It was the summer of 76. I had just graduated from high school. I had spent the entire previous year enduring my final year of “formal” education. I had survived this year as 18-year-old adult.
I could legally drink, vote and bear arm-less children. I had a job and a wage that grown humanoids supported families on. I had a 3-year-old Gremlin (it’s a car) painted fire engine red with a blazing white stripe down its side. I could fold the back seat down and have a bed and by sitting between the front seats (it was a console shift automatic) I could get a gal on top of me and the only direction she could go was either up or down. Life was good.
I did the high school graduation gig. My folks gave me a set of cheap luggage. I promptly packed the new bags and moved out.
I had always had a jaded relationship with my folks. I think I represented too many disappointments, too many losses and burnt dreams. I think my personage embodied their greatest regrets and guilt trips.
Being the fifth child in a line of nine, I figure the folks knew they should have stopped with me. They had attained perfection, why go on? And the following four kids only caused them grief and trouble. I don’t mean that the kids, my siblings, caused them the grief and trouble but rather that the extra four mouths to feed required them to slave away many extra long, hard years.
I dunno. Perhaps the jaded relationship has to do with the fact that they wanted me to be the FAMILY PRIEST. Yea, the dark mid-west ages were barbaric. The thought of choosing a child and from day one telling that kid that he/ she will be this or that. It’s too horrible to actually imagine. And to tell the poor child that he or she is going to devote their lives to Jesus… well JEEZZUUSS! It should be a crime.
Anyway, I guess it’s needless to say I disappointed the family and never gave them their family priest. To make it worse I not only fell off the pulpit but I stole the gold and silver vestments as I fell.
The early years I spent “following my Vocation” were good years for me. I learned heaps. I learned to drink, smoke, steal, lie, cheat, fight and get away with it all. I learned to do all of this with bravado and flamboyance. My teachers were the best. They were catholic priests. I also received a very good classical education. I had used all my catholic priest learned skills to cut classes, skip tests, steal anything I thought I needed and to get passing grades. That’s all that counted… to pass and move on.
Yet the education was good. They tried hard. They attempted to give us the information and they tended to slant the information they gave us. They had very good libraries, which they opened with love and care. If you were a kid who displayed a reverence and love for books you always became somebody’s pet. In a school where a Christian death of damnation in hell’s fire stalked you around every corner it was good to be somebody’s pet.
It was the extracurricular reading that assisted my fall from the pulpit of priesthood. I read too much, asked too many questions and got bullshit answers. I knew when I was being BS’ed. I knew this and I had a bad habit of calling my often, male teachers on the fact.
Boy, those cats hated to be caught red handed being full of shit. And by a ten year old kid! I, more than once, received a bloody lip or nose for my effort. The worse thrashing I ever got was when I asked our Parish Priest during a catechism lesson if it was a miracle when “Moses tied his ass to a tree and walked away”. I’d read this in the bible. He’d told us the bible had to taken literally. I thought it was a good question.
Needless to say, by the time I was fifteen I was mean, surly, aggressive and had fallen so far from the priesthood I was only a punk kid with just the “hood” left.
It’s an old term that is coming back. To be a “hood”. A hood was bad. He had his turf and was willing to defend it. A hood usually dresses different. For us it was jeans, T-shirts and blue-jean jackets. (yea, very original) Our hair was long (ish) and we listened to any loud, stupid music which would send our fathers into rages of anger and frustration. I was a fighter with an unequaled repertoire of cheap shots. Was a consummate liar and was proud of the fact that I was an accomplished thief. I covered most of it all up by working a respectable job. I was smart enough to be a chameleon.
I started full time work when I was twelve. I still had the vocation then and a kid in my class helped his dad do construction work during the summers and after school. This kid’s dad, Dick, OK’d it with my father for me to help. So we began by carrying bundles of shingles up the ladder to where the carpenters were working. It wasn’t easy but we were big kids and they paid twenty cents for each bundle carried up. If we lagged behind one of the big guys would come down, throw two or three bundles on their shoulder and climb up. That’d cost us sixty cents so we learned quickly to do the job, stay ahead and collect our pay at the end of each day.
I never stopped working once I found out what money in the pocket felt like. No matter what I was doing or who I was ripping off or lying to I always had a job. And the fact that I worked often saved my fuzzy ass. There has been more than once when the shit was coming down and the heat was busting up some nice gig we had.
It could have been the stolen bicycle racket we set up when we were 13 / 14. It could have been the livestock rustling we did when we were 16. It could have been the stolen motorcycle racket we set up much later. But the heat always came in and spoilt our fun. And they inevitably took some prisoners. I missed the POW gig mainly because I had a steady job, usually was smart enough to have an alibi and was always smart enough to work with lower intelligence level humanoids who would take the rap alone.
In any event I am getting off my original and purposeful path. I had started to talk of a meeting I had in the summer of 76. As mentioned I had moved out of my folks place as fast as my signed (whew, that was a close one) graduation certificate would allow. I moved on to the five-mile farm.
This was a cozy little hippyish hang out run by my old buddy KT. KT was a Nam Vet. Ten years older than I. He had gone through three marriages, was a veritable bad ass, could cook and clean, demanded the same of anyone who came into his place, and was to be one of the most influential teachers I would have in my pre-adult life.
A couple other guys were living there and there was room for one more. KT and I had been buddies for a couple years. The other two guys: Tim and Chris were guys who worked with me and whom I had introduced to KT. We all worked second shift so the routine was simple. Be up by noon to grab something to eat. Have a shower and be to work by two. We were off work by 11:30 and would then begin our slow crawl toward the farm. It was called the five mile farm because it was exactly five miles east of the city limits. Drive five miles, turn right and you’re at the front door.
The trip from work to the farm would entail at least three or four stops: Often a salad and soup at Junior’s Spot. Some pool at Smitty’s Tap. Some country and western juke box at Joe’s. Some acid rock at Debbie K’s pad above Joe’s. Hang out on the street for a while and smoke joints. We’d watched the cars drive past. Real exciting times.
Eventually a couple of the guys sharing the farm would end up in one place at the same time. We’d usually meet at the Beaver’s Backdoor, the town’s only strip bar. We’d watch the strippers do their last shake of the night, drink an overpriced beer and talk of going home. There would usually be a convoy of assorted vehicles heading from town to the farm around 2am, the time the bars closed.
That summer was a good time. The guys/ gals were all back from institutes of higher education. There were always some interesting geeks and freaks passing through. The weather was nice and the nights never ended.
It was on an average night that I entered the farm shortly after 2. I had left the Beaver’s early because a little girlfriend of mine needed a ride home and I felt like a squeeze. She lived 18 miles north of town. Thus by the time I got what I needed, dropped her at her house and drove the 22 miles to the farm the night’s festivities were well in progress.
The first thing I usually did when I came home was see who was in charge of the music. This was critical because we had a fair few dollars invested in the stereo gear. To have a jerk on the turntable was unacceptable. The second thing I’d do was to see if there was enough chairs or floor space available. The front room was small and if it got too crowded things would get knocked, bumped and possibly broken. As mentioned, KT was a stickler for keeping the place neat and tidy. Spilt drinks or dumped ash trays meant that we had to get up early and clean.
KT was in his rocker next to the turn table. The room had about fifteen people in it. Plenty of room for more. I wouldn’t need to think about moving the party outside until the next car load of bodies arrived. I chose a spot between the kitchen and the front room, lit a joint I had in my pocket and grabbed a bottle of cheap red wine which was sitting on the floor.
I took a couple puffs on the joint. Took a pull on the wine. Checked to see that the joint was burning evenly, had another toke and it then passed it to my left. Up unto this point I had not really registered who was in the room. I had scoped out that KT was running the music. I knew Foureyes was in my chair, Marsha, Amy and Gloria were there, Tim was half asleep in the corner and it looked like Chris would be spending the night with his lady. The rest of the people in the room I took in as I settled myself on the floor.
The usual group of friends and hangers on were all in their assigned positions… Donnie was passed out in front of a speaker. Jeff was in a heated debate over pig farming (or was it pig rustling) with Terry. Young Kenny was sitting in a corner trying to keep up with the “older crowd”. To my immediate left sat my old friend Hal, his friend Jim and an older guy I’d never met.
Hal and Jim were going to the State University. They had opted to do summer school and as such had not moved back to town. I was glad to see Hal and reached over the stranger to punch him in the arm. Hal and I had been friends for ages. He was bright, inquisitive and had done what I planned/ wanted…. He had gotten out of the place.
I quickly got into the meaningful, jargonistic banter that we thought was intelligent conversation. Jim was much like Hal and I enjoyed his company. I slid closer to the three and formed a small circle within the circle of the room. We yacked on for a few minutes before I looked closely at the “older” guy sitting next to Hal.
I had sat down next to him, handed him a joint and a bottle of wine, reached over him to welcome Hal and only now gave my attention to him.
It was not unusual to have people of varying ages and walks of life pass through our pad. We had an open door policy. Just the week before Chris had brought home a 70 year old reservation Indian who had been released from detox that day. The Indian had smoked our dope, drank our booze and had regaled us with stories of Peyote. I had decided then and there to try some.
The guy I was looking at was between 35 and 55. He had a lined face, graying hair, was slight of build and sat straight backed and square on the floor. He looked either Indian or Mexican or a mix of some sort. He wasn’t dressed “cool” but had a worn look about his jeans, uncool black street shoes and long sleeved, button down shirt. I pegged him as a fellow academic of Hal’s. I figured he was an aging gradstudent/ professional learner.
As I took this all in the guy looked straight into my face. He appeared neither embarrassed or annoyed that I was so blatantly sizing him up. Hal introduced him to me as “Joe”. I shook his hand and was becoming unnerved by his unwavering gaze into my face. A joint must have come my way and I broke the eye contact with some effort. I thought about this unnerving fellow as I sucked in the intoxicating fumes. I took my time and had a couple drags. Licked the side of the number down and handed it to Joe.
I noticed that Joe handed the joint to Hal without smoking any. “A win for me” I thought. “He doesn’t smoke, doesn’t really belong here and must feel out of place”. With my usual self confidence I looked into his face. Now it was my turn. I must have been wearing my arrogant smile because Joe mirrored my well known and long practices smirk to perfection. Again unnerved, I looked away.
“What do you want from life?” Joe asked without preamble.
I had planned to ask Hal who Joe was. Had planned to ask Joe where he came from, what he did and where he was going. Instead I had the tables turned. I was on my own turf but I was unsure of this guy. Not frightened that he was a Narc or some form of a threat. He would never have gotten there if he were. But rather the way he had simply allowed me to size him up and how he had so quickly put me on the defensive threatened me.
