by the masterful application of feng shui. According to geomancy ones entire milieu was a living organism. Every rock, tree, planet, flower, and pond had a symbolic meaning representing various attributes of the noble soul. Cypress represented longevity. Tough and rugged pines were beloved by kings and rulers who weathered many political upheavals. Bamboo was an emblem of the perfect Confucian gentleman of pure virtue and tempered emotion. And the bamboo stalk can easily bend in the strongest winds without breaking. It was easy to forget one was in the middle of a bustling city in the middle of this Zen haiku mosaic of a garden. I stood on a bridge overlooking a small carp-filled pond looking into a effulgent moon-shaped gate accented with a lone cassia tree. Footsteps softly approaching... Ponyo. I turned around. Standing before me was a tall, dashing gentleman in a crisp white shirt with sparkling cufflinks, perfectly creased dark trousers and highly polished mahogany loafers. He had long hair down to his shoulders and a distinctly European influence in his facial features. Everything about him bespoke of quality. It was like looking at an Asian-European reflection of myself. His name was Montgomery. He was the Donald Trump of Taipeis black market. Ike was instrumental in arranging this meeting. We introduced ourselves each complimenting the other on our reputations. Ponyo, youve made quite an impression here in such a short time. Ike spoke so highly of you, I wanted to meet you myself. He spoke in a deep authoritative whisper.
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was therefore one of the architects of modern Taipei. I imagine hes probably the Bill Gates of Taiwan if hes still alive. Montgomery gave me a tour of his operation. Massive is too weak a word to describe the scope of it. In a big black chauffeur driven Mercedes, we drove into the heart of downtown Taipei to meet his business partner. I was expecting another sophisticated gentleman but met a short petticab driver just like Ike sitting on a rusty bucket in bare feet, bare chest and green khaki shorts. He spoke very little English but greeted me warmly. I called him Mr. B. I wasnt at all deceived by his humble appearance. I saw a depth of richness in him like the proverbial king dressed in rags. Mr. B was the eyes and ears of the operation on the streets while Montgomery handled the executive level. It was brilliant. Montgomery explained that Taiwan had some appallingly brutal prisons. Mr. B. had done some time and vowed never to return. So each night he rewound that day on the screen of his mind dissecting any mistakes he made and why he made them. After thoroughly analyzing each situation, he deleted the blunders. Never again would they be repeated. This strategy kept him a free man. We drank a powerful herbal tea Mr. B. brewed between barking orders to his lieutenants. I invited the entire street team to my place for dinner. We had a grand time. Everyone (every night) asked me about America. I ran down my experience. The women cried and the men were ready to take up arms to fight against the brutality of Jim Crow America. Every night I was encouraged to make Taiwan my home. That night at the 63 Club, Montgomery explained that he had another player in the operation living high in the mountains of Taiwan I had to meet. The next afternoon Montgomerys English speaking driver picked me up and drove me to a distant place he called Vulture Peak. We drove forever. In fact, I found myself increasingly weary and drifted off into a satisfying siesta. Upon awakening I found the car parked at its destination, the driver patiently waiting for me to come to. Being a man trained in the NSA with a top-secret-militarycryptographic-NATO clearance, I woke up angry for allowing myself to be overcome by sleep in a strange environment. If this turned out to be sabotage how would I get back to familiar settings? I shook off my apprehension. This was Taiwan, these were soul people, my people. I felt bad for even thinking like that. The driver opened the door and escorted me to what looked like an open air temple. (Taipei has as many temples as the hood has churches and liquor stores) This was a beautiful, haunting setting of tranquility that completely massaged my doubts. It felt like we drove to some misty mountain outside linear time. The geomantic artistry ruling the Asian aesthetic was overwhelmingly strong here. I had an overpowering feeling of oneness with the sky and the
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perceived as the Sages authenticity, I did not resist nor did I feel threatened. Inside, the temple looked more like a yoga studio than a religious house. I was taken to a small room and placed on a black mat. A long tube protruded out from the wall. It was a pipe, similar to the hookahs or water pipes used in the Middle East. The attendant wanted me to take a hit. Ahhh! So this is what keeps the Sage Awakened. I was already high but not as high as him. I was down to try whatever he was willing to share. A puff of smoke, as white as his beard, emanated from the device. I took the tube and pulled. It was an aromatically sweet and clean elixir quickly enchanting all my little atoms now tangibly buzzing within me like happily inebriated bees. I took another hit and momentarily blacked out a few seconds. I was struck by a diamond thunderbolt penetrating a diamond bell deep within my most subtle interior. Concentric ripples of mirth resounded within, culminating in my own verbal laughter. I sucked the thunder in once again and the entire universe dissolved, forgotten. I no longer sensed any bodily structure. I was scattered; subtly piercing every atom of Taiwan. I found my consciousness inside a bright full moon, rising majestically over the eastern African shore, high over the Indian continent, across the vast expanse of China, sailing out over the sharp edge of Japan, then sitting over Taiwan. The Awakened Sage sat across from me in a luminous cloud of white smoke. Our meeting was an intimately tender moment. Of course I use the word moments in its loosest sense for any quantification of time was now a completely foreign concept. The sages image quivered like water then morphed into a cascading symphony of living Buddhas, of enlightened masters. This parade of precious human forms became increasingly ancient, increasingly immortal, increasingly ferocious. Each enlightened being communicated its own spectrum of light, its own unique color and vibration. Thats the best I can articulate it. This roll call of immortals seemingly spanned eons, becoming more ferocious and menacing as if layers of frivolity, layers of ego were being discarded leaving only raw humanity; the primal human being in its truly authentic state. I sensed a challenge, a test to see how far I wished to go. I was not afraid. If Im going crazy, lets go stark raving mad! Lets go all the way. My response was answered with what I can only describe as a nonhuman configuration clothed in the sulfuric blackness of carbon, wearing a frightening humanoid mask with a contorted roaring mouth and open space for eyes. The figure was adorned in human skulls and held a freshly severed head in front of me before exploding into a three-hundred and sixty degree panorama of every immortal Ive encountered. Consciousness disappeared.
