Posted by: nativeiowan | May 3, 2009

The Terrible Solomons (by Jack London)

There is no gainsaying that the Solomons are a hard-bitten bunch of islands. On the other hand, there are worse places in the world. But to the new chum who has no constitutional understanding of men and life in the rough, the Solomons may indeed prove terrible.

It is true that fever and dysentery are perpetually on the walk-about, that loathsome skin diseases abound, that the air is saturated with a poison that bites into every pore, cut, or abrasion and plants malignant ulcers, and that many strong men who escape dying there return as wrecks to their own countries. It is also true that the natives of the Solomons are a wild lot, with a hearty appetite for human flesh and a fad for collecting human heads. Their highest instinct of sportsmanship is to catch a man with his back turned and to smite him a cunning blow with a tomahawk that severs the spinal column at the base of the brain. It is equally true that on some islands, such as Malaita, the profit and loss account of social intercourse is calculated in homicides. Heads are a medium of exchange, and white heads are extremely valuable. Very often a dozen villages make a jack-pot, which they fatten moon by moon, against the time when some brave warrior presents a white man’s head, fresh and gory, and claims the pot.

All the foregoing is quite true, and yet there are white men who have lived in the Solomons a score of years and who feel homesick when they go away from them. A man needs only to be careful– and lucky–to live a long time in the Solomons; but he must also be of the right sort. He must have the hallmark of the inevitable white man stamped upon his soul. He must be inevitable. He must have a certain grand carelessness of odds, a certain colossal self-satisfaction, and a racial egotism that convinces him that one white is better than a thousand niggers every day in the week, and that on Sunday he is able to clean out two thousand niggers. For such are the things that have made the white man inevitable. Oh, and one other thing–the white man who wishes to be inevitable, must not merely despise the lesser breeds and think a lot of himself; he must also fail to be too long on imagination. He must not understand too well the instincts, customs, and mental processes of the blacks, the yellows, and the browns; for it is not in such fashion that the white race has tramped its royal road around the world.

Bertie Arkwright was not inevitable. He was too sensitive, too finely strung, and he possessed too much imagination. The world was too much with him. He projected himself too quiveringly into his environment. Therefore, the last place in the world for him to come was the Solomons. He did not come, expecting to stay. A five weeks’ stop-over between steamers, he decided, would satisfy the call of the primitive he felt thrumming the strings of his being. At least, so he told the lady tourists on the Makembo, though in different terms; and they worshipped him as a hero, for they were lady tourists and they would know only the safety of the steamer’s deck as she threaded her way through the Solomons.

There was another man on board, of whom the ladies took no notice. He was a little shriveled wisp of a man, with a withered skin the color of mahogany. His name on the passenger list does not matter, but his other name, Captain Malu, was a name for niggers to conjure with, and to scare naughty pickaninnies to righteousness from New Hanover to the New Hebrides. He had farmed savages and savagery, and from fever and hardship, the crack of Sniders and the lash of the overseers, had wrested five millions of money in the form of beche-de-mer, sandalwood, pearl-shell and turtle-shell, ivory nuts and copra, grasslands, trading stations, and plantations. Captain Malu’s little finger, which was broken, had more inevitableness in it than Bertie Arkwright’s whole carcass. But then, the lady tourists had nothing by which to judge save appearances, and Bertie certainly was a fine-looking man.

Bertie talked with Captain Malu in the smoking room, confiding to him his intention of seeing life red and bleeding in the Solomons. Captain Malu agreed that the intention was ambitious and honorable. It was not until several days later that he became interested in Bertie, when that young adventurer insistedon showing him an automatic 44-caliber pistol. Bertie explained the mechanism and demonstrated by slipping a loaded magazine up the hollow butt.

“It is so simple,” he said. He shot the outer barrel back along the inner one. “That loads it and cocks it, you see. And then all I have to do is pull the trigger, eight times, as fast as I can quiver my finger. See that safety clutch. That’s what I like about it. It is safe. It is positively fool-proof.” He slipped out the magazine. “You see how safe it is.”