His gaze almost irritated me. He appeared (I know it sounds corny) to look into me. To see things I had kept hidden. And his question sent me into a bout of stammering.
“Want in life… yea, man, life… uh, well, ya know life is a gas… uh, life is for living, uh, it’s cool and we should all live hard and die young.”
I knew I fucked up after the last bit. Using an old cliché’ when I wanted to sound intelligent. Wanted to (for some reason) impress this stranger. I felt foolish but even worse because I couldn’t not look at him. He held my eyes with his.
He repeated his question slower. “What, do You, want out of Your life?”
As he spoke I saw that his face was aged and more wrinkled than I had first seen. He was on the older side of my original estimation. I felt terrible for the “die young” remark I had made. Yet his eyes had a uniquely youthful quality. I quickly wondered if he was tripping. The “kaleidoscope” eyes of a tripper were as close to a comparison as I had for the eyes I was falling into.
“Youth has the power to direct life but very, very seldom has the wisdom to know direction. Youth is beautiful and attractive but burns itself out much like a candle burning in and empty room. Michael, are you in an empty room?”
If I had been floundering before I was fucking lost now. He spoke in a calm, pleasing even seductive voice. I was not offended by what he said. I did not even consider being offended. My 200 pounds of undisciplined strength and aggression was not any where near me at this point. My usual arrogant anger (which served me well in sticky situations) did not exist.
What really threw me was the use of my Christian name. My grandmother called me Michael. No one else. And I actually think Hal had introduced me to this guy by my surname. I was confused and looked for a distraction. I glanced around for a joint or a bottle to fill the pregnant gap. I needed to calm myself and think of something to say. I needed to change the topic. I needed to end this conversation.
Nothing was close at hand so I wiggled in an attempt to pull my bag of dope from inside the front of my jeans. It’s terrifically difficult to, in a crowed room, stick your hand down the front of your pants and still be “cool”. I was a master at being cool and just as I had my hand in my jeans Joe said, “You don’t need that now, Michael.”
I froze. I had leaned back to straighten my approach into my jeans. My hand was down in my pants and I froze. I was caught by those eyes. I was caught in the facade of being cool. I was caught in the total squeeze of being frozen in the act of trying to gain control of the situation.
I must have stared blankly at Joe. I remember glancing around to see who was watching my tortuous encounter with this strange stranger. Everyone was nodding out, quietly listing to the music or sitting in his or her own small conversations. Everyone was too drunk and stoned to notice very far from the tips of their noses.
I felt insanely sober. I longed to be stoned. I wanted some glazing to the situation. I wanted some rose coloring to the world I was looking upon. I tightened my grip around the plastic bag in my pants and pulled it out. I fumbled with it in my lap and was looking for a pack of rolling papers.
“Do you really think that will help you out of your confusion?”
Joe’s eyes had not moved. I wondered if he had blinked. His whole appearance was non threatening. He was telling me what to do and I had no ability to argue or confront his comments. I was at a loss for words. My hands stopped fumbling in my lap and I wanted dearly to stop looking into those eyes.
I felt a sudden urge to cry. I was frustrated and, in a way, defeated. My charade of cool and tough had been blasted apart in a few short moments with a very few soft words. I was confused and this dude saw it. I was frightened and didn’t know by what. I wanted out of there but couldn’t move.
“Shall we go outside? The stars should be very clear tonight.” Joe said as he lightly touched my left shoulder.
I immediately felt better. I was getting out of there. I thought of getting out the door and going straight to my car. I’d drive into town and sleep on DK’s floor. Anything to get out.
I quickly rolled up my bag of dope and stood. I was in the act of pushing the bag into my pants when Joe said, “you won’t be needing that.” I ignored him. It felt better to have a bag of dope on you than not. I reached for my jacket hanging behind the door. “It’s not very cool out”. Joe offered. But I was intent on getting out of there. My keys were in my jacket pocket. I was moving on for the night.
I didn’t want to appear to be on the defensive so I didn’t rush to my car and drive away. I did the next best thing though. I went to my car and sat on the hood. It’s a very “country” sort of thing, this sitting on your car. It makes you feel good. When you’re near your car you know you’re close to gone. Close to being in control.
Joe was nonplussed by my movement to the car. I sat on the driver’s side of the hood and leaned my back against the wind screen. He came around the passenger’s side and took a position like mine next to me. We were stretched out on top of the car with our heads tilted back. It is a prefect star gazing position. And Joe’s comfortable-ness with the position made me wonder if he was from some where “around here”.
The move had made me feel much more comfortable. Being on my car, in one of my most favorite positions made me feel in control. I was thinking about rolling another joint when Joe said, “So what do You, Michael, really want out of life?”
Perhaps its because I wasn’t looking into (drowning in) his eyes. Perhaps its because I was out of the room filled with others. Perhaps its because I felt secure being next to my car. For what ever reason I had an answer. “I want to learn as much as possible and live forever”.
This sent Joe into convulsions of laughter. He roared, coughed, sputtered and spit. I thought he was dying on me. But his laughter was infectious and I joined in. I wasn’t sure why my answer was so gawd dern funny but I love a good laugh and needed no invitation.
“What did I tell you? What did I tell you?” Joe kept repeating as he gasped for breath and wiped merry tears from his eyes. “Youth is power. Youth has no direction. Youth does waste itself but it sure as hell makes you laugh”.
This apparent bit of wisdom filled prose sent him into yet another (and worse) bout of laughter. He must have come close to a heart attack. I was hanging on the side of the car gripping my ribs with one arm. I was out of breath and my side ached. I was pleading that he stop. I was certain that Joe was tripping and I was into a “contact high”. I wanted more than anything to find out who Joe was and (most importantly) see if I could get a “trip” or two from him.
Joe calmed down muttering” Great… fantastic, marvelous… too good…fucking great.”
I wondered now if Joe was a Fag. Real men didn’t use words like “marvelous”. I realized then too that he had an accent. I wasn’t sure where the accent was from but his English was clear and I had no problems understanding him. I went back to my assumption that he was a professional student and perhaps a fag. If he was a teacher of Hal’s he’d either not be here or he’d be better dressed. This guy was one of those people that live in dorms for 20 years studying something obscure like genetic electric chemistry. They never really get out into the “real” world. I’d met many of them before. They were harmless if tactless. I figured he was a poor RA from Hal’s dorm who Hal had given some trips and brought to a party. I was considering going in and asking Hal for some trips when Joe touched me on the left shoulder again.
“I’ve heard a lot about you and must admit to not being disappointed”.
Joe’s eyes showed through the night. I could see them clearly. They were full of mirth and kindness. I knew he was paying me a compliment but I was irritated by what he said.
“What have you heard about me? Who have you been talking to? What do you mean disappointed/ who the fuck do you think you are?” The outburst was my old defensive self coming back to life. It felt good and I felt my body go into an attack/ defend type “cat stance”. My chin was in, my chest was out and my right hand was in a fist at my hip. I put on my best “bad ass” face and waited for Joe’s response.
More laughter. Jeezus! What an asshole he was. I was ready for brass tacks. I was gonna kick his ass. I didn’t need a reason other than I was on the defensive. He’d made me defensive. And there I was in my best bad ass posture and this ass hole was laughing. I was more confused than ever. He was actually rolling around on the hood of my car pointing a finger at me and laughing so hard he was crying.
“Be careful or you’ll scratch the fucking hood.” I grumbled.
But this only took him to greater heights of merriment. I actually took that time to look at myself. I was standing in a very defensive pose. I was ready to either attack or defend and I was standing over a poor “old man” who I was killing with laughter.
I lost it. The laughter rolled out of me in uncontrollable surges. I ended up sitting on the drive way. I was hugging my ribs and fighting for breath. My face was against the front tire of the car. The tears were flowing freely and mixing with the dust from the tire. I laughed and cried for what seemed like ages.
I slowly pulled myself up. I was still gulping for air. I wanted to pat Joe on the back and thank him for the good laugh. I really wanted some of the trips he had. I was certain he was tripping and if the contact high was that good the actual stuff had to be great.
“You’re much better looking when you’re laughing,” He said. “That John Wayne / Captain America pose of yours is really terrific though.”
My aggression was gone and this made us laugh some more. I was getting ready to ask him who he really was when he said, “ Hal speaks very highly of you. He never told me that you were a macho type and I didn’t expect it. Hal is such a pacifist I wouldn’t suspect he’d be so close to such a ruffian as you.”
I took the opening and side stepped the jibe. ‘ You’re a friend of Hal’s?”
“I met Hal a little while ago. I’m really just passing through but I always love to meet new, interesting people. Hal is special. He’s aware of life and yet so young. Most people don’t become aware of the gift of life until they’ve all but lost it. To be aware of the magic you have, at an early age, is almost as great as the gift of life it’s self.”
This was the most I had heard him say. His accent was hard to define but I figured he must be Hispanic of some flavor. He spoke in a clear, evenly paced voice. He had a very sing/song quality to his speech and I again wondered if he was a fag.
To hide my thoughts I said. “ Hal and I have been buddies for a long time. I have learned a lot from him. I’m not that much of a ruffian, am I?”
This brought on more waves of laughter. And I was in it with him. Here I was, just having been ready for a fight with an old man who had offended me and I ask about being a ruffian. Joe sputtered and laughed and kept spitting out words like “ self importance… arrogance and self importance… marvelous, simply great.”
I was wondering what the whole scene meant (I believed everything had a meaning) when Joe spoke.
“It is Hal who believes he has learned much from you. He says you must have been reincarnated many times. He’s currently lost in that Zen, Buddhist, eastern thought process everyone experiments with. He feels everything needs to be answered by the dogma of the day. It’s too bad really… to be so inquisitive, to break the shackles of Judo-Christianity only to voluntarily be bound by the chains of Buddhism. But such is life and such is the learning process. It is too bad though.”
“Hal is a Buddhist, you know.” I felt the need to defend my dear friend.
“Yes, yes, yes. He is a Buddhist now. He is a Buddhist with out knowing what Buddhism is. He was a Christian up until he left home two years ago. He rebelled against the faith of his fathers and grabbed onto and embraced the first twirling seed that was different from the other seeds he saw being sown. He read Kuroac and Ferligetti and Ram Das and all those frauds. He was a Christian, is now a Buddhist and will be something different later on.”