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assist him in freeing my people. I left this mystic misty mountain full of deep awe and gratitude. Montgomery later explained that Tao-Ying not only oversaw the prestigious oolong tea distribution network but was the unseen muscle of the entire operation spending four to twelve hours a day in the astral. He saw what Montgomery and Mr. B. did not see on the streets of Taipei and even in China. They kept him in that blissful, free lifestyle as insurance against the enemies of the operation, mainly the police and the Western venture capitalists who had been successfully shut out of the lucrative pie of the black market.
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Tainan,
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caretaker of a tradition and revealed many secrets she never shared before. She was a direct descendant of the Goddess Matsu on both paternal lines. Both Matsu and Pi didnt cry as infants and became vegetarians at an early age. Matsu met an immortal at sixteen who gave her a jade amulet to heal the sick and bring rain. At twenty-nine she walked up a mountain and into the clouds where she now reigns as Mother of Heaven and Goddess of the Sea. Hundreds of temples have been built in her honor and Pi had worshipped at most of them. Soon, Pi said, she too must leave this world but Teme must carry on her role as caretaker. She thanked me for awakening this desire in her granddaughter, thus fulfilling her fondest desire: someone to carry on the old ways of her people. She snatched another aromatic bouquet of incense from the altar. The burning of incense, she said is a means of communicating with the spirits. When a devotee holds a stick of incense before an image of their devotion, their soul becomes transparent and the respective deity knows their innermost desires. The swirling smoke from the fire is a link between heaven and earth. The fire itself fends off evil spirits and the sweet fragrance attracts good ones. The smoke then carries ones desires to heaven. Part of Temes immediate initiation was learning the art of making incense, this means of communication. Pi, it turns out, had a lucrative business of her own producing the incense used for devotion in many of the temple-shrines of Taiwan. Today I would join Teme in learning this art. We went outside to gather large bundles of fine bamboo sticks to be dipped in water. The sticks were then spread out like a fan and dipped in a basket of naturally adhesive powder. Pi displayed masterful dexterity turning the fan of sticks in such a way that each one was equally coated with powder. We were then given a tutorial on the fragrance oils that give incense its aromatic power. For ceremonial purposes, the base of all Pis incense was powdered sandalwood. A great saint, Sakyamuni, discovered it helped him stave off fatigue and sharpen concentration during his months of sleepless waking, sitting in front of the stone wall. Other ingredients such as Chinese juniper wood, ginseng, cloves, cinnamon, and musk oil could be added with ones own intuitive discretion. Pi shook the bamboo sticks then gracefully rotated them in baskets of the various fragrances once, then twice more each time chanting a prayer with Teme which wasnt articulated to me. After this process of triple coating, we laid the fans in front of a hot furnace to be dried. The bare bamboo ends used for holding the incense would later be dyed pink or red. This method required great concentration and consistency of effort, otherwise the incense would not burn smoothly and parts of the covering could
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city in honor of Chinese Valentines Day. This is a national day of rest. Today is Ponyo Day! As the ship backed out of the harbor, fireworks lit up the pre-dusk sky. A celebration erupted. I was given the honorary status of an Emperor over the city. So, if you want, you can call me King Ponyo! We danced and sang and ate and made merry all night long.
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The Prophecy of Pi
The next day would be the farewell for Teme and I. Yet it wasnt a sad parting but a mutual feeling of gratitude between us for our time together. Teme took me to her grandmothers before my departure. Pi was still buzzing off yesterdays victory and said word of it had traveled throughout the country. She handed me a pair of bamboo objects shaped like half moons. Teme excitedly whispered to me this was another unprecedented honor. These objects were divining blocks used as a communication bridge with the gods. Through them a person can determine his future by the positioning of the blocks after throwing them on the ground. Pi instructed me to throw the blocks outside in the direction of the sun. I threw one, as instructed, then the other with my right hand. The second landed strategically atop the former constructing a perfect crescent moon in its first-quarter. Pi jumped in front of me and grabbed both my hands looking deep into my eyes in silent wonder. She then joined my right hand with Temes and spoke these words, Ponyo, your destiny is one with my granddaughter. As she will keep the flame of life aflame for her people, you must reignite that very same flame for your people in America. We will pray everyday for your success.