As he held it in his hand, the muzzle came in line with Captain Malu’s stomach. Captain Malu’s blue eyes looked at it unswervingly.

“Would you mind pointing it in some other direction?” he asked.

“It’s perfectly safe,” Bertie assured him. “I withdrew the magazine. It’s not loaded now, you know.”

“A gun is always loaded.”

“But this one isn’t.”

“Turn it away just the same.”

Captain Malu’s voice was flat and metallic and low, but his eyes never left the muzzle until the line of it was drawn past him and away from him.

“I’ll bet a fiver it isn’t loaded,” Bertie proposed warmly.

The other shook his head.

“Then I’ll show you.”

Bertie started to put the muzzle to his own temple with the evident intention of pulling the trigger.

“Just a second,” Captain Malu said quietly, reaching out his hand. “Let me look at it.”

He pointed it seaward and pulled the trigger. A heavy explosion followed, instantaneous with the sharp click of the mechanism that flipped a hot and smoking cartridge sidewise along the deck.

Bertie’s jaw dropped in amazement.

“I slipped the barrel back once, didn’t I?” he explained. It was silly of me, I must say.”

He giggled flabbily, and sat down in a steamer chair. The blood had ebbed from his face, exposing dark circles under his eyes. His hands were trembling and unable to guide the shaking cigarette to his lips. The world was too much with him, and he saw himself with dripping brains prone upon the deck

“Really,” he said, “. . . really.”

“It’s a pretty weapon,” said Captain Malu, returning the automatic to him.

The Commissioner was on board the Makembo, returning from Sydney, and by his permission a stop was made at Ugi to land a missionary. And at Ugi lay the ketch Arla, Captain Hansen, skipper. Now the Arla was one of many vessels owned by Captain Malu, and it was at his suggestion and by his invitation that Bertie went aboard the Arla as guest for a four days’ recruiting cruise on the coast of Malaita. Thereafter the Arla would drop him at Reminge Plantation (also owned by Captain Malu), where Bertie could remain for a week, and then be sent over to Tulagi, the seat of government, where he would become the Commissioner’s guest. Captain Malu was responsible for two other suggestions, which given, he disappears from this narrative. One was to Captain Hansen, the other to Mr. Harriwell, manager of Reminge Plantation. Both suggestions were similar in tenor, namely, to give Mr. Bertram Arkwright an insight into the rawness and redness of life in the Solomons. Also, it is whispered that Captain Malu mentioned that a case of Scotch would be coincidental with any particularly gorgeous insight Mr. Arkwright might receive. . . . . . . . . . . . .

“Yes, Swartz always was too pig-headed. You see, he took four of his boat’s crew to Tulagi to be flogged–officially, you know–then started back with them in the whaleboat. It was pretty squally, and the boat capsized just outside. Swartz was the only one drowned. Of course, it was an accident.”

“Was it? Really?” Bertie asked, only half-interested, staring hard at the black man at the wheel.

Ugi had dropped astern, and the Arla was sliding along through a summer sea toward the wooded ranges of Malaita. The helmsman who so attracted Bertie’s eyes sported a ten penny nail, stuck skewerwise through his nose. About his neck was a string of pants buttons. Thrust through holes in his ears were a can opener, the broken handle of a toothbrush, a clay pipe, the brass wheel of an alarm clock, and several Winchester rifle cartridges.

On his chest, suspended from around his neck hung the half of a china plate. Some forty similarly appareled blacks lay about the deck, fifteen of which were boat’s crew, the remainder being fresh labor recruits.

“Of course it was an accident,” spoke up the Arla’s mate, Jacobs, a slender, dark-eyed man who looked more a professor than a sailor. “Johnny Bedip nearly had the same kind of accident. He was bringing back several from a flogging, when they capsized him. But he knew how to swim as well as they, and two of them were drowned. He used a boat stretcher and a revolver. Of course it was an accident.”