I began to argue that the writers he had mentioned were not frauds. I said they were pioneers. They had lived interesting lives, done things differently and had given us some assistance by sharing their experiences with us. I had always felt that it was the gifted/ strange people who lead divergent lives who assisted those few of us who are inherently different by making us know that not everyone is alike. That we may not be wrong.
“And what makes you so different, Michael?”
“Me, Shit man, I’m not different. I might be a bit unusual and I might be a bit creative but I’m not DIFFERENT.” I was getting defensive again.
Joe’s voice became calmer. “ Hal thinks you are. Hal told me that there were few people he’d met who were as understanding, helpful and, Hal used this word, as dangerous as Mike.”
This perplexed me. Hal had been a friend for many years. We’d been kids together. Shared an appreciation for books and knowledge and had learned about girls together. Hal was a couple years older than I but that never mattered. He had the wheels and I had the balls. We had really gotten close while working in a cheese factory a couple years before. Hal was preparing to go away to school. He’d been a good boy through high school and was just learning to be on his own. He had turned me on to dope. Had helped me into and through my first trip. Had given me a pile of experiences that were normally available after you were out of school. He came from a good family and my folks liked him. He was welcome around the house and I never got in trouble if I took off for a weekend with Hal. My folks thought the trips with Hal were “cultural”. I looked up to Hal and loved him for having assisted me in getting out of where I was/ had been. I had paid Hal back by helping him get laid. Showing him how to keep his beat up old VW on the road. By teaching him about the woods and hunting.
He was a true city kid and had enjoyed learning to shoot a gun and the skills required to hunt pheasant and deer. Yet after one season of hunting he decided it was bad karma. I agreed with his decision and sold my guns. We bought dope with the money.
We had spent a lot of time together traveling to hear different music. We had gone to Chicago to hear the blues and the chamber quartets. We went to other places where the new scenes were emerging. We saw Prince in a small bar before he was Prince. We saw many small bands who later made it big. We got to know many of these musicians and could go behind stage when they toured. We had shared a lot. We were close.
Once we’d been broke and broken down hundreds of miles from home. I lifted a wallet off a trucker to get us moving. Once we were on the road and hungry at 4am. I broke the back window of a dive, gas station, stole the change from the cash register and bought us steak n’ eggs breakfast. Another time we were in a bad bar on the bad side of town in a bad county, Hal bumped some jerk’s pool cue and a fight started. I broke a cue stick over one guy’s head. Used the broken handle to whack another guy in the throat. I thought we were going to really be in for it but the fighting stopped. It turned out the guy who took it in the throat was the big, big bad ass of the place. Once he was down they let me pick Hal up and clear out. Hal had received a glancing blow to the side of his head but had figured he was dead. When I picked him up he was curled into a ball and hiding under the pool table. Hal and I were different but we were cool. What one didn’t have in his repertoire of tricks the other did. We made a good team.
I had no answer for Joe’s remark. I was neither defensive or lost for words. I simply didn’t have anything to say. Joe had leaned back against the windshield and was gazing at the stars. It appeared to me as though he was waiting for me to say something. I felt as though the ball was in my court.
“Hal has been a good friend.” It sounded weak as it came out. Joe didn’t move. He gazed into the sky as if he were waiting for the right answer to bring him back into the conversation. I was unsure of what I was supposed to say. I thought about telling a “Hal and Mike” story but felt as though Joe may have heard them all. He appeared to be in no hurry and I looked about me for a distraction.
“I have a flask of peach wine under the hood. I keep it around the radiator incase the cops stop me. If I remember to make the skin wet it cools the wine. It’s great in winter. Put schnapps in it. I’m kinda thirsty. Wanna drink?” This all came out in a gush. I had been searching for something to say and ended up sounding like a little kid explaining why his homework wasn’t done.
Joe giggled, sputtered something about “youth” and said. “ I suppose this means I’ll have to move.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean it that way. If you’re comfortable. I was only thirsty. Thought you’d like a drink.” My nervousness was showing. In looking for a distraction I had lost all my composure. I figured I’d have a drink to fill the blank space. But by having to open the hood of the car I had to make Joe move.
I hadn’t intended to get his attention. I wanted to delay the words he was evidently waiting for. I wasn’t sure what I was being asked and was definitely not sure of what I was going to say. My stalling technique definitely did not work.
He stood up and did a strange type of stretch. He waved his arms around, wiggled his body, jiggled his shoulders and shot his arms to the sky while loudly exhaling. I was caught by these motions. I was staring at him when he turned around and said, “I thought you were offering me a drink.”
I quickly moved to the front of the car and opened the hood. I fumbled in the dark to find the flask’s cord that should have been around the radiator cap. For some reason I couldn’t feel it. It was dark and there was no way I could see what I was doing without a light. I was thinking of digging my lighter out when Joe walk up to me. He lit a zippo lighter and used it to light a cigarette he had between his lips. “Care for a smoke? He asked.
“No, tobacco is not good for you.” I replied. “
“It’s no worse or better than pot.” He said. “ It’s a lot cheaper and its legal. If you’re a smoker I’d say tobacco was a lot safer for you than pot.”
I liked his “old fashioned” use of the term, pot. It was not a cool word anymore. We used, dope or grass or smoke. His choice of words took me back to my thoughts of who he was and where he’d come from. Much about him was old fashioned or at least old. It was as if he was out of touch yet he appeared so aware of what was happening. The thought occurred to me that if Hal thought this guy was cool, well, those should be good enough credentials. I was going to stop stalling and being defensive. There was a reason why Hal had brought him here. I hoped it was the good trips I thought they had.
I had gotten the flask and closed the hood. Joe stood there with his pack of cigarettes open and a cigarette shaken out and pointing at me. He did it in a way that Bogart offered a cigarette to a classy lady. I found it comical yet cool. I was going to say something when he spoke first. “I’ll swap you a cigarette for a wee drop of your wine”. I took the cigarette and accepted the proffered light from his Zippo. I pulled the cork from the flask and shot a long stream of the sweet fluid in to my mouth. I rinsed my mouth out by swishing the wine around then spit it out. I’d learned this as a kid and called it an “indian drink”. It worked when you were real thirsty but didn’t have a lot to drink. If you wetted the inside of your mouth, washed the scum away and spat it out you were often more refreshed than if you’d taken a drink and swallowed.
Joe watched closely. “Where’d you learn that?” He asked it as if he knew exactly what I was doing. He didn’t ask what I was doing or why I had spit the first drink out. He KNEW what and indian drink was and was curious where I had learned it.
“I dunno.” I said as I took a big pull n the cigarette. I almost died. I had been holding the cigarette like a joint. I had put it to my lips and had taken a long air filled drag. I pulled it in like I would the weed, taking the smoke way, way down and preparing my lungs to hold it for maximum effect.
I burst into a fit of coughing and gagging. I doubled over and damn near lost the burger I’d had. My head spun and my eyes watered. It took me quite awhile to recover and the whole time Joe roared. He thought this was very humorous and I was getting just a bit pissed off with being so fucking entertaining to a guy I didn’t even know. I coughed and spat a couple more times. I took swig of wine and spat it out. “It makes me sooo fucking happy that I can be sooo fucking entertaining.” I said with quite a bit of venom.
This made him chuckle and laugh and he mentioned something about “too much self importance.” He reached for the flask (I hadn’t offered it to him yet) and shot a long steam into his mouth. He drank this indian style and then shot another stream that he swallowed.
The art of drinking from a flask was something we considered cool. It was fun to get nonaficionados to have a go. The aim was to get the stream going by squeezing the skin and to move the flask away from your mouth as you drank, It was not uncommon to have people spray their faces with drink. I fancied myself a master of the flask and had spent the bucks on a proper goat skin. He handled he flask with flair and handed it back saying “nice flask. Bad wine but nice flask.”
This made me feel comfortable. It was bad wine and it was a nice flask. Joe was cool. I was just going to ask, “who are you really.” When he spoke first.
“How do you perceive death?” There was a pause as I was thinking of something to say but he carried on. “I can see how you perceive life. You see it as a fight. You want to either attack or defend. You work best when attacking but are not too bad as a defender. Not too bad unless you get into areas which are new to you. You don’t like being out of your depth. It makes you angry. It brings on the attack attitude that you are good at. I’ll wager you never admit to not knowing. I’ll wager that if you come into an area that is new you pretend to know what’s going on and try to learn as much as possible as quickly as possible. That’s good. And it’s bad. It’s a sign of weakness to be incapable of asking for help.”
All he said was true. I knew it was true but didn’t like being told it all. I was getting defensive again when he said. “You don’t like answering questions about yourself, do you?”
“I don’t mind.” I retorted. “Questions don’t bother me. I got nuthin to hide.” He laughed at this and said. “I have asked you a couple simple questions over the past half hour. You have gotten your nose out of joint over every single question. You have gone from being afraid and confused to wanting to beat me up. I have seen your mood shift several times and have yet to receive a single, intelligent answer to any one of my simple questions.”
He said it like a teacher will talk to you. Straight forward and to the point. Leaving no room for argument when, unfortunately, they are right.
He laughed from his belly and tapped me on the shoulder again. “I don’t mind… questions don’t bother me.” He said. He spoke it in an exact imitation of me. The way I had spoke, clipped and snarling with a tone of aggression.
I was shocked. I knew it was me he was imitating but I was appalled that I sounded that way. It sounded like the kinda guys who hung out at the stock car races and had guts so big they never saw their shoes. I always thought I sounded cool and tough. To realize I sounded like a dirt head was hard. I said so to Joe.
I spoke quietly and in my intelligent voice. “I realize I can be aggressive. It’s something I cultivated at a young age. I had trouble when I moved to this town and had to fight my way into acceptance. I am aware enough of what’s going on around me and am able to see myself. I guess I’ve gotten good at being a fighter. It wasn’t my nature but I learned to do it. I am naturally a good learner.”
“Bravo.” Joe said in a loud voice. “You can talk with more than a snarl and an insult. That’s good. I at last have a glimpse of the person Hal spoke of. He does admire you. You have taught him much. Much more than he taught you. I can see that you showed him certain experiences he’d probably never had seen without your help. The things he showed you were bound to come your way. You owe Hal nothing but friendship. Hal owes you many lessons and more.”
“I don’t believe in debts,” I said.
“ You will, mark my words, you will.” He said in his teacher’s voice. Then his tone changed and he asked, “ What about my questions?”