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King Ponyo
Being inside Sadia was like swimming inside a sea of honey and delightfully drowning. What was an already mind-blowing spark was now an all out conflagration. Laying on the bed, smoking an elixir, Sadia took my jade flute into her mouth and began to blow, creating the most pleasurable melodies... At first I begged her not to, then I begged her not to stop. After hitting a new peak with the Dark Girl, we both felt like dancing, so we found our way to the Linco-chilliboo. Now Ive already said how great the entertainment was here but tonight the music had an extra thump, a wholly different authentic expression instead of a damn good imitation. I was hearing something, well, Black. Sure enough a group of brothers were vamping on Aretha Franklins Think. They all wore matching powder blue tuxedos with ruffled shirts and they were throwing down. Then out strutted the singer. A sister, a Black woman. A fine, with capital letters Black woman. She wore a tight black dress barely covering two dark chocolate legs which seemed strong enough to kick a 747 into the sky. She was a sumptuous sight and the whole room rocked with seismic pleasure when she shook her glorious black bottom, as curvaceous as two perfect melons percolating in precision with each kick of the bass drum. She wore no bra so her breasts jiggled shyly girdled underneath the remarkably tight V of her dress. She resembled the beautiful singer Lauryn Hill in her perfectly sculpted face of elegant African symmetry. Her voice was so powerful a microphone wasnt really necessary. Barefoot, she strutted to the music before issuing her demand, You better think! Think bout what youre trying to do to me! Just seeing a Black woman again for me was an epiphany. Sadia, sensing my arousal, enhanced it by holding me tight, her hands in my pockets. Shes beautiful. Sadia too was taken aback by this dervish dancing before us. After roaring for a good ten minutes the band transitioned into I Never Loved a Man the Way I Love You. The sister sang each note from the bottom of her soul before erupting into a volcanic crescendo of passion so deep Sadia began to cry. Then the guitarist did some wild Jimi Hendrix pyrotechnics which morphed into I Cant Get No Satisfaction. The sister jumped up into the audience igniting a dance party. Sadia
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Damn! Whered you find this shit? I grow it. I own a whole mountain of marijuana in Northern Japan. You the most far-out cat Ive ever met! Nona drank as well so I told her to help herself to my bar. As our elevation rose, the conversation deepened especially between Nona and Sadia who both shared their respective tactics for revolution. But revolution was the last thing on my mind. Sadia? With one glance she knew what I had in mine. Sadia stood up, disrobed and went upstairs to my huge tub. Nona? She finished her drink and ran upstairs. All three of us could comfortably fit into my bath, my standing rod standing proudly out the water like a tree stalk. Nona watched a little hesitantly from outside the tub, while Sadia started our bathing ritual. Come on baby. Ponyo, I havent had any sex in so long. Do you want me to give you some pleasure? Sadia, would you permit me to pleasure our sister? Sadia giggled and extended an arm of welcome. Nona threw off her clothes and dove into the tub literally attacking me. Sadia leaned back laughing as Nona furiously tongued my mouth, rubbing my cock. I then nibbled on Nonas neck and huge black nipples as Sadia poured hot libations over our bodies. What the hell have I got myself into? Fuck me Ponyo. Fuck me! I lifted Nonas delicious body out the tub, slowly descending her onto my rod. She hissed with abandon as I slowly pierced her black nest. She locked her legs tight around me thrusting into me with all her might, her hips moving fast as hummingbird wings. We thoroughly ravished each other as Sadia alternatively caressed us both. This was the old time down home southern fucking I was used to. Nona came in explosive convulsions, unleashing an aria of moans in perfect pitch. I gently lowered us back into the tub with Nona crying tears of bliss. Thank you, thank you, thank you, she whispered with wet kisses into my ear. Sadia poured more libations as Nona relaxed on the edge of the tub with closed eyes, lost in the atomic expansion of pleasure, the spacious geography of orgasm. Ponyo, you dont know how bad I needed that. I stood up from the tub and went downstairs to get some orange juice and a tray of fruits to replenish everyones energy. Walking back upstairs I found Sadia in all her glory waiting for me on the bed. She looked at me with such palpable desire, telegraphing waves of lustful electricity my way. My faithful servant rose again to quench her longing. Sadias glistening body quivered with anticipation as I approached the bed. I loved watching you inside her. It was so beautiful.
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Reunion
Charlie Brown was a professional alcoholic. He was a brother from St. Louis who probably got drunk as a fetus and had beer in his baby bottle. He was Gibbons roommate for a year before we set up our laboratory/apartment in Shiskotsu. Gibbons and Charlie bought the big Buick we all used. Charlie and I werent tight but we happened to have a stretch of days off at the same time. All of us had our side hustles; Brown had something going on in a little city a couple hours up the road. Being always up for adventure I rode with him to check it out. Not forty miles outside Shiktosu, a blizzard straight out of Dr. Zhivago struck. Im smoking my elixir, hes sipping his bottle, the snows coming down like hail, and visibility is quickly becoming impossible. Were driving on one of those treacherous mountain highways with no railings and the cars hydroplaning. Darkness is descending. Brown, maybe this isnt a good idea. We slow down to a lurch, trying to prevent our ride from sliding off the mountain. At the height of our desperation we saw a constellation of lights not far ahead. Wed reached a little village in the mountains. We both breathed a huge sigh of relief. Hokkaido people are like Chicago people. A blizzards just another day and this little town was buzzing with activity. Maybe the blizzard would pass, if not we could surely secure some lodging and get a fresh start in the morning. We parked outside a cafe with a delicious aroma piercing the cold and the icicles growing on our noses. We bundled up and rushed inside. It was a little mom and pop cafe serving up hearty dishes of Northern Japanese cuisine. A sweet little waitress came over taken aback by these two Black men in her hometown. But she was really shocked when I ordered in perfect Japanese. When our food came the young lady was very nervous and kept stealing glances at me. Maybe she thinks Im Tony Tawny. Then between bites the thought came to mind, Maybe this is the town Yasiko came from? I called the waitress over. Yasiko? She looked like shed seen (or heard) a ghost. Yasiko! Tony Tawny! The young lady quickly excused herself and Brown sat there bewildered by the exchange. Now Yasiko wasnt on my mind at all my whole time in Taiwan and I believed myself over it. Now all those hurting emotions flooded up in me once