“Quite common, them accidents,” remarked the skipper. “You see that man at the wheel, Mr. Arkwright? He’s a man eater. Six months ago, he and the rest of the boat’s crew drowned the then captain of the Arla. They did it on deck, sir, right aft there by the mizzen-traveler.”

“The deck was in a shocking state,” said the mate.

“Do I understand–?” Bertie began.

“Yes, just that,” said Captain Hansen. “It was an accidental drowning.”

“But on deck–?”

“Just so. I don’t mind telling you, in confidence, of course, that they used an axe.”

“This present crew of yours?”

Captain Hansen nodded.

“The other skipper always was too careless,” explained the mate. He but just turned his back, when they let him have it.”

“We haven’t any show down here,” was the skipper’s complaint. “The government protects a nigger against a white every time. You can’t shoot first. You’ve got to give the nigger first shot, or else the government calls it murder and you go to Fiji. That’s why there’s so many drowning accidents.”

Dinner was called, and Bertie and the skipper went below, leaving the mate to watch on deck.

“Keep an eye out for that black devil, Auiki,” was the skipper’s parting caution. “I haven’t liked his looks for several days.”

“Right O,” said the mate.

Dinner was part way along, and the skipper was in the middle of his story of the cutting out of the Scottish Chiefs.

“Yes,” he was saying, “she was the finest vessel on the coast. But when she missed stays, and before ever she hit the reef, the canoes started for her. There were five white men, a crew of twenty Santa Cruz boys and Samoans, and only the supercargo escaped. Besides, there were sixty recruits. They were all kai-kai’d. Kai-kai?–oh, I beg your pardon. I mean they were eaten. Then there was the James Edwards, a dandy-rigged–”

But at that moment there was a sharp oath from the mate on deck and a chorus of savage cries. A revolver went off three times, and then was heard a loud splash. Captain Hansen had sprung up the companionway on the instant, and Bertie’s eyes had been fascinated by a glimpse of him drawing his revolver as he sprang.

Bertie went up more circumspectly, hesitating before he put his head above the companionway slide. But nothing happened. The mate was shaking with excitement, his revolver in his hand. Once he startled, and half-jumped around, as if danger threatened his back.

“One of the natives fell overboard,” he was saying, in a queer tense voice. “He couldn’t swim.”

“Who was it?” the skipper demanded.

“Auiki,” was the answer.

“But I say, you know, I heard shots,” Bertie said, in trembling eagerness, for he scented adventure, and adventure that was happily over with.

The mate whirled upon him, snarling:

“It”s a damned lie. There ain’t been a shot fired. The nigger fell overboard.”

Captain Hansen regarded Bertie with unblinking, lack-luster eyes.

“I–I thought–” Bertie was beginning.

“Shots?” said Captain Hansen, dreamily. “Shots? Did you hear any shots, Mr. Jacobs?”

“Not a shot,” replied Mr. Jacobs.

The skipper looked at his guest triumphantly, and said:

“Evidently an accident. Let us go down, Mr. Arkwright, and finish dinner.”

Bertie slept that night in the captain’s cabin, a tiny stateroom off the main cabin. The for’ard bulkhead was decorated with a stand of rifles. Over the bunk were three more rifles. Under the bunk was a big drawer, which, when he pulled it out, he found filled with ammunition, dynamite, and several boxes of detonators. He elected to take the settee on the opposite side. Lying conspicuously on the small table, was the Arla’s log. Bertie did not know that it had been especially prepared for the occasion by Captain Malu, and he read therein how on September 21, two boat’s crew had fallen overboard and been drowned. Bertie read between the lines and knew better. He read how the Arla’s whale boat had been bushwhacked at Su’u and had lost three men; of how the skipper discovered the cook stewing human flesh on the galley fire–flesh purchased by the boat’s crew ashore in Fui; of how an accidental discharge of dynamite, while signaling, had killed another boat’s crew; of night attacks; ports fled from between the dawns; attacks by bushmen in mangrove swamps and by fleets of salt-water men in the larger passages. One item that occurred with monotonous frequency was death by dysentery. He noticed with alarm that two white men had so died–guests, like himself, on the Arla.