“ You appear to be uncomfortable with my questions.” He continued. “ I understand this. It’s a habit I have. It’s almost intentional… Sometimes thoughtless. I talk people away from me. I find I can’t deal with the general public. I don’t have enough time. I know this and tend to challenge very quickly. It’s a test of sorts. If I am going to spend time on people I need be sure it’s time well spent. I’m obviously older than you and know the value of time. It’s something you will learn but may not understand right now. Youth has all the time in the world. You’re like a millionaire going shopping for supper. I am like a pauper looking for crumbs. You have all the time in the world. I’m not even certain you have learned to value life. I’ll bet you still like fast cars and risky hobbies. Your life is taken for granted. But this will change. The advantage of age is having been young. The disadvantage of youth is not being able to recognize that age has wisdom. Youth is often enough to pull you through.
Hal told me many stories. He considers you above average. You have an ability to put your life on the line and to come out a winner each time. I like that. It impresses me. It shows me that you have power. You are not afraid of life. Hal may have led his life as a timid creature if not for you. You opened many doors for him. He will be talking of your mutual exploits when he’s an old man. The difference between you and he is that you will have all but forgotten those exploits. You will inevitably have more, bigger, better, using your words, BADDER experiences. I can see that the spirit is strong with you but I have yet to fathom why.”
The reference to the spirit took me to my upbringing. “ I was raised to be a priest.” I said in low tone.
“That’s not what I am talking about.” He said in a harshly.
I was taken aback and my recoil must have shown.
In a calmer tone he said, “ The spirit has nothing to do with what we commonly call religion. You have been seeped in the Judo-Christian way of seeing the world. You believe in sin. You believe in the trinity, you believe that the spirit is an entity of the so called trilogy. I can tell you that the spirit is more, much more.”
His voice was quiet but his words were delivered with force. He shocked me into a brooding silence. I thought about my severe catholic upbringing. The years of having the dogma stuck down my throat. The bullshit I endured and eventually rebelled against.
“I dunno.” I said. “I have been fighting so hard, so long I’ve forgotten what it’s all about. I’m honestly confused by it all. I’ve been disappointed and have disappointed far too many times. I feel as though success is something I’ll never see. Failure is a word I don’t like but it’s a concept I have on my door step. It makes me want to cry.”
Joe laughed in a friendly way. “ You sound like one of those dirt heads you are afraid of being like. I know it’s hard to have someone help you to look at yourself. It’s happened to me and I must admit You’re dealing with it very well. Hal was right, you are very interesting.”
This was said is if he were a science teacher speaking about a frog on the dissecting table.
“Answer my question.” He said.
“Which question?” I asked.
“Tell me about your views on death.” He answered.
“ I’m too young to have any.” I said. “I have very limited experience with death. I have been to my grandfather’s funeral. I have been a hunter since I was young. I know about killing things but I can not conceive my own death. I am only just coming into some form of a conception about this life. Death is an abstract. I know I do things that are life threatening but I get a charge out of them. I love fast cars and bad motor cycles. There is not much that scares me.”
I was getting a sense of my bravado back. I was warming to the topic. “I see death as a door. I see death as an end to the experiences we have on this plane. But I have a feeling that there is more than one door available to us. Death is the door we are taught about. It is the only option our teachers have empirical knowledge of. But something in me tells me there is more. I don’t have first hand experience of what I feel, but, hey, that’s never stopped me before. I tend to fly by the seat of my pants. You were right when you said I am not good at being in situations that are new to me. I like to know what’s happening. I like even more being a part or a catalyst of what happens. I guess I like to be in control. When I’m not in control I tend to get up tight.”
I felt it was a long, drawn out reply. I took a breath and a swig from the wine. I thought about rolling a joint.
Joe asked. “ Why is the pot so important to you?”
I was caught with my hand in my pants. Literally. I had unconsciously reached for my bag. He had asked it just as I was in the act of pulling it out. I paused and felt like a fool to be standing there with my hand down the front of my jeans.
I pulled the bag out and threw it on the hood of the car. Joe was sitting half reclined. The bag slid up against his leg. He picked it up and had a good look. It was a generous ounce of good buds. I had bought a half pound, split it up, sold seven oz.’s and kept the best for me. I was proud of my dope and my ability to have what I had. I claimed it cost me nothing. I could buy a large quantity and sell most of it, keeping the best for myself. The bag Joe held represented the profits for my labor.
I pondered his question. I had followed Joe into an area of contemplation that I had never been before. He had broken most of my barriers. I was beyond getting angry. I was willing to deal with him on the level he had established. I was considering an answer to his question when he said, “Roll us a joint.”
He used my voice to say this. I had to laugh. It was too comical not to appreciate his ability to mimic. I laughed and asked, “Are you sure, man? This is killer weed.” I said this dramatically. I tried to imitate the voices I had heard in the old movies.
Joe appreciated my response and said, “ It’s ok. I assure you there would be very little you can offer which might shock me.”
I took his response as a bit of a slight and must have shown it. He quickly said, “I don’t mean to be rude. I am sure you know what you have in that little bag. It’s just that I see so much wasting of time and foolish posturing over such trivial things such as an herbal substance which changes your thought patters. It really is mundane. To think that we can talk of death as if it has no importance while at the same time look at plastic bag of leaves and put a market value on it. Your ‘dope’ is more important to you than your life. Sad, very sad indeed.”
I took this a sign that he didn’t want me to roll a number. I started to put the papers back in the bag when he said, “What’s the matter? Not going to roll me a nnnummmber?” He rolled the last word in the same way Foureyes did. It was funny. His little speech had put me in a melancholy mood but this imitation and little gesture of fun brought me back.
I put the bag away. Climbing up on the hood of the car I said, “when you put it that way it does sound screwy. I know so many who have put all they had into their cars or the cycles or their drugs. They lived for the fix. I know the rush of speed from a fast car is a good buzz but I can see also that it’s the symbol more than anything. The symbol of power to have a sharp car. The symbol of machismo to have a bad bike and be able to drive it fast.
I can see that the symbol often becomes more important that the self. And as I talk of this I think of all the people who have died over the years when they lost control of the symbol. Sparks died last winter. Randy lived through that crash but managed to do himself in on his Harley last month. Kendel and Jody both bought it a year ago. Gary had spent all his time and more than all his money on that Chevelle. He bought it in the end too. There are more and the real sad thing is the number of people that go down with the symbol. The hangers on and would bes…”
I let the rest go unsaid. Joe was quiet for a moment then asked “Is your little plastic bag any different from the fast machines?”
I knew no answer was required. I wondered what was happening. I wondered why this guy was here. I could not really see why Hal had brought him. “Why’d Hal bring you here?” I blurted out.
“I asked him to bring me.” He replied.
This confused me. I got the distinct feeling that this was not his scene. Joe appeared to be against dope. Was lecturing me about life and yet he had asked Hal to bring him? I couldn’t see the connection.
“After meeting Hal I decided I wanted to meet you. I asked Hal to bring me here with the intention of meeting you, Michael.”
He said this in his teacher’s voice. It was as if I was missing something I was supposed to get and Joe was pointing me in the direction. My confusion came from knowing he was trying to help me see something important but being unable to grasp it. It was like a puzzle. But I only had a couple of the pieces to work with. I was missing too much information to understand what was going on.
“Who the hell are you, anyway?” I asked.
His eyes glittered and he smiled. I thought my question had come out rough and abrupt. I didn’t want to piss Joe off and I wasn’t getting defensive. I simply needed more information before I could move on toward some form of informational goal. I felt childish and stupid for my outburst.
“You have already figured most of it out.” He said. “You are almost right. I am a professional student. I am also a professional teacher. In academic terms I am a Ph.D. I have been going to school longer than you have been alive. I am highly regarded in my field and have come to the State University here to do some research. I met Hal in the department of Oriental Studies. That’s not my field but I was going to meet someone I know there. I asked Hal to direct me to my friend’s office and he offered to show me the way. We talked about the courses Hal was taking. He’s very zealous about his course of studies. In any event my friend was out and I asked Hal to join me for lunch. Hal offered to drive us to a good place to grab a cheap sandwich. When I saw his car I became very interested in young Hal and wanted to learn more about him. As you were saying earlier about symbols, I was impressed that a young person with any self esteem would drive a clapped out, powder blue VW bug. It’s identical to one I owned years ago. I guess I was never one to be taken by symbols either.”
“How long have you known Hal?” I asked for no reason other than I wanted him to keep talking.
“Less than a week.” Joe replied. ”I have enjoyed Hal’s company and he was gracious enough to show me around the city. I plan to be there for over a month and was planning to get an apartment but Hal offered me room in the trailer he shares with Jim. It suits me. Transport is easy and the conversation is grand. Jim is a bit too preoccupied with this cock but Hal is a blessing to have. I was afraid I would end up having to spend these weeks dealing with stuffy academics. I really do not enjoy listening to those people complain about hanging around and teaching the summer classes. I guess I have been very lucky in finding Hal.”
“So you wanted to come see the home stomping grounds.” I asked with a smile.
“No, not at all. I have very little interest in this country town you call home. I don’t have very much time and what time I do have is severely scheduled. I came here to meet you.” He said this with a clipped, almost short tempered tone.
“That’s what confuses me.” I said. “You talk of not having time and being on a tight schedule. It don’t make sense. You say you came here to meet me. All I can say is why?”
“I need to go back to the beginning.” He said with a smile. “I met Hal. I saw something special in him. I also saw an opportunity to satisfy my personal needs. I was new in town. I needed a place to stay. I didn’t want to spend a pile of money. It all worked out. In my vernacular, the spirit pointed me in the right direction. I lead my life this way… I follow the spirit. It shows me where I should go and be. It has been this way for a long time with me. It started when I was very young and has not faltered to date. I have met many people who have been influential to me but I have had one main teacher. He refined and defined my understanding of the world around me.
He also made me understand that the spirit would direct me to others. I am here to see if the spirit has pointed you out to me. If this is the case there is something here for me to learn. You are important right now because the spirit, through you, may have a lesson or many lessons for me. I admit to being very mercenary about this. I cannot waste my time screwing around. Also, if the spirit has brought us together, I have a lesson or two for you. It would not be otherwise in the spirit. It is the basic way of things and I cannot ignore what happens around me.”
It was now Joe’s turn to brood. He sat hunched up and appeared to be in some form of turmoil. Perhaps he had said too much too quickly. I know I was taken aback from his explanation. I cannot admit to having understood it all but a part of me, somewhere very deep inside, understood what was going on. I was no longer frightened or threatened.
“OK man, so where do we go from here?” I asked.