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I assured her of my deep love for her but the wishes of her parents must be considered. We fell asleep in each others arms. Brown was given directions and headed off that morning leaving me with Yasiko. She was, like her mother an artisan. Saskiko pieces, quilt like fabrics of unbleached hemp thread sewn by hand, filled her room. This art, she said, was a testament to the strength and patience of country women and a productive way to spend a long winter night. These intricate textural works reminded me of the kente cloth of West Africa but were much more subtle and less colorful. She presented me a huge quilt shed worked on the past several days. It was a soothing geometric pattern against a turquoise backdrop which hinted of constellations. It could be worn like a parka or even as a comforter for my bed, something to remind me of her warmth. So the sun of Yasiko had once again risen over me. Her warmth was a soothing bath in comparison to Sadias volcanic inferno. I was not the same man Yasiko left a couple months ago. This Ponyo persona coupled with my resultant initiations had sparked my desire for supreme consciousness. It was an unscratchable itch that had become a full on rash. I desired my own guru, my own master who could charm that kundalini serpent sleeping at the base of my spine. I desired this more than food or drink, more than money, and more than the love of a woman. It was becoming an all-consuming fire. I knew this alchemical furnace would leave nothing of me but ashes whose transcendent embers no sacarphacous could bind. This death of the limited self: the Black man, the American, the male, Orion, Specialist Roberts, Ponyo; whatever labels, personalities, masks or identifications I held onto must die so the limitless self, the real me, could be. Needless to say, returning to my job as code breaker was a serious adjustment. It was becoming just a routine nine to five. Whereas Id previously found my work a stimulus, now I frankly didnt care if I pulled down any signals intelligence or not. Some of my colleagues were forced to take their 30 day leaves in anticipation of our assignment coming to an end. One of the genius Jewish boys asked me when I was going to take mine. Take mine? How, I wondered, could I have thirty days of leave when Id already taken sixty days off? I checked my records and sure enough I had thirty days of leave yet to be taken. I guess my superiors felt the best way to manage me was to be free of me. What providence. I immediately resumed my Taipei groove, picking up where Id left off with the Dark Girl Sadia, Montgomery, Ike, the Mamason, and Ponyos Palace. This time I brought back yards and yards of lace, utilizing the brilliant larceny of Gibbons and fulfilling my promise to Montgomery. A couple hours back in Taipei yielded a huge payday for myself,
Lewis Lowe
Orphaned By Fortune
One morning I jumped out of bed in a cold sweat like coming out of a bad dream. Sadia immediately comforted me with sweet words and kisses. I looked around at this exquisite villa, my delightfully sensuous consort, this grand life of mine and was haunted by one thought: how the hell did I get here? I had amnesia. I remembered nothing of the intimate details of my life. I couldnt remember my mothers face, my fathers voice, the name of my hometown, my childhood, high school, college, nothing. All I knew was before me. Maybe Id used too many drugs. I told nothing to my Taiwanese family about my personal background, I only shared the collective suffering of an entire people. That recollection was now like a nightmare Id woken up from. I was orphaned by fortune. I was rootless and didnt care. I knew America was hell for Black people and this was heaven. What more did I need to know? So be it. Im Ponyo and this is my life. Somebody up there must really like me. Thus was my life for the remaining three months of my tour. I shuttled between Taiwan and Hokkaido on top of my game. Yasiko was my woman in Japan, Sadia in Taiwan. Life was good in big bold capital letters. I had arranged an overseas discharge for myself and took my place along side Montgomery in his ever expanding operation. One providential afternoon, I was in a coffee shop with Sadia, sailing the astral on my elixirs when a song came on the jukebox. The song was Drown in my own Tears written by the incomparable Ray Charles and sung by the queen of soul Aretha Franklin. The piano stirred me out of my bliss like someone threw ice cold water on me. Aretha sang, It brings a tear into my eyes, when I begin to realize Ive cried so much since youve been gone. Her voice was so soulful, so full of pain, so pure in its supplication. I could hear centuries of unspeakable sorrow in Arethas plaintive cries. I heard the South. I heard the voice of the ancestors crying from the blood-soaked dirt of Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi, and yes, Virginia. I guess Im drowning in my own tears, I sit and cry just like a child. My pouring tears are running wild. If you dont think youll be home soon I guess Ill drown in my own tears. I heard the voice of Mister Lushus! It was hearing the soul of my
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Exit
I was solidly resolute in my decision. I called all my friends to the villa to explain my decision and bid them farewell. It was an evening of philanthropic tenderness. Montgomery was the most optimistic of all my friends, believing the opportunities available here in Taipei would eventually change my mind. Ponyo, my success is your success. Your position with me is secure. This was everyones unanimous sentiment, This is your home, we are your family. But Sadia, the revolutionary who stealthed herself in steel armor, was a mess. She was almost unrecognizable, so blue her funk. The day of my departure a hundred people, it seemed, came to the airport to see me off. I embraced them all on the tarmac holding up the departure of the aircraft. Montgomery and Mr. B. handed me a severance package, an envelope containing an embarrassing amount of cash. Ike and his family hugged me warmly. Mamason K and her starlets blessed me with loving hugs and kisses. The shop owners, the restauranteurs, the never again brothers, and many people I didnt even know all came to see me off. Sadia was hysterical. She came with me on the plane holding onto me for dear life. We embraced one final time before the pilot intervened and escorted her down the stairs. As the aircraft began its taxi an entire city of friends waved goodbye to Ponyo, the friend of their souls.
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Jikai
Jikai was a young man, probably twenty years my senior. We became acquainted in the coffee shops of Shiktosu. He operated a small store selling herbal tonics; elixirs to invigorate, heal, and relax. Wed have very stimulating conversations in Japanese, always ending in tacit glances of unspoken knowing. When I returned this last time from Taiwan I shared some of my adventures. When I mentioned my initiations with Tao-Ying and Pi his entire countenance took on an unusual intensity. He closed his shop, invited me inside its private quarters and brewed a strong ginger tea. Ponyo, what a beautiful name. Tell me again about these initiations. Jikai was a diminutive yet compact figure with a impressively natural musculature. I thought of him as a very hip warrior-monk. He smoked, liked jazz, and seemed very worldly. I never asked about his personal life, but presumed him to be married and a father. He had a stately aura and seemed at ease with everyone. I never saw a trace of arrogance or importance in him. As I shared my encounters with him I realized he too was in touch with this something, this intangible power I desired; the same something that had fascinated me with Japan in the first place. The same something I needed to take back with me to America. Jikai sipped his tea carefully weighing my every gesture and word. When I finished, we sat suspended in pregnant quietude for several minutes. He wrote down an address in the country and handed it to me. I will train you for your mission in America. This is how I spent my last weeks in Japan, training with Jikai.