“I say, you know,” Bertie said next day to Captain Hansen. “I’ve been glancing through your log.”

The skipper displayed quick vexation that the log had been left lying about.

“And all that dysentery, you know, that’s all rot, just like the accidental drownings,” Bertie continued. “What does dysentery really stand for?”

The skipper openly admired his guest’s acumen, stiffened himself to make indignant denial, then gracefully surrendered.

“You see, it’s like this, Mr. Arkwright. These islands have got a bad enough name as it is. It’s getting harder every day to sign on white men. Suppose a man is killed. The company has to pay through the nose for another man to take the job. But if the man merely dies of sickness, it’s all right. The new chums don’t mind disease. What they draw the line at is being murdered. I thought the skipper of the Arla had died of dysentery when I took his billet. Then it was too late. I’d signed the contract.”

“Besides,” said Mr. Jacobs, “there’s altogether too many accidental drownings anyway. It don’t look right. It’s the fault of the government. A white man hasn’t a chance to defend himself from the niggers.”

“Yes, look at the Princess and that Yankee mate,” the skipper took up the tale. “She carried five white men besides a government agent. The captain, the agent, and the supercargo were ashore in the two boats. They were killed to the last man. The mate and boson, with about fifteen of the crew–Samoans and Tongans–were on board. A crowd of niggers came off from shore. First thing the mate knew, the boson and the crew were killed in the first rush. The mate grabbed three cartridge belts and two Winchesters and skinned up to the cross-trees. He was the sole survivor, and you can’t blame him for being mad. He pumped one rifle till it got so hot he couldn’t hold it, then he pumped the other. The deck was black with niggers. He cleaned them out. He dropped them as they went over the rail, and he dropped them as fast as they picked up their paddles. Then they jumped into the water and started to swim for it, and being mad, he got half a dozen more. And what did he get for it?”

“Seven years in Fiji,” snapped the mate.

“The government said he wasn’t justified in shooting after they’d taken to the water,” the skipper explained.

“And that’s why they die of dysentery nowadays,” the mate added.

“Just fancy,” said Bertie, as he felt a longing for the cruise to be over.

Later on in the day he interviewed the black who had been pointed out to him as a cannibal. This fellow’s name was Sumasai. He had spent three years on a Queensland plantation. He had been to Samoa, and Fiji, and Sydney; and as a boat’s crew had been on recruiting schooners through New Britain, New Ireland, New Guinea, and the Admiralties. Also, he was a wag, and he had taken a line on his skipper’s conduct. Yes, he had eaten many men. How many? He could not remember the tally. Yes, white men, too; they were very good, unless they were sick. He had once eaten a sick one.

“My word!” he cried, at the recollection. “Me sick plenty along him. ‘my belly walk about too much.”

Bertie shuddered, and asked about heads. Yes, Sumasai had several hidden ashore, in good condition, sun-dried, and smoke-cured. One was of the captain of a schooner. It had long whiskers. He would sell it for two quid. Black men’s heads he would sell for one quid. He had some pickaninny heads, in poor condition, that he would let go for ten bob.

Five minutes afterward, Bertie found himself sitting on the companionway-slide alongside a black with a horrible skin disease. He sheered off, and on inquiry was told that it was leprosy. He hurried below and washed himself with antiseptic soap. He took many antiseptic washes in the course of the day, for every native on board was afflicted with malignant ulcers of one sort or another.

As the Arla drew in to an anchorage in the midst of mangrove swamps, a double row of barbed wire was stretched around above her rail. That looked like business, and when Bertie saw the shore canoes alongside, armed with spears, bows and arrows, and Sniders, he wished more earnestly than ever that the cruise was over.

That evening the natives were slow in leaving the ship at sundown. A number of them checked the mate when he ordered them ashore. “Never mind, I’ll fix them,” said Captain Hansen, diving below.