This question brought on a good belly laugh. His brooding posture ended and he laughed with gusto. “Hal was correct. He said you had a head for business. Take it to the bottom line. Allow the Yankee merchant in you to take charge. I like that. I was like you once. I am surprised you didn’t say ‘ what’s in it for me.’ “
Joe had a good laugh at this and I joined in. I was laughing because he had been right. I had actually thought about asking what was in it for me, to ask why I was here and not inside having a good time.
“It’s your turn to answer a question. “ I said with a grin. “Where do we go from here?”
This question brought on a change in Joe. He acted as though I had said nothing and hopped up from where he was sitting on the car. He twisted and stretched his body with those strange, kungfu/ ballet movements I had seen earlier. He took longer this time and combined several deep, audible breaths in with his movements.
Apparently done He turned in a slow circle. It looked as though he was attempting to get his bearings. This took a moment or two then he looked at me and asked, “What are we waiting for?” I must have looked confused because he said “ I am prepared to answer your question. Let’s go.”
With that he set off at a quick pace to the south west. He acted as though he knew where he was going. It was somewhere between 3 and 4 am. There was enough night light to see clearly. The direction we were headed took us through a corn field and toward a small wooded area about a mile away. The corn was a bit over knee high and the going was easy. There hadn’t been any rain lately so the rich, dark loam was comfortable to walk on. I didn’t really think about what we were doing. Joe had simply taken off and I had followed.
I was raised as an outdoorsman and know more than most about moving over the land. I had collected 6 main types of walks that are important if you are going to travel, on foot, very far very fast. I prided myself in being able to walk long distances without much effort. I now watched Joe as he strode away. The terrain was easy (between the rows of young corn) and he walked in a loose jointed long gait. His elbows were unusually high behind his back but his knees were bent and he was moving well. He used as much of his stride as possible with each step. It was a gait I had not seen before and was interested in asking him about it.
I fell into my “dry land cross country skiing” gait. It’s a strange gait I’d like to think I developed. It employs the body in a similar fashion as cross country skiing. I would keep my body loose, move my legs in a smooth stride and swing my arms to match my stride. I had learned to curl my fingers as if I was pulling on imaginary ropes. I often visualized having a rope in each hand and pulling myself along. I could walk for hours like this and not tire.
I could have walked faster than Joe was moving but I matched his pace and followed. He headed directly to the small wooded area. I often went here to look for tracks and see what wildlife was around. I especially enjoyed going out before dawn and seeing if I could find nesting deer. Even though it was farmland we were in there was an abundance of wildlife and these small wooded water holes were a natural home/ hiding place for the various animals.
I lost myself in the power of the walk and my raging thoughts. Joe confused me. He was dressed as an academic, appeared to be a bit of a geek but had no hesitation in heading out into the night. I was confident that he was not from “around here”. I doubted if he knew what was here that was a threat. We did have rattlers and there were some copperheads and moccasins around. Wolves were uncommon this far south but not unheard of. A surprised badger or weasel could be dangerous. Shit a surprised Angus bull that’d gone stray could be real dangerous. But this didn’t appear to bother Joe. He set off for the woods as if he knew what he was doing and like he knew the way.
I had been raised to respect and admire knowledge of the outdoors. In my mind it was a test of a “man”. I knew it was an unfair bias and a very narrow view point but I had been around too many city people who barely knew how to start a lawn mower. I felt that knowledge of the outdoors rounded you and, somehow, made you a better person.
We had covered the distance quickly. We were on the edge of the corn field. The ground was sloping down into the small valley that was the woods and the small stream. Joe slowed as we came to the edge of the corn. He went down, hunter fashion, on one knee and touched the ground. He was in a crouched position and looked like he was checking a track from an animal he was stalking. He stayed in this position and, as I naturally would do if I were following another hunter, I went into a crouch as well.
As we remained motionless I both watched Joe and listened to the night. A hunter when he is listening for a sound (looking for a sound) will cock his head. He will use his ears like radar and turn them about in an attempt to pick up any sound, no matter how small.
Joe was doing this now. His body was still but his neck was stretched out and his head was turning right to left and back. I guess I must have been doing the same. It was natural to try to see what might be happening in the woods by listening for sounds. It was absolutely quiet. No wind in the trees. No sounds of nocturnal creatures. It was quiet. Almost too quiet.
Then I heard a very loud, distinctive “click” to our left. It was a combination of someone snapping their fingers and clicking their tongue. But it was more too. I couldn’t place the sound. My mind raced in search of identification for what I had heard. It wasn’t a branch snapping. It wasn’t a sound that an animal I knew made and it wasn’t something I’d heard people make.
The hair on my neck went up. I felt in my pocket for my folding, hunting knife. What I had heard was made by something. It was not a sound of the woods. It was not a sound I had ever encountered. I was feeling the adrenaline come into my system. I felt as though I had tracked a deer and was ready for the shot. I felt comfortable/ natural yet I was also scared shitless. It dawned on me that Joe had seen/ heard something and brought me this way. He had scoped the land out very well before he started walking. Perhaps he knew something I didn’t. Perhaps he was planning some/ another type of test for me. My imagination ran wild.
And all the time I sat motionless listening to the night. It dawned on me that Joe may be a ventriloquist of sorts and had “thrown” a sound out and was trying to scare me. I’d had an uncle who could do this. He’d say he could hear fish talking and made a gurgling type of sound which he could “throw”. As kids this impressed us greatly.
The thought of my favorite uncle calmed me. I sat still and waited. My training as a hunter had made this motionlessness easy. I relaxed and waited for Joe. I listened to the night and watched Joe do the same.
I heard two more clicks but the sound appeared to have moved away and a bit ahead of us. I was certain it was something Joe was doing. I was looking forward to asking him to teach me to make the same sound. We had been waiting and listening for about ten minutes when Joe motioned to me with his hand to come closer. I silently slid forward until my knee was against his. I was still in a crouched position and my head was next to his.
I realized then how small this man was. It hadn’t dawned on me before but Joe was a real little guy. I wasn’t tall but a carried my 200 pounds in a broad, (I thought well built) sort of farmer way. I must have been almost twice his size. He couldn’t have weighed more than 125 pounds.
He motioned with his hand and made me understand that something was moving away from us. He was being very serious. (I almost giggled) The thought that he’d have me believe that there was something I did not know about in my back yard! I grinned at him and shook my head in understanding. His face became very stern and he looked hard into my face. He made me understand by this communication that we were not playing. He was (WAS) serious.
I was enough of a hunter to now when a guy is serious and Joe was not horsing around. He stared hard into my face and my grin faded. He waited until I acknowledged his seriousness. He motioned that we should stay put and raised a finger to indicate a minute. I relaxed into my crouch and waited. Our bodies were pressed together and I could feel Joe’s body become as relaxed as mine.
I marveled at this because I knew the older you got the harder it was to do these things. My teachers had all aged. I had watched as they all had gotten less and less able to crouch or lay silent. It was a bit damp out and I knew many a hunting teacher who would be stiff as a board after a couple minutes in the crouch. Joe appeared to not mind as we silently listened to the darkness around us.
I noticed at this time that it must have been later in the night than I had assumed. I felt that the dampness in the air was thicker and I watched as a light fog or mist grew over the small valley. It wasn’t uncommon for a misty type of fog to rise out of the small water beds in early morning. The mist I saw made me think we were only an hour or so from sunrise.
Joe tapped my knee and rose to a half standing position. He motioned for me to follow him in the direction of the sound we had heard and moved off in a classic “stalkers” pose. He raised his knees high as he walked and placed each step firmly down before he shifted his weight from the reverse foot. He was bent a bit at the waist and still carried his elbows high behind his back.
Within a couple steps we were at the edge of the woods. Joe moved flawlessly into the undergrowth and straight onto one of the small game trails that would have been impossible for most people to find. I followed behind using what I called my “sideways step”. There was not a noise to be heard. I thought again that it was almost too quiet.
We followed the game trail down hill towards the small stream. We were moving slowly but it appeared to take longer than was needed to reach the water. I wondered if Joe had taken a side trail and was skirting the water bed. But if we had been doing that we should have been moving on semi level ground. As it was we were moving down hill but had been moving for far too long.
Joe appeared to know where he was going. His step never faltered. He moved at an easy pace with a natural grace. I began wondering/ thinking about him again. Here is a guy who was by all outside evidence a full blown academic, geek. He dressed like it, talked like and admitted to having a Ph.D. But here he was taking a night walk in strange woods and doing it perfectly.
It was a strange woods, I thought. This was not the place I was familiar with. The trees were bigger. The wooded area behind my house was not an old growth wood. It was mostly young oak, and maple. These were old trees. I wasn’t sure what kind though. I couldn’t see the leaves and had the distinct feeling that I’d be surprised by what I saw if I could see. There was also more light than I would have expected. The fog was reasonably thick but not so thick as to obscure seeing too far off. I could easily see Joe 6 / 8 feet ahead of me. I could see the trail ahead of him. I could see the trees around us.
It all had an unearthly quality to it. I was sure Joe had taken a path I hadn’t been on before and had headed farther down into the small valley than I had ever ventured. I made a note to come out here and “map” the area more thoroughly.
Joe stopped abruptly and dropped down into the crouch. I followed his lead without needing to be told why. There had been a very load noise, something was moving, ahead and to our left. The hairs were up on my neck and I strained to feel, see, hear what was out there. The noise had been muffled by the fog but was clear enough and far, far too close for my liking. My senses told me the noise had come not 20 feet away and just a hair off the track we were on. I had the image of someone (something) setting up an ambush for us.
Joe slipped to my side and said, “I don’t have time to explain. Things are moving faster than I had anticipated. Hal was definitely right about you. I need you to cooperate and not say anything. Your life depends on this.”
I took no time to doubt Joe. The tone of his voice was that of an experienced leader telling me the way things were. And his tone told me they were not good. He was not dramatizing a situation nor did he appear to be acting. His eyes told me he was deadly serious. His eyes told me he knew what was happening but needed my cooperation, without explanation, to deal with the situation. I gave him a short nod of agreement and gestured for him to carry on.
He stood up turned his back to me and said” wrap your arms around my waist and hold as tight as you can. Do not let go. No matter what happens hold on for your life.”
I felt a sick feeling in the base of my stomach. I thought I might throw up and wanted to gag. “No matter what happens hang on.” Joe repeated and started moving his arms in what I earlier thoughts were exercises.