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Illumination is
Jikai was an Ainu Indian. He dismissed the martial arts craze as fanciful mischief without a spiritual foundation. Only people who had a master in their genealogical constellation were truly qualified to be students, he explained. And to charge money, nullified the sanctity of the teacher/student relationship. He spat on the floor to show his displeasure at all this. He was indeed a widely known and greatly feared master of an unknown and untaught form of martial arts. His practice of this unnamed form of martial arts was his mistress. Women are great distractions. Jikai taught it was a great sin to treat a kind person bad and an equal sin to treat a wicked person kindly. I was trained in the way of the peaceful warrior. He gave me three defensive moves which I was repetitively bound to use only if attacked. I was further bound to humble myself thrice before retaliating. After blocking an aggressors attacks three times and sincerely attempting to diffuse the situation, I was then bound to kill this aggressor. I was given defensive moves to protect my head, torso and lower body. If attacked I would block the blow then step back, block and step back, block and step back. Humbling myself three times in this manner justified the death penalty of my opponent. I was given three killing blows to master. First, a sharp upward thrust of the palm against my opponents nose driving the bone back into his brain. Second, using my hands as talons, thrusting my arms towards the face, clasping my thumbs into the opponents eye sockets to pull out his eyes. Lastly, joining my index and middle fingers together like a letter opener, strike and penetrate the opponents adams apple, pulling out his throat. The conditioning for these simple moves were repetitive exercises designed to make the moves as natural as walking, breathing or sleeping. I would therefore respond to any attack with spontaneity and lethal efficiency. The core philosophy was to push ones body to the point of exhaustion then go beyond it. I would repeat these moves for hours, naked in a cold cell. Jikai forbade me to question him, let alone attempt conversation during these sessions. He became a ruthless dictator, the meanest, most indignant of men during our training. I was heavily elixified during these sessions so my ego was gone, my external self extinguished. I knew his cruelty was to assassinate my pride, my vanity, my sense of self-importance, any feeling of specialness; any of that bullshit he had to throw away through this arduous discipline.
My Home
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Each gem radiates its own unique aura, its on facet of awakening. Illumination is my home. Not a geographical location, but the primal fount of life, light, and love. Like inexhaustible fire and its power to burn. Yes. Like milk and its whiteness. Yes! Such am I to Illumination. Yes.
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instructions my conscious mind might have thought impossible. I saw hypnosis in use even in my military training. How else could you condition boys to kill other boys? Most of these Indigenous shamans took some form of elixir to boost them into these zones of trance, like Tao-Ying. But the masters of Tasawuuf had a wholistic methodology to achieve superconsciousness free of pharmaceuticals. This wholistic method was a revelation to me. Better yet, the Tassawuf people believed in sexual relations with women as an essential part of life. Hallelujah! Tao-Ying, Jikai, Pi, and all the other enlightened folks I knew of were on some monkery trip, no sex. I admired all of my initiatory teachers, but life without women to me was a life not worth living. I drew a straight line between Tassawuf and this Science of Universal Awe currently being experienced by thousands right now in the West. This was a path I could follow and this great master Halijee would be my teacher. My mind immediately went to Michael Thomas. I must share this with him. I knew he probably had no intention of setting foot in America again either, but now Id discovered what wed both been looking for and its in America. I wrote him a letter detailing all my experiences and why we both had to go back to America and become students of Universal Awe. I just had to find out where Michael Thomas was to deliver it to him. Now the big question, how does one find a teacher who only teaches in your dreams?
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Two-Hundred
Year Old Baby
Most of my colleagues in signal analysis had got the unwelcome news that their tours would be extended. Ponyo, on the other hand, received an early discharge, sixty days ahead of schedule. What providence! Gibbons had been back in America for a few weeks already. I asked him to drop me a line on his assessment. Four days before my return I got his reply. These were his profound words, America is a baby country, less than two-hundred years old. Japan and China have an ancient culture to draw from that has changed slowly over the centuries. Since its inception, America has been driven by change. It is an ever-changing reality. To be successful, all you have to do is stay ahead of the changes or at best keep up. If not, youll be a pawn in somebodys hands. They will move you to their advantage. Next time you see me Im gonna have a whole chess board full of pawns! Between the two of us, Gibbons and I had enough cannabis to supply Pennsylvania and New Jersey. How was I gonna get all this through customs? Gibbons, ever the scientist, wrapped the majority of his person with small pouches of weed and successfully made it past inspection. I wasnt about to sweat that drama out but I was greedy. I took an arts and crafts course learning how to make sculptures out of clay molds. Ive already described how we came up with our rocklike form of marijuana. Well, I gathered big bushels of marijuana, cut up dozens of apples, and got my fermentation on. I patiently waited for the elixirs to dry into big boulders of clay-like rock. With my new skill of sculpting, I crafted several exquisite marijuana masterpieces which would have made Michealangelo beam. I made vases, flower pots, and ash trays. They were sturdy and had no smell. They were all just an unusual greyish-purple hue. I shipped the sculptures back home as fragile cargo. I bought a huge duffle bag and cut a false bottom lined with three or four inches of elixirs. Yasiko would soon be starting school again. She was an exceptional young woman from an exceptional family. She would, I imagine, go on to become a successful professional, married to a affluent young man and have brilliant children whod have even more brilliant grandchildren. My warriors path in America was not an option for her. I was just some exotic dervish who whirled into her life. Our times together would provide an elderly Yasiko many chuckles.