When he cam back, he showed Bertie a stick of dynamite attached to a fish hook. Now it happens that a paper-wrapped bottle of chlorodyne with a piece of harmless fuse projecting can fool anybody. It fooled Bertie, and it fooled the natives. When Captain Hansen lighted the fuse and hooked the fish hook into the tail end of a native’s loin cloth, that native was smitten with so an ardent a desire for the shore that he forgot to shed the loin cloth. He started for’ard, the fuse sizzling and spluttering at his rear, the natives in his path taking headers over the barbed wire at every jump. Bertie was horror-stricken. So was Captain Hansen. He had forgotten his twenty-five recruits, on each of which he had paid thirty shillings advance. They went over the side along with the shore-dwelling folk and followed by him who trailed the sizzling chlorodyne bottle.

Bertie did not see the bottle go off; but the mate opportunely discharging a stick of real dynamite aft where it would harm nobody, Bertie would have sworn in any admiralty court to a nigger blown to flinders. The flight of the twenty-five recruits had actually cost the Arla forty pounds, and, since they had taken to the bush, there was no hope of recovering them. The skipper and his mate proceeded to drown their sorrow in cold tea.

The cold tea was in whiskey bottles, so Bertie did not know it was cold tea they were mopping up. All he knew was that the two men got very drunk and argued eloquently and at length as to whether the exploded nigger should be reported as a case of dysentery or as an accidental drowning. When they snored off to sleep, he was the only white man left, and he kept a perilous watch till dawn, in fear of an attack from shore and an uprising of the crew.

Three more days the Arla spent on the coast, and three more nights the skipper and the mate drank overfondly of cold tea, leaving Bertie to keep the watch. They knew he could be depended upon, while he was equally certain that if he lived, he would report their drunken conduct to Captain Malu. Then the Arla dropped anchor at Reminge Plantation, on Guadalcanar, and Bertie landed on the beach with a sigh of relief and shook hands with the manager. ‘mr. Harriwell was ready for him.

“Now you mustn’t be alarmed if some of our fellows seem downcast,” Mr. Harriwell said, having drawn him aside in confidence. “There’s been talk of an outbreak, and two or three suspicious signs I’m willing to admit, but personally I think it’s all poppycock.”

“How–how many blacks have you on the plantation?” Bertie asked, with a sinking heart.

“We’re working four hundred just now,” replied Mr. Harriwell, cheerfully; but the three of us, with you, of course, and the skipper and mate of the Arla, can handle them all right.”

Bertie turned to meet one McTavish, the storekeeper, who scarcely acknowledged the introduction, such was his eagerness to present his resignation.

“It being that I’m a married man, Mr. Harriwell, I can’t very well afford to remain on longer. Trouble is working up, as plain as the nose on your face. The niggers are going to break out, and there’ll be another Hohono horror here.”

“What’s a Hohono horror?” Bertie asked, after the storekeeper had been persuaded to remain until the end of the month.

“Oh, he means Hohono Plantation, on Ysabel,” said the manager. “The niggers killed the five white men ashore, captured the schooner, killed the captain and mate, and escaped in a body to Malaita. But I always said they were careless on Hohono. They won’t catch us napping here. Come along, Mr. Arkwright, and see our view from the veranda.”

Bertie was too busy wondering how he could get away to Tulagi to the Commissioner’s house, to see much of the view. He was still wondering, when a rifle exploded very near to him, behind his back. At the same moment his arm was nearly dislocated, so eagerly did Mr. Harriwell drag him indoors.

“I say, old man, that was a close shave,” said the manager, pawing him over to see if he had been hit. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am. But it was broad daylight, and I never dreamed.”

Bertie was beginning to turn pale.

“They got the other manager that way,” McTavish vouchsafed. “And a dashed fine chap he was. Blew his brains out all over the veranda. You noticed that dark stain there between the steps and the door?”

Bertie was ripe for the cocktail which Mr. Harriwell pitched in and compounded for him; but before he could drink it, a man in riding trousers and puttees entered.