He swung his arms out in a wide arc, stamped his foot and brought both hands to his front. I felt his body tense as if he was gripping something heavy. His elbows were out and he began to pull on something I could not see. I felt a strong wind come up from behind. I tightened my grip around Joe’s waist and it felt as though my feet were off the ground. It felt as though we were being driven by the force of the wind. I wanted to brace my feet but I couldn’t. I wanted to figure out if I had anything under my feet but the wind made me feel as though I needed to put all my energy into hanging on.
Without having a sensation of falling down I realized I was lying on my side with Joe half on top of me. He was wiggling and grasping my wrists muttering, “let go, it’s ok, you can let go…” I was confused and gave a stronger squeeze when he grappled with my wrists. He groaned a bit and said in a clear voice, “Enough, Michael. You can let go now.”
His voice was deafening after the silence we had been through. I obeyed his order and let go. I must have been in shock because after Joe stood up and looked at me he started laughing uncontrollably. He made his face into a mask of fright and confusion. He opened his eyes wide and made his mouth into a little circle. He was pantomiming my face, I knew, and started laughing as well. He looked so comical and I knew I must have looked like some sort of bumpkin who’d just got off the rolly-coaster.
I was lying on the ground near what I thought was the small stream we were heading for. I had an image that a freak tornado had dropped down and tossed us to one side. I had been baling hay one day when a tornado dropped down into the field we were working. It turned the wagon over and I was thrown (or flown) about 30 feet. I was certain that this is what must have happened.
As I slowed my laughter I looked around. We were in a small river bottom but not the one I knew. The banks of this bed were a good 12 to 15 feet high. A very small amount of water flowed through the bed. The bed its self was dry sand and pebbles.
I must have been frantically looking around because Joe said, “Relax. You are not where you think you are.” Then he added, “by jesus you’re a strong one.” As he said this he was massaging his ribs where I had held on to him. “You are not where you think you are.” He repeated. “ I can take a bit of time and explain things to you but first I want you to climb a tree and have a look around.”
I was going to ask him to explain first but as I opened my mouth he said, “It is important that you have a look around. It will make my explanation easier if you do it first.” I looked around to choose a tree to climb and found a type of pine tree I was not familiar with. It grew straight and tall and had decent sized branches coming out at even spacing. I had an idea it was a Norfolk or a Sitka but was not sure.
All the trees appeared to be of similar size. It didn’t look as though it would make a difference which tree I climbed so I grabbed the lowest branch of the one nearest to me and started up. The climb was easy and I was amazed on how tall the tree was. I concentrated on climbing and must have gone 50 or 60 feet when I decided to have a look around.
I naturally attempted to find a land mark and I looked to what I thought was the north to spot our small white house. What lay before me took my breath away. The landscape around me was not a place I had been before. Nothing was recognizable. There were no corn fields or farms. I appeared to be a fair sized wooded area. The woods ran as far as the eye could see to what I assumed was the North and untilled rolling hills were visible to the distant south.
It dawned on me that I could see. It should have been dark. Although there was no moon out and it was definitely too early for morning I was able to see clearly. The light had a quality of a very overcast day but a bit darker. The light did not appear to come from the sky as I was use to it. I was puzzling this over when Joe called to me. I wanted to keep looking, to take it all in and figure it all out but Joe was insistent that I come down.
When I reached the ground I must have spit out a rapid fire steam of words. Joe had some trouble getting me to listen to him. “ As I said you are not where you think you are.” He began. “ You and I left the house and walked to a place you thought you knew. Yet in that short period of time, the time it took us to walk through the corn field, we allowed the Spirit, the natural energy of life, to show us something different. To take us to a different place.”
I let lose with another barrage of words that must have been strongly accented with questions of how and why. Joe raised his hands as if to protect himself from my verbiage. “ It is difficult to explain how or why adequately to an uninitiated mind.” He explained. “ Your western, merchant mind-set always demands logical, tangible handles for what occurs around us. I have no answers that will satisfy your logical mind. I can answer the why by saying that the circumstances were right for the spirit to grant us free passage to one of the infinite number of worlds which exist within and without what we call our world.”
To this I began another attempt to voice a hundred questions and a hundred statements at once. “Please allow me to continue.” He said with a slight tap on my shoulder. “ Our time in this place is limited and you will not understand much once we have left here. It is important that I tell you as much as I can… or as much as I dare in a very short period of time.”
“These other worlds I mention are not worlds so much as they are realms of perception. I will discuss this later with you. But tonight I saw the spirit was strong in you. I challenged you and you passed the challenges with flair. When you asked me what was next I decided to see if the spirit had a lesson for either of us. Sometimes the spirit offers small bits of knowledge through experiences. These experiences are lessons. I took you to the South West. The direction of the setting sun. This is my personal direction. You thought you were going somewhere familiar. I was not sure where we were going. I only knew that the South West is good for me.
After walking a short distance I felt the presence of a being which is part of the spirit. The being was the sounds we heard. It all happened much more quickly than I had imagined possible. The being we encountered is as real as you or I yet is an energetic being. It exists in other worlds or realms. In the right situations these beings can be of great help to us. We can learn from them and gain much needed energy from them. At times you can actually establish alliances with these beings. Yet at other times these beings prey on us. They want / need our energy. And in the wrong situation they can consume your energy.”
I started to say something and Joe quickly said, “Yes, if the being were to consume your energy you would / could die. It takes an amazing amount of awareness and personal strength to confront one of these beings and not be destroyed. At times they toy with people who stumble onto them. Like a cat would toy with a mouse. They will often build a desire for a particular person and spend long periods of time, even years, pursuing that person. At other times they take a liking to people and decide to follow them into our world and remain friendly to them. No matter what the situation; these beings are extremely dangerous and scare the shit out of me. I rarely ever encounter these beings and never actively seek them out. I can only assume that this one tonight was looking for you.”
This unnerved me. Once again Joe stopped me from speaking and said, “ I am uncertain if the being was dangerous or not. As I said they scare me so I decided to get out of there quickly. I used the energy of the moment to transport us from one world to another. I had you hold on tight so you would not be left behind. I opened a door, or more appropriately, an eye from one world to another. You obviously have an amazing amount of energy. It is rare that people can come into these worlds and even rarer to be able to sustain awareness here. This is why I sent you up the tree. If you could see nothing your awareness would be diminished quickly. As it is you have enough awareness to view the world around you, enough energy to sustain this for a period of time.”
All that Joe said sent me into a whirl of confusion and questions. Joe must have seen this all on my face and said, “ Take your time and ask me one question at a time. I will do my best to answer you. Be precise and accurate. It is better for us to talk of these matters here. It will mean more to you in the long run.”
As he said this Joe took me by the arm and got me to sit on the ground by the small stream. I must have been hopping around and gesticulating furiously because he said, “Be calm. Slow down and think of what you want to say. There is much here to learn but we both must be articulate and, as I said, accurate.”
I looked around me. I picked up a stone from the ground and felt its roughness. It was a river stone. It did not look different from other stones I had touched. Yet Joe said we were in another world. “Where is this world?” finally rolled out of my mouth.
“There is no “where” in our universe.” He said. “Mankind has created a “where” by conditioning our kind to believe that ours is the only realm of existence. This world is the same place as our world. It is the same place you travel to in your dreams. It is the same place you lived as a child when your energy allowed travel. You now think that it was your imagination that allowed you to travel as a child but in reality you were visiting other worlds.”
“So you are telling me that we have, together, traveled off into a dream?”
“In so many words, yes. If it makes you feel better to say it that way, fine. But it is much more than a dream. This world is real. Your dreams could become real if you gave them validity, importance and concentrated on being aware during your dream states. But instead our society conditions its members to believe that dreams are less than real.”
“How long can I stay here?” I asked.
“You can stay here as long as you can sustain the awareness of this place.” He answered. “ It takes energy to sustain awareness. We, again, have been conditioned to focus all of our energy, all of our awareness on what we call “our world”. This takes all the energy most people have. Coping with our world is frightfully taxing. It is rare for a person to have the energy to sustain awareness outside of our world for very long.”
“But you said that children traveled between worlds and that we all traveled in dreams.”
“Yes, but is the travelling controlled and conscious?” He countered. “ I believe that children know or are conscious of what they are doing. They can sustain awareness much longer than most adults ever imagine. They do this naturally without any thought of what they are doing. But society demands that we pay attention to what we are doing and where we are. We are trained from a young age to focus our energy on our world and thus lose the ability to move between the multitude of worlds which is our natural reality.”
“So I can stay here as long as I am aware of where I am?”
“ And this is all dependent on you being able to stay focused on this world.”
I mulled all this over for a while then asked, “How did you move us from one world to another?”
“I simply knew where I wanted to go.” He answered. “This is my place. This is where I go for refuge or energy. As I said before we allowed the spirit to give us a ride away from where we were.”
“That does not answer my question.” I said.
Joe laughed and grinned like a kid. “You sound so much like someone I knew a long time ago. You want a blue print not an answer.”
He looked closely at me. I was sitting on the ground mindlessly tossing a pebble from one hand to the other. I had constantly been looking around me as we spoke. I was working at cataloging all I saw while at the same time looking for something familiar. He quickly reached out and snatched the pebble as it was between hands. This startled me and I looked up at him. He tossed the pebble back to me and carried on.
“Very well then.” He said with a sigh. “ You want me to tell you “how” I got us here. You want me describe the procedures. You want me to give you a life time of knowledge and take you back to being a child all with a tap on the shoulder. I can not do this. All I can do is introduce you to possibilities. All I can tell you is that I was once like you. Very much like you but not so strong. I too wanted answers and definitions. Instead I was shown a couple possibilities and taught how to build on what I have learned. I have been taught how to build my awareness. I have been shown methods for remembering my dreams. Remembering them to a point where you can return to where you had been. And once there how to be aware and sustain your awareness.”
“ I have spent many, many years working at this. I have devoted my life to learning all that I can and you want me to give you a fucking instruction manual?”
He said this last bit with quite an amount of bitterness. I was afraid I had made him angry and said, “I did not mean to offend you. I thought my question as valid.”
“Oh, yes,” He said. “Your question is valid but I have no valid answer. I only know what is real. I know that I was taught to store my energy up. To save my personal power in order to sustain my awareness of other energetic worlds. I only know what I have been taught and what I have experienced. I can not give you an instruction manual. I can only share with you my experiences.”
Joe appeared to have gotten melancholy. I was still afraid I had made him angry. I did not want this to happen. I wanted to keep him talking. I felt as though he had some great secret he was about to reveal to me. I wanted to know his secret more than anything.