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Brother From
I passed through customs in Oakland, California without incident before catching a connecting flight to Washington, D.C. William Roberts greeted me like the Prodigal Son. My dads businesses had bloomed in my time away. My younger sister and brother were both in college and dad had set things up for me to join the burgeoning family enterprise as his right hand man. He set me behind the wheel of my spanking new Malibu and we drove three hours back to Illumination, VA. Crystal Roberts looked at me like I was some brother from another planet and shook her head. Orion, youre not the same boy I put on a plane three years ago, somethings changed. William, you think somebody could of body-snatched him? Let me see your identification. She was right. I was a completely new person. My parents, my friends, and my hometown all seemed equally alien to me. Id see old buddies I went to school with, girlfriends Id romanced, old folks who schooled me, and they all seemed totally out of their minds. All the morays of my own people were so strange now; the way they talked, the foods they ate, everything. I found myself in an interesting paradox. Id come back here to join a movement to awaken Black people but now that Im back, everyone seems so crude and unsophisticated my task might be impossible. It was absolutely heartbreaking to sit back and just look at us. Can you imagine what they thought looking at me? Illumination was becoming an integrated city and my youngest brother now went to school with White people and even had some little White buddies. Yet, I still saw the same racist peckerwoods Id left three years ago and their stench was now three times stronger. I was like an ant caught in the confusing web of a culture shock but Ill be damned if Ill stay there. Im Ponyo. If you see me fighting a bear, help the bear and help this spider cause Ill trap him up in his own damn web before he saps my strength. I threw myself into my fathers businesses working myself to the point of exhaustion and going beyond it. I took on this work as an extension of my preparation, applying both my military training and the intense cultivation of Jikai. I worked seven days a week, sleeping three, four hours a night max. Each night before retiring, Id look at Vespers portrait drawing of the
Another Plane
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I review my Ponyo adventures in my mind then look out into this one horse and buggy town in disbelief. I could literally see the chains of enslavement on the minds of the people. We were actually at the bottom of the totem pole. It was heartbreaking but what could I do? I traded in my little Malibu for a sweet silver Peugeot. For spring, I decided to drive up to Atlantic City where Id stay with my great uncle, Lex. Lex, short for Alexander, was the Vanderbilts butler when Mister Lushus was the chef. He then established himself as a gourmet waiter, then a bellhop at Atlantic Citys finest hotels where he was a beloved citywide legend. Michael and I spent summer vacations with him during high school. The summer before I went to college I stayed with Lex and he hipped me to the hotel game. He got me a position working with him as a doorman. I was tipped handsomely upon the arrival of each guest who Id pass on to Lex after unloading their bags and giving up a little conversation. I took on the role of concierge handling all the extracurricular activities of our guests where our real money came in. I told each guest to let me know if there was anything, anything at all they desired. Just let me know and Id make it so. Lex, had a friend who owned a liquor store, so wed stock our changing area with bottles of the best spirits. Inevitably a guest would request a bottle of something. We jacked up the price, delivered the bottle, collected the tip and the inflated price of the bottle. Inevitably, a guest would come to me looking for some pussy so Id supplied the ladies. I already knew the pimp game so I was hard on those girls and forbid any of them from entering the hotel without greasing my palms first. We had a grand hustle going on. I continued working with Lex every summer during my college years. Like my grandfather, Lex was a super-sophisticated gentleman. He was always in a suit and tie, usually a bow-tie which made him look just like Uncle Ben. He had plenty game with the ladies and enjoyed a little cognac before retiring. A day after returning to Atlantic City Lex scored a gig for me at one of those new casino-hotels. I was back on the grind.
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Charlie Red
Aint Dead!
Wang was a cousin of mine I partied with during my college days. He looked a little like Charlie Chan, therefore the nickname Wang. He once was one of Harlems most notorious drug lords who did a little pimping on the side. He was a real flashy peacock kind of hustler with the gators and hyper-technicolor fashions. He started using his own shit and developed a heroin jones. It got so bad my dad and I had to intervene and take him back to Illumination to sober up. He cleaned up and was now the house drummer at a fabulous motel/ club called the Cove in Charlottesville. It was one of those jumpin chitlin circuit joints which went extinct after integration. Upstairs was a show lounge featuring all the top rhythm and blues performers like Bobby Blue Bland, James Brown, and Fats Domino. Downstairs was a classy club where the jazz cats jammed into the wee small hours. Next door was a down-home soul food restaurant and the motel. Wang was the only person I could really relate to since coming back to America. He was only five years my senior but years of hard living made him look twice my age. I spent my weekends at the Cove unwinding with my royal purple elixirs and enjoying the music. Wang loved to reminisce over his old player days in Harlem. One day I convinced him to ride with me back to New York City and revisit his old haunts. As we approached Lenox Avenue, we slowed down to a leisurely creep. Wang had a hundred stories for each block. Soon the streets echoed with the announcement, Charlie Red aint dead! Charlie Red was Wangs street name. It had been so long since hed been here everyone thought him dead. All the old players stopped by the car and gave him his propers. News on the streets wasnt good, is it ever? Little Joe and Big Mo were dead. Slick Willie and Major D were strung out on heroin and everybody else was in jail. I left Wang on the corner to score some weed. When I returned hed disappeared. I eventually found him passed out at the shooting gallery with a needle in his arm. After five years of sobriety, two hours in Harlem was all it took for him to become a junkie again. Take me home cousin. Please, take me home. Even though Wangs relapse was a shame our Harlem trip gave me access to the best weed spot in the East Coast. All the bellhops at all the hotels had some game, so I began bringing in this fire marijuana from New York City
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Sharon
Sharon was a delectable debutante from a prominent New Jersey family. She was a mulatto with the light-skin, the pretty long hair, and the banging body. She was the receptionist at my hotel and worked nights as an airtraffic controller. She was beautiful but cold to all the brothers. She was like the sexy holy grail because nobody could warm up to her enough to even get a smile. Everyone had made their play without so much as a smile. I started buying her lunch and we began to conversate during her breaks. I never hit on her or hinted at any interest in her sexually, even though the thought was naturally there. She was a real hip woman. She studied architecture, spoke French, and wore designer everything. She loved to dance so I found some salsa spots for us to cut a rug. Outside her apartment we sat in my Peugeot and engaged in some juicy conversation. I found her to be well-grounded, family-oriented, and ultra-ambitious. With an apology, I asked her permission to light up a joint. She agreed only on the condition she could light up hers too. Well, well, well. I was taken aback. She seemed too prim and proper to be hip to marijuana. I lit up my elixir and the conversation turned downright delectable. I held my platonic stance and won Sharons confidence, securing a true friendship.