“What’s the matter now?” the manager asked, after one look at the newcomer’s face. “Is the river up again?”

“River be blowed–it’s the niggers. Stepped out of the cane grass, not a dozen feet away, and whopped at me. It was a Snider, and he shot from the hip. Now what I want to know is where’d he get that Snider?–Oh, I beg pardon. Glad to know you, Mr. Arkwright.”

“Mr. Brown is my assistant,” explained Mr. Harriwell. “And now let’s have that drink.”

“But where’d he get that Snider?” Mr. Brown insisted. “I always objected to keeping those guns on the premises.”

“They’re still there,” Mr. Harriwell said, with a show of heat.

Mr. Brown smiled incredulously.

“Come along and see,” said the manager.

Bertie joined the procession into the office, where Mr. Harriwell pointed triumphantly at a big packing case in a dusty corner.

“Well, then where did the beggar get that Snider?” harped Mr. Brown.

But just then McTavish lifted the packing case. The manager started, then tore off the lid. The case was empty. They gazed at one another in horrified silence. Harriwell drooped wearily.

Then McVeigh cursed.

“What I contended all along–the house-boys are not to be trusted.”

“It does look serious,” Harriwell admitted, “but we’ll come through it all right. What the sanguinary niggers need is a shaking up. Will you gentlemen please bring your rifles to dinner, and will you, Mr. Brown, kindly prepare forty or fifty sticks of dynamite. ‘make the fuses good and short. We’ll give them a lesson. And now, gentlemen, dinner is served.”

One thing that Bertie detested was rice and curry, so it happened that he alone partook of an inviting omelet. He had quite finished his plate, when Harriwell helped himself to the omelet. One mouthful he tasted, then spat out vociferously.

“That’s the second time,” McTavish announced ominously.

Harriwell was still hawking and spitting.

“Second time, what?” Bertie quavered.

“Poison,” was the answer. “That cook will be hanged yet.”

“That’s the way the bookkeeper went out at Cape March,” Brown spoke up. “Died horribly. They said on the Jessie that they heard him screaming three miles away.”

“I’ll put the cook in irons,” sputtered Harriwell. “Fortunately we discovered it in time.”

Bertie sat paralyzed. There was no color in his face. He attempted to speak, but only an inarticulate gurgle resulted. All eyed him anxiously.

“Don’t say it, don’t say it,” McTavish cried in a tense voice.

“Yes, I ate it, plenty of it, a whole plateful!” Bertie cried explosively, like a diver suddenly regaining breath.

The awful silence continued half a minute longer, and he read his fate in their eyes.

“Maybe it wasn’t poison after all,” said Harriwell, dismally.

“Call in the cook,” said Brown.

In came the cook, a grinning black boy, nose-spiked and ear-plugged.

“Here, you, Wi-wi, what name that?” Harriwell bellowed, pointing accusingly at the omelet.

Wi-wi was very naturally frightened and embarrassed.

“Him good fella kai-kai,” he murmured apologetically.

“Make him eat it,” suggested McTavish. “That’s a proper test.”

Harriwell filled a spoon with the stuff and jumped for the cook, who fled in panic.

“That settles it,” was Brown’s solemn pronouncement. “He won’t eat it.”

“Mr. Brown, will you please go and put the irons on him?” Harriwell turned cheerfully to Bertie. “It’s all right, old man, the Commissioner will deal with him, and if you die, depend upon it, he will be hanged.”

“Don’t think the government’ll do it,” objected McTavish.

“But gentlemen, gentlemen,” Bertie cried. “In the meantime think of me.”

Harriwell shrugged his shoulders pityingly.

“Sorry, old man, but it’s a native poison, and there are no known antidotes for native poisons. Try and compose yourself and if–”

Two sharp reports of a rifle from without, interrupted the discourse, and Brown, entering, reloaded his rifle and sat down to table.

“The cook’s dead,” he said. “Fever. A rather sudden attack.”