“ Who taught you these things, Joe?” I asked.
This brought a smile to his face. “There is a man. This man is a member of a group of people. This group of people is from a long line of practitioners of a kind of science. The word science is not quite right but to call it a religion demeans it and to call it a life style does not do it justice. I like to think of what they taught me as a science because it makes me feel better.”
He was silent for a while and I was not sure if he had completed his answer when he continued. “A number of years ago I met what I thought was a strange, even eccentric, man. This man took a liking to me and sought my company. He taught me to hunt and appreciate the outdoors. I had wonderful times and adventures with him. We would travel into the wilderness and live for days and weeks at a time. I was witness to many amazing things that I could not explain. I often attempted to repress experiences I had in his company. Eventually he explained to me that he was a practitioner of a form of (for lack of a better word) knowledge or magic.
“This man explained to me that the “magic” he practiced was a natural thing which people of a long ago time knew and understood. A very long time ago, he told me, the people were different from you and I of today. They were different in that their social development had taken them to a point where they were aware of the world you and I call normal reality but also aware of an additional reality or realities. They understood a message a tree blowing in the wind might be giving or could hear a wild animal telling them something. They knew that they could move from one perceptible reality to another. They could, in fact, lead divergent lives or different existences in a multitude of different realities. I was told of practitioners who even managed to defy death. They achieved this by developing and perfecting their energetic storage capacity. The more energy you have and have access to, the more you can attain. Energy is the key.”
“As a social anthropologist I was amazed by this theory and sought this man out to hear more. His words contradicted everything I had learned in my studies. We have a very rigid view of how mankind developed from a semi bipedal creature into the upright beast with a big brain we know today. What the old man taught me was in direct contradiction of the professional dogma of the day. I argued this and was, in way of an explanation, taken on a journey through perception. A journey not unlike the one you and I have taken tonight.”
“The old man believed that there were certain members of our society that had not had the innate or genetic knowledge of these natural abilities bred or conditioned out of them. He said there were people who were naturally close to the spirit. He saw the world as a whole entity. Everything is a part of what he called the spirit. By being closer to, knowing more of the spirit, an individual had greater chances / abilities within the spirit. He said that there had been a time when mankind was of the spirit. But something cataclysmic must have happened to force mankind as a whole to change their perception of their world and to focus it here, in the reality you and I call our world.”
“The old man took me into the wilderness thousands of times. His aim was to force me to be aware of my surroundings in a way similar to that of a wild animal. I learned to hunt my sustenance as well as learned that there are creatures that would, if given the chance, feed on me. I learned that the reality we live in is, by nature, a predatory world. I also learned that allowing your natural instincts to come alive opened new doors of perception.”
As I listened to Joe I realized that much of what he was saying made sense to me. It was as though I already knew or understood what was, in many ways, a new concept. I voiced this thought to Joe. I mentioned that what he was “teaching” me was something I innately understood.
“That’s just it.” Joe said. “The spirit is a natural part of us all. As I have said the spirit is strong in you. What I am explaining is a natural phenomenon that all beings have the ability to experience and understand. Though some find it harder than others”
To me this made a lot of sense. I had always had the feeling that I knew more or understood more than the average person. I had always thought that this was a by product of being an outdoorsman. I thought it was all part and parcel of the common sense one learned from nature.
I must have yawned. Joe gave me a grave, very thorough once over with his eyes. I tried to playfully mock him by imitating his look but he appeared angry. “This is no time to play.” He snapped. “We are running out of time and I must finish as much as I can. It would serve us both if you would gather your energy up and focus it at the task ahead of us.”
With this said he positively sprung up from the ground. He gestured for me to stand and began an exercise of sorts. He raised his arms above his head and appeared to reach for the sky. He then rotated his arms in opposing directions. One arm fell forward and the other arm fell backward. He slowly cartwheeled his arms in this opposing manner. As he did this he audibly exhaled and inhaled.
Joe had motioned for me to follow his movements and I thus (very awkwardly) spun my arms as he was doing. The movement was difficult and felt very strange but gave a very pleasing sensation of stretching the body.
After moving the arms in this manner he hunched his body forward and looked as though he was holding a small ball in his hands. He appeared to be trying to compress this ball with all his strength. His muscles in his neck were bulging and he was breathing heavily as if he was actually holding and compressing something dense. After a half dozen “squeezes” of the “ball” he appeared to have crushed it with on final, mighty squeeze. Upon doing this he exhaled and rubbed his hands on his stomach.
I must have had a funny look on my face because he smiled and said, “ I have just tapped into the stored energy which is always around us. Some people have more energy around them than others and some are more adept at accessing the energy. I would like you to do the same, now.”
With this said he put his hands to my shoulders, made me stand straight and directed me to hold my hands above my head. He then held my arms and moved one hand forward and the other backward. As he did this he deeply inhaled for the time it took my arms to make a complete circle. I continued my cartwheeling movement but exhaled on the next rotation. And thus it was; rotating the arms, breathing in, breathing out. After ten revolutions with the right arm moving forward and the left arm moving backward Joe directed me to reverse my direction for the same number of revolutions.
Upon completing a ten count for each side He stopped my arms above my head, directed me to make my hands into scoops and to bring my arms down in an arc from the top going directly out from the shoulders. This movement ended with my scoop like hands facing each other in front of my stomach.
As I did this I definitely felt a surge of energy. Joe directed me to hold the energy I had “scooped” with my hands and to begin compressing it. I followed his motions and compressed the invisible ball of energy I held. When I felt the energy ball get heavy I crushed it with a final squeeze and rubbed the accumulated energy on my vital organs.
I must have had a huge smile on my face when I finished because he smiled back and said, “ It really works, eh?” I must have begun one of my unintelligible outbursts because he held his hand up and calmly said “I have just showed how to stir up, grasp and disperse energy for your own use.”
Joe’s words were like a gunshot after the silence. I must have jumped because he said, “You are getting weak and we do not have much more time.” My look must have been one of disappointment and he continued, “ You appear to think this is a game and want to have more fun, to enjoy this even longer. I tell you now the experience you have had tonight took me years to attain. I am jealous of you and even more jealous of what you will experience in the near future.”
With this said Joe took me, as if a child, by the hand and walked me to the base of the tree I had climbed. He helped me sit with my back to the tree. “I need you now to draw energy from this tree. It likes you and will help if you open yourself. It will protect you for the rest of the time you stay here.”
I felt a childish fear and was going to ask why he was leaving me but before I could open my mouth he spoke. “Your energetic attention is fading. Soon you will see only the energy that belongs to this place. I will be here and will be able to maintain my awareness of you but you will lose the ability to be aware of me. Do not be frightened. You have come too far to run screaming back to the dogma you wish to rebel against.”
This last was said quite harshly. I was startled by it but Joe’s eyes were the eyes of a very serious hunter again. I listened and obeyed without response.
“I need to use the tree to sustain you here as long as possible. Take the rock that found you…” I was still holding the pebble I had picked up. “…and allow it to give you energy by giving it your attention.”
He tilted my head down so I could stare into my hands and helped me straighten my back against the tree’s trunk. I think I sat in this way for a long time. I, at one point, think I remember Joe saying more but I also remember other voices. The tree? The pebble? I eventually felt a sleep/ dream like sensation but I was confused because I was still looking at the pebble in my hands as I dreamed. The dream was very much like hearing a story. It was almost as though I was telling the story. Or having a conversation with an unknown listener….
… coming from a past life, a past time, I do remember… a combined sound/ sensation or vibration. It is/ was a “wooosh” which flooded over me. It kept me warm. woosh. It fed me. woosh. It calmed my fears and made me laugh. woosh. It was continuous. wooooshhh. Never ending. woooshh. It lasted my entire life. woooshh. I did nothing but exist. woosh. I was alive. woosh. Thought and felt. woosh. Had emotions and … There was nothing demanded of me. woooshh. No worship or praise. woosh. No virginal offering or rules to obey. woosh. I was there for the spirit. woosh. The spirit was there for me. woosh. Until my death the spirit spoke to me incessantly. woooshh. Not once in a while or even once a day but continuously. wooooosshhhh. I was one with the spirit. woosh. we were inseparable. woosh. We were no different from each other. woosh. Yet I was I and the spirit… well, that’s not the way it is any more. SILENCE. Since my death the spirit has been around. SILENCE. I could feel and hear the spirit but on the “fringe” . SILENCE. The oneness is gone. SILENCE.
Why has the spirit stopped being part of me? Why is there no wooosh but only silence? Silence which I am afraid of. Silence which I fill with my own gibbering, inane chatter. Silence which would drive me mad so I turn up the volume on my internal dialogue. I play the songs from the radio. I relive the soap opera of my own life. Rewinding the tape to various scenes. Replaying and reliving. Clogging the pipes of my mental and emotional sewer system.
And I still can’t figure out why the spirit is silent.
My life had been a good one. I did not know the end was near. I spent my days in ignorant bliss to the imminent end. There were signs. The moments of pain. The feeling of uncomfortableness and disquiet. But I allowed this to be washed away by the spirit.
The spirit was there always. A part of me and I apart of it.
I am still a bit disgruntled with the spirit. After a life time of communion one would have thought that some inkling of presentiment may have been due me. Some fore notice, some tribute, in the form of a warning, for old times sake. Yet it was not. The spirit would calm my disquiet, ease the moments of pain and anxiety. I was secure, fulfilled and happy.
I would not (perhaps) have minded if the woosh simply ended. If the blankness of death was just that; blankness. But the horror, the pain, the trauma of dying was all but too much to bear.
The woosh was there. The pains were becoming more frequent. My body was being squeezed. Contracted as if my whole physical being were to be extruded through a small aperture. The spirit was there. Through the terrifying pain. The compressing of my being. The confusion and agony.
Then the pains came incessantly. I was blinded by the torment. So over powered by it all that I could hear not the spirit. The woosh was gone. Replaced but utter terror. Sheer pain and a bottomless sense of loss.
I knew then I was dying (if not dead). I began to exclaim my disappointment to the spirit. Where was it when I was in the most pain? Where was it when I was lost, alone and totally terrified? Where was it when I needed it most?
The sense of loss became rage. I had devoted my entire life to the spirit. I was one with it and it with me. I had known nothing else but the comfort and companionship of the spirit. I had given my entire essence to the spirit and I had thought (obviously in error) that the spirit and I would share all and everything.