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Hypnotize Me
Big Boy was the night shift bellhop. He was a menacing looking fellow who spent the majority of his youth sacking quarterbacks until an injury sidelined his dreams. He too had heard about Universal Awe and was on his own quest of enlightenment. Through him I scored some dextro amphetimines. They were tiny little pills like puny mustard seeds with a potency so powerful only faith could believe it. Not knowing this I took three pills and consequently, buzzed all over the boardwalk like Speedy Gonzalez. When I finally crashed, I spent the entire day in bed. Upon awakening I was shocked to find my right leg totally unresponsive. I couldnt feel or move it. I crawled to the bathroom and peed all over the floor and myself. Embarrassed and feeling somewhat pathetic I washed up and crawled my way back to bed, which took much effort. I must of suffered a light stroke from the speed, damaging the nerves in my leg. Never again will I take my limbs for granted. On the cabinet beside the bed, lay a book by Melvin Powers on hypnosis I borrowed from Big Boy. Next to the book sat a bowl of refined hashish. Interesting. I stretched my body way too far under the bed and pulled out a tape recorder Id bought in Japan. After taking it and its batteries out the box, I began dictating all the hypnosis scripts of this book on tape. All that night into the morrow I repeated the recorded suggestions over and over, focusing intensely (even in my sleep) on bringing life back to my leg. I got into such a majestic zone I dreamt of running through those fields of oolong tea in Taiwan. At dusk, I began to feel some movement in my toes. By midnight the rest of my foot, calves and thighs too were hypnotized back to life. I jumped out of bed and did a victory sprint. There was still some discomfort but, damnit, Im walking again. This was an amazing thing that happened here. Id discovered a power (hypnosis) that could do what no doctor could have done in the same amount of time. Then the words of my Oriental Magic book came to mind. The great shamans of the indigenous cultures all put themselves into a hypnotic trancelike state before doing their magic. Did I not just do the same thing? Next time I drove to New York I picked up a yellow pages to find a hypnotist. Sure enough there were four entire pages of listed professional hypnotherapists. With the aid of my hashish and half a pill of speed I spent the entire
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and I had been tight for a minute and she never spoke of any relationships, past or present, let alone sex. How could a woman this charming, this beautiful and ambitious have absolutely no social life? Something or someone had damaged her. This was the perfect time to expose it, look at it and discard it. I took her deeper. I want you to count backwards from 100. 100, 99, 98, etc. Say each number aloud and every number will take you deeper into perfect relaxation. By 92 she was at the bottom floor. She was in a deep state of hypnosis. You are now completely relaxed, there is no limit now. No limit. I went for it. Youre going back now into your past. Something unpleasant, something traumatic happened to you that still troubles you to this day. Am I right? Yes. Do you want to end this suffering? Yes. Youre going back there now. Youre going to tell me about it. I took her back. How old are you? Twelve. Where are you? Visiting my aunt in Brooklyn. Where are you now? On the elevator, going down. Whats happening, whats going on? A man is on the elevator. Yes. And? Hes touching me. Im telling him to stop but... Whats happening? No. No! NO! She begins to scream and fight off her rapist, attacking the air with punches and kicks. She relived the whole thing. Its over. Its all over. Relax. Going deeper now into relaxation. This wasnt in my play book so I was dealing with pure inspiration now. I rewound back to our breathing in relaxation, breathing out pain, hurt, shame, and embarrassment. Breathing in healing, wholeness, and love. Breathing out the dirtiness, the filthiness, the unworthiness that a rape always breeds and gives birth too. Then slowly, I rerelaxed her entire body, toe to head, and had her count backwards again from 100. Once she was back in a state of deep hypnosis I planted my seeds: Having relived this painful, traumatic moment of your past, you now have the power to keep it there. In the past. This man has no more power over you nor does this event have any more power over you. From this day
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into laughter. I must be cured! Ive done anything like this in my entire life. I pulled back. Mr. Hall and I had already discussed the dangers of getting involved, emotionally or physically, with ones subjects. It was forbidden territory. Mr. Hall made me vow to never let this happen and if I was too weak to let it happen to leave alone my study of hypnosis. This, he said, is what gives us a bad name. Sharon was now my patient and as much as I wanted to hit it, I had to quit it. I explained this to Sharon. She understood. But there was no reason she could experience some sexual pleasure. Mr. Hall confided to me that the majority of his clients were women and a good percentage came to him to experience an orgasm. This is why one had to be of strong character to really do this kind of practice. I lay Sharon down on her couch and slowly, methodically coached her into a mind blowing, galaxy crossing, earthquaking series of orgasms. My okee chimpo was hard as a brick but I kept it in check. Sharon was sexually healed and I didnt have to compromise my principles in the process. But I did take a cold, cold shower when I got back home.