“I was just telling Mr. Arkwright that there are no antidotes for native poisons–”

“Except gin,” said Brown.

Harriwell called himself an absent-minded idiot and rushed for the gin bottle.

“Neat, man, neat,” he warned Bertie, who gulped down a tumbler two-thirds full of the raw spirits, and coughed and choked from the angry bite of it till the tears ran down his cheeks.

Harriwell took his pulse and temperature, made a show of looking out for him, and doubted that the omelet had been poisoned. Brown and McTavish also doubted; but Bertie discerned an insincere ring in their voices. His appetite had left him, and he took his own pulse stealthily under the table. There was no question but what it was increasing, but he failed to ascribe it to the gin he had taken. ‘mcTavish, rifle in hand, went out on the veranda to reconnoiter.

“They’re massing up at the cook-house,” was his report. “And they’ve no end of Sniders. ‘my idea is to sneak around on the other side and take them in flank. Strike the first blow, you know. Will you come along, Brown?”

Harriwell ate on steadily, while Bertie discovered that his pulse had leaped up five beats. Nevertheless, he could not help jumping when the rifles began to go off. Above the scattering of Sniders could be heard the pumping of Brown’s and McTavish’s Winchesters–all against a background of demoniacal screeching and yelling.

“They’ve got them on the run,” Harriwell remarked, as voices and gunshots faded away in the distance.

Scarcely were Brown and McTavish back at the table when the latter reconnoitered.

“They’ve got dynamite,” he said.

“Then let’s charge them with dynamite,” Harriwell proposed.

Thrusting half a dozen sticks each into their pockets and equipping themselves with lighted cigars, they started for the door. And just then it happened. They blamed McTavish for it afterward, and he admitted that the charge had been a trifle excessive. But at any rate it went off under the house, which lifted up cornerwise and settled back on its foundations. Half the china on the table was shattered, while the eight-day clock stopped. Yelling for vengeance, the three men rushed out into the night, and the bombardment began.

When they returned, there was no Bertie. He had dragged himself away to the office, barricaded himself in, and sunk upon the floor in a gin-soaked nightmare, wherein he died a thousand deaths while the valorous fight went on around him. In the morning, sick and headachey from the gin, he crawled out to find the sun still in the sky and God presumable in heaven, for his hosts were alive and uninjured.

Harriwell pressed him to stay on longer, but Bertie insisted on sailing immediately on the Arla for Tulagi, where, until the following steamer day, he stuck close by the Commissioner’s house. There were lady tourists on the outgoing steamer, and Bertie was again a hero, while Captain Malu, as usual, passed unnoticed. But Captain Malu sent back from Sydney two cases of the best Scotch whiskey on the market, for he was not able to make up his mind as to whether it was Captain Hansen or Mr Harriwell who had given Bertie Arkwright the more gorgeous insight into life in the Solomons.

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Posted in JACK LONDON in the SOLOMONS, The Terrible Solomons

Posted by: nativeiowan | May 3, 2009

life force

waking up 

“It’s a matter of life force.” He explained. “The more life force or personal energy there is at the point of transition the more there is to move onward.”

I watched his face as he spoke to me. His diction was clear and pleasing to the ear. I could find no trace of an accent. His regal, Semitic nose complimented his fine, long face. His delicate fingers were as articulate as his words. I felt mesmerized by his presence.

“I know it is a side-ways answer to your question but this is the best answer available. Perhaps the only answer available. You will learn more as you wake up and understand. And you will understand. There is very little about this phase of existence which is confusing. “

His sardonic smile, despite my immediate reaction of unease, was not in any way disconcerting or malicious. I had a fleeting glimpse of what that smile normally would have told me. I felt the vestige of distrust or manipulation in the smile. It was as if he had something to hide. My natural reaction was to put up my guard. Yet the total package of the person standing before me was simple and unthreatening. As simple and unthreatening as a small child. The smile held a trace of innuendo but it was as if the innuendo had no place here, now.  As if it was a ghost of a thing since past.