My rage boiled over as the pain became unbearable. I was (WAS!) being squeezed through a small aperture. All was dark. The normal warm glow of my existence was transformed into an insane kaleidoscope of darkness, light and pain. I am certain the darkness was absolute. There could have been no light in the tunnel toward death in which I was captive. The light must have been the sporadic impulses in my own being as the pain crushed me.
I could no longer breath. My being cried for the life bearing fluids I had known. The simple solution which had been me. Which had been the spirit.
Farther into the tunnel of death I was being pulled. No! I was being pushed! Pushed away from the spirit. By the spirit! As if the spirit no longer cared. No longer wanted to be a part of me. I was being pushed away from my life, my only knowing.
My dark rage turned to black fear. I could conceive being angry with one that cared for me and allowed me to be taken away. I could understand being lost and forlorn over a separation. To be torn from that which I had know. To be over powered and pried apart from my comfort and existence. I could understand. I could summon up the anger for / toward the spirit for allowing it to happen. But to realize that I was not being taken away from, but rather was being driven away; divorced from my world by the only comfort in that world I had know.
It was worse than the most horrendous exile. To realize that all that you loved and had lived for was forcibly sending you away. Away to death.
All hope escaped me. All anger instantly died and was replaced by the blackest fear and most profound confusion imaginable. I prayed to the spirit. I prayed for it to end my misery. To simply extinguish the light of life. I petitioned the spirit as a wretch begs, not for its life, but for a painless death. End the suffering. Allow me to pass away without the torment and the pain.
Yet the spirit was silent. I know (KNOW) that the spirit heard me. How could it not? Yet I also knew that the spirit was perversely enjoying my agony.
My pain escalated into anger once again. “You sonofabitch”. “You chickenshitmotherfucker.” I’ll show you! After all I’d done for you. All those moments of closeness and comfort. I’ll show you that I am not a weak sniveling asshole. Not like you. You who would send me away without warning and without apparent reason. You who would take delight in my begging and pain. I’ll show you. I’m not going to die crying. And I won’t go out begging. No! not I! I’ll go out with a fight. I’ll show you what I’m made of. There’s still one good one left in me. And if you’re man enough to show your lousy self I’ll take your sanctimonious woosh and stick it so far up your asshole you’ll need a mile of toilet paper to ever woosh again.
Thus I began my struggle in the tunnel of death. I was alone in the less than darkness. I kicked and pushed with all my might. I would have howled at the top of my lungs but there was nothing to breathe. No life sustaining fluids. Yet I continued to fight. I imagined that my struggles would bring the end to me quicker. I took comfort in the thought that if I could expedite my demise I would rob that bastard of some of its delight.
I knew I was close to my end. The lack of breathable sustenance was taking its toll. I could barely offer a token kick to the already (in my mind) bloodied back side of the spirit. I was about to say “eatshitmothafucker” one last time when I saw the light.
It was as if the tunnel of death had opened. Like a side ways eye. At first it was only a crack. Then it opened more. The push became stronger. I felt as though I was near to defeating the spirit and it had summoned up its last reserves to get rid of me. To thrust me away with finality.
The pain was more than I could bear. I had thought it could not get worse. I had thought that I was all but at my end and that pain had lost its ability to torment me. Yet the final thrust! The final thrust of the spirit to expel me from its existence was more than all the pain before combined.
The light became blinding. I felt my being be grappled and squeezed. My physical self was being compressed. I was half in the tunnel of death and half out into the world of the unknown. I was long past the capability of breathing. And as I was being pushed by the spirit and pulled by the world of the unknown the pain became so great I finally and thankfully lost contact with myself and the world of the spirit.
…it is hard to look back at that which you know but do not remember. It is the same with all of us. It is the same but different….
Some of us remember quicker than others. Some of us never remember or, if they do, they often hide their memories behind the dark inner doors of the self. But to remember then hide is not remembering at all.
To remember takes a conscious ability to remember then to inspect. It is not enough to remember our previous existence but we must come to terms with it. We must examine it closely. Relive the experience and come to some form of understanding of it all.
In this life after birth I am one of those who was slow to remember. And after I had actually remembered I realized that I was one of those who did remember then forget or hid.
I remember…in 1976 I was eighteen seasons into this life after death. My experiences were broad and plentiful. I had come to terms with portions of my life and enjoyed life as a bovine enjoys a gourmet meal with Krugg champagne. I was basically a surly, mean tempered youth. Reasonably hard working but possibly too smart for my own good. I hated being told (or even asked politely) what to do. I had a fight in me for anything, anywhere, anytime. I was not a nice being.
My remembering was facilitated by the induction of a chemical substance which did away with the veneer of being. The substance took me away from my self. From the then and there and allowed myself to view me.
I vividly remember sitting in a room with a group of peers. The room was in a small farmhouse. It was late in the day. The group I was with had been enjoying life and had induced the chemical substance in an attempt to enhance our enjoyment. There was some rhythmic audio vibrations being reproduced, again to enhance our enjoyment. The people I was with were in individual states of quiet.
In an instant I was no longer sitting with the group in the room. I was viewing the room, the group, from an elevated position. As though from above the group yet in the same room. I experienced no physical sensation. No awareness of moving or being moved. I simply was no longer sitting with the group in the room but was above the group, viewing the entire room.
I had no actual thought or emotions as I viewed the group. Of course I could see myself sitting there. I could hear the audio vibrations being reproduced. I could understand a conversation two of the group were having. But none of this meant anything. It all simply was.
I “returned” to my physical being as quickly and simply as I had left. One moment I was viewing the group from above the next I was seated as I was and simply opened my eyes as if being awakened.
At that moment I felt the flood of memories. I remembered my death. I remembered the constant calling of the spirit in my infancy in death. I remembered the companionship of the spirit which had not been lost or severed with death. I knew unequivocally the pushing away that the spirit had done was not out of meanness or anger or hatred but out of necessity. I knew that my eighteen years of anger and aggression (supposedly for no reason or for some unknown reason) had been my own impotent response to the loss I had felt. I knew that the memories I had remembered had been buried deep within myself out of spite and anger. I knew that it was I and not the spirit which had caused a (the) separation, the divorce. And I knew that the spirit had always been with me. With me as I refused to listen. Refused to hear the silent comfort.
I sat in the room, in the small farm house with the group of people and felt more emotion well up in me than I could endure. The spirit was there. Had always been there.
The tears began to flow down my face. I stumbled out of the room. All my memories intact. Finally a semblance of a whole being.
I left the room in the house and went outside. The small house was surrounded on three sides by corn fields. The house was literally a small island in a sea of corn. The corn was still youthful, about a quarter of its way to maturity. I always called this stage “knee high”.
The youthful, knee high corn spoke to me. As I knelt there under the moonless sky the corn greeted me and rejoiced in my memory. They exclaimed their appreciation for my achievement. They told me stories from my early youth. The types of stories that families tell. The stories which we all know and love. The stories which are pulled out and told for the delight and appreciation of all involved. They laughed and carried on as I cried and cried.
I am not sure now why I was crying. I know it was not for fear. My memories were intact. I know that I had been afraid for all my preceding years in my life after death. Afraid, alone and angry. Yet now I had no fears and was absolutely joyful. The spirit was there, with me. I was not alone. My family of the earth was sharing my remembering, were laughing and having fun. I was being called affectionate yet unkind names. The corn called me a fool and a dick head. Asked me why I had walked amongst them for so long but had refused to answer their calls. They likened me to a constipated old fool who, through the pain of being constipated, could think of nothing else but the act of expelling the bowels. An act which should be natural and unconscious.
No, I was not afraid. I had no anger what so ever. Yet I cried like a baby. And the more I cried the more the corn laughed. I can only assume the tears were of sheer joy. Were from an overwhelming feeling of completeness or wholeness. And as I cried I smiled and laughed as well. One had to laugh as the family of the earth carried on so.
The corn told stories of when, less than four years into this life after death, I was taken with collecting the big, squat, long eared bull snakes which love to lay in the cool shade of young corn. Of how I would play with the snakes then intentionally hang them on my mother’s clothes line. Of how my (even then rather fat) mother would go into rages of fear and panic at the sight of the snakes. Of her screaming at me to “get that damn snake of the damned clothes line right now”. Of how she would threaten me with bodily harm and eventual slow, painful dismemberment if I did not cooperate. And of how I would stand near enough to the snake to ensure her distance while I took delight and laughed at the whole situation.
We laughed at that and at the subsequent whooping which came after every such escapade. Of how I would run, after the whooping, sore and crying into the corn fields. Into the consoling arms of the family of the earth.
As we laughed my tears slowly died. The moist grass offered me a comfortable bed. Arranged itself to form a pillow and a blanket. The ferns, in their very soft tones, took this quiet moment, while I was lying down, to tell of my constant hiding in their protective arms. Of how, as a very small being, I would seek them out. Of the adventures of imagination we had shared and enjoyed. Even the worms in the loam bid their greetings and spoke of the warm evenings of being hunted by grubby fingers and of the subsequent fish they were used to lure into the frying pan. Of the delight they shared when a fish was taken ashore, even at the expense of their immediate selves.
I laid on my back and laughed and storied with the family of the earth. I listened to the stars play their vibratory songs. Heard the far off voices of distant suns.
I have no idea what chronological time it was when I left the house and went out to be greeted by the family of the earth. As mentioned before it was late in the day. The sun had been gone for several hours. All I know is that I laid there with my family remembering memories until the new day was born.
The time I spent talking with that corn field was an infinity. It was unmeasurable by the time concept of modern man. It was measured only by the emotion and drama of life at the time.
At any point in this a modern time piece could have been consulted and a modern day, definitive answer to “how long I was out there” could have been received. Yet the time was more, much more than any chronometer of man could measure.
I woke with the bright summer sun in my eyes. I was lying on the grass in front of the farm house. I jumped to a crouched position and looked around. I expected to find Joe watching me with his electric eyes. No one was near. I sat on the dew damp grass. and took stock of my surroundings:
It was shortly after dawn. I could not have said what day of the week it was. I remembered leaving the house with Joe. I remember walking into the woods. It was all so vivid. I remember Joe having me sit by the tree and remember going into a strange dream like state.
I looked around confused and disoriented. I wanted someone or something to be angry at. I instinctively made my right hand into a tight fist and felt something in my hand.
It was a pebble the likes of which I had never seen before.
The Native Iowan 
[…] I contend that I can remember “the womb”. I have written about this before: https://nativeiowan.com/2009/04/26/a-meaningful-meeting/ […]
By: 2023 v8.1st Sunday of August | The Native Iowan on August 6, 2023
at 12:41 am