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Elixir: Hypnosis
I spent six weeks studying under Mr. Hall. In Atlantic City the tourist season was coming to an end so I quit my bellhop gig and went full-time hustling. Michael Thomas sent me a telegram saying he would be discharged in November but there was no way in hell he was coming back to America. So I was saving all my hustle money in case I had to retrieve him personally back from Europe. Wang informed me a loft in the basement of the Cove was available. I paid three months rent up front and drove Sharon down to Charlottesville to help with the interior design. Now I had lair for Ponyo In Harlem, I was known as lil Charlie Red and I kept all the players, hustlers, and of course, the women entertained with tales of my far east escapades. I kept up my Ponyo persona with my tailored worsted wool-suits, shoes that werent even sold in America, tough hats, and tight black leather gloves. Id perfected an American elixir consisting of my high-power dextro amphetimines and fire herb from Jamaica. The art of hypnosis was a bliss of another kind. It became very clear to me that almost everyone, no matter their race or economic class was under myriad layers of mass hypnosis. As Black people we suffered first and foremost from the psychoneurosis of slavery, a collective humiliation and inferiority complex, compacted by a poverty complex, a victimization complex, a Black complex, a light skin/dark skin, good hair/bad hair complex, mixed with false definitions of masculinity and femininity. And religion cemented each layer of the multitiered hypnotic mass deception together like mortar. White folks have just as many layers of programming composing their dysfunctionality too, but theirs was a whole other recipe and another book for another time. I used every opportunity to demonstrate this new weapon of hypnosis. My good breeding and the relentlessly ethically training of Mr. Hall made it impossible for me to misuse it though all manner of hypnotic criminology ran through my head. Those thoughts I quickly discarded. All of my initial subjects were women. The American women still seemed so crude and strange to me, so hypnosis replaced romance for a time. Still theres no deeper relationship than a therapist and his subject. Theres no greater intimacy than having a conversation with someones subconscious mind. Faye and Rosario were roommates in Spanish Harlem. I met Rosario while we both were hailing a cab we ended up sharing. She was a devastatingly exotic Puerto Rican chick. A fascination developed between us during the ride. I ran
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One providential night I was driving back to Charlottesville from New York City. Id been up all weekend and was beginning to crash. It was the dead of night and I was approaching Washington, D.C. when I found myself swerving, falling asleep at the wheel. I had a hundred miles yet to drive and really needed a whole days rest. I opened the sunroof to let the cool evening breeze invigorate me. Driving through the Mall looking at all the historic monuments of Americas capital, a song came spontaneously from my lips. Go down Moses, way down to Egypt land, tell old Pharaoh to let my people go. I guess Id heard it in church as a boy. Looking at the monuments made me think of the old biblical Egypt Id been taught in school. Then Vespers portrait of Halijee came to mind. I thought of him as a modern mystical Moses preparing us to deal with a modern Pharaoh holding my people captive. So I sang this old hymn into the stars over and over. Then Jack Johnsons theme song came to mind, Lucky Ole Son, give him nothing to do but roam over heaven all day. While singing his song to the stars, I felt that something had been passed from Jack Johnson to me. After Michael Thomas and I left for college, he was never seen or heard from again. And both of us were some lucky ole sons. Michael Thomas was roaming all over Europe and I knew instinctively he had caught just as much heaven over there as I caught in the Far East. We both had been trained in top-secret positions in Pharaohs army and knew all their dirt. We were dangerous. And what had this Lucky Ole Son done? Id made love to beautiful Asian princesses whod leave behind all they knew to be with me. Id battled old redneck, Dixie-waving peckerwoods who were my superiors and sent them running away with their tails between their legs. Id fascinated and dominated the best and brightest young minds of White America and used them as my guinea pigs. Id undergone a thorough psychoanalysis of myself under the umbrella of pharmaceutical enlightenment. Id bathed in the worlds best hot volcanic springs and skied in the mountainous Aspen of Japan. I ran with the architects of the vast black markets of Japan, Taiwan, and China and made tons of money in the process. A whole village crowned me king and gave me my own holiday. I had reached such a state of nirvana I had no attachments, no identity and had literally forgotten the details of my life, including my own family, in America. Id been initiated into the ancient constellations of three great masters whod given me the keys to their treasures. I gave all that up to come back to America, to meet my grand guru and fight for my people. Was I not a lucky ole son? This was the fuel that drove me home because I was too exhausted to
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Lewis Lowe
Afterglow
I felt like a brand new man, free from the slightest impurity. This was the highest high of my life, an elixir beyond elixirs. I lay in my bed recapitulating the whole trip to myself. How was I to know if this was real? Only my own peaceful clarity could confirm this an authentic experience of awakening and not a hallucination. Hallucination being the product of creative imagination, the delusion of fatigue or drug induced fantasy. Yes, have a very creative imagination, I was fatigued and I was under the influence of drugs. I only knew that EVERYTHING now made sense. At that moment I swore off drugs. I wanted to explore Reality in its purest, raw form without deception, arrogance, or distortion. The cosmic sweep and intricate details of the experience both awed and baffled me. I had perceived the entire hierarchical structure of consciousness itself - a living construct of which we all are pieces. All sentient beings were elements of its immensity. At one point I even detected my own earthly form lying on the bed looking up at myself, experiencing the exhilarating sensation of being at two places at once. I now felt an overwhelming oneness with all of creation, a protectiveness, and an all-pervading love. I wanted only to lose myself in the Source of this heavenly feeling. I knew this body was already a corpse and I refused to be bound by it. I was ready to give up my life to free humanity, to lift the veil of Suffering and Death. How many days or nights I marinated in this bliss I dont know. But it all faded with a knock on the door. Who could possibly be disturbing me in the middle of my revelry? Its possible the door knocked for several minutes before I finally got up to answer it. It was Michael Thomas! Not knowing if he was real, hyper real, or hallucination I just kind of stared at him. This was not the same country boy I left behind. He was now broad, muscular, and handsome. His hair was neatly trimmed and expertly parted. His clothes werent any hand-me-downs but the top notch tailor-made clothes of I wore. He too did a similar wordless inspection of me. I opened the door. He entered. We sat down on opposite sides of a table in silence for a several moments drinking in each others presence. He looked like he too had undergone a thorough transformation. I knew he was too saw the same thing in me.
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Lewis Lowe
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E. R. Ponyo Lewis is a master hypnotherapist and spiritual Eadept. Utilizing the knowledge he has gained over the last 40 years of tireless research and experiential practice, Mr. Lewis has developed a revolutionary and comprehensive approach to hypno-therapeutic programming designed to unleash ones own omnipotence in physical health, emotional well-being, healthy relationships, and spiritual mastery. The incredible adventures of his life have been dramaticized into a series of books, beginning with The Elixir of Ponyo, which he hopes will encourage millions to release their own unlimited potential and contribute to the healing of humanity.
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Lewis Lowe
From T. H. Tabriz Lowe flows audacious aural vibrations, lightning strikes of lyricism, shamanistic polyrhythms, and eruptions of evolutionary thought - all to provoke seismic shifts in the present spiritual, mental, and cultural paradigms. Contact Info for Lewis Lowe elixirofponyo@yahoo.com www.myspace.com/ponyo1
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Lewis Lowe
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