Which brought me back to my original question. “Where am I?” Then I added, “How did I get here?”

“Once again, old chap, the simple answer is life force. Just as the complicated answer is life force.”

His smile flashed and I felt more at ease with it this time. I felt more comfortable with everything. My mind raced to decipher it all. I tried to remember.

I had been on the corner of University and Locust. The light was going to change. I saw the green light facing the oncoming traffic switch to yellow. I saw the cars coming toward me. I watched them slowing to a stop. I remember taking a step off the curb thinking that the flashing “walk” indicator would switch any second.  I was in a hurry. I held my morning paper in my right hand. My blazer was draped over my left arm. I had stuck my tie in my shirt to keep it from blowing in the wind. I was going to cross the street, sit at Rocko’s outdoor café and read my paper while I had coffee.

The next thing I recall, this stately gentleman was helping me up off the ground. He was dressed strangely. He wore what appeared to be an oversized poncho.  I blurted out a string of short questions as I looked around for my paper and coat.

He still held my arm in a solicitous manner. One of his hands held me at the wrist. His other supported my elbow.

“This way my dear boy. Have a seat. Recover some of your senses then we will talk.’

I examined myself. The polished, brown loafers. The green slacks. Striped shirt neatly tucked in. I looked around. We stood in what appeared to be in a small garden. I shook my head as I was led to a small stone bench under a fragrant frangipani tree.

“It will all make sense once you shake out of your shock. It is really a simple matter of waking up. There is no need to look for your newspaper or other personal belongings. You shan’t be needing them here.” This last comment initiated a friendly chuckle. His smile beamed down at me.

He stood admiring the white flowers of the tree. Breathing the fragrance in. His smile was that of understanding and acceptance. He placed a hand on my shoulder and looked me in the eyes.

“You were killed instantly when you were struck by a moving vehicle. It turned the corner just as you took a step into the roadway. It appears as though both you and the driver of the vehicle were in a hurry this morning. For better or worse his car has little damage and you have passed from one phase of mortal existence to another.”

The look on my face must have mirrored my panic. With a gentle laugh he continued. “Please allow me to introduce myself. I am Alhim Akmet bin Abdul El-Haj” As he said this he made a flourish with his arms and made a full bow at his waste. Stating his name and making the bow made his clothing change, in my mind, from a funny poncho to a stately robe. “But you can call me Al”. He continued with a beguiling smile.

“As I said, it is a simple matter of life force. You have, shall we say, a full charge of energy thus you are here, now, with me. You are alive. Yet you are simply in a different phase of life. You passed from the phase you knew. The only phase you were aware of. We could use the word “death”. I find it rather ineffective, really. You are not dead. Perhaps one day you will “die” yet I prefer to think of is all as a transition. You moved from one life to another.”

The look on my face brought another friendly chuckle. His hand on my shoulder gave a reassuring squeeze as he went on.

 “You and I will “live”, if you will, in this phase of existence until we “expire” from this phase. If, at the point of expiration, you possess enough life force to move on, you will venture forward to the next phase or, perhaps it is better to think of it as a different phase of existence.”

I felt like crying. Something in me wanted to mourn. Yet I had trouble grasping that which I needed in order to feel grief. In order to grieve.

“Yes, that is right”. He smiled at me. “Look for your emotions. It is good to see what is in you. What has changed. When you can accept the change within you then accepting the change around you will be a breeze.”

I stood up. Looking at my hands, I thought of where I was and what I was doing. I felt the beginning of an understanding form within me. It was not something that I could articulate but it was there. I thought of Al’s smile. How it had first unsettled me. How it had prompted a reaction of distrust and uncertainty. I looked for the emotion to feel sad. Al had just told me I had died. A car had struck me as I jumped the light. The reaction, when being told of a death, any death, was to mourn, to cry. And to be told about my own death made me feel as though I should mourn even more.

Yet the added emotion of being here, now, contemplating the conundrum of being alive, after I had died, gave me a feeling of pure joy. I felt elated. I felt as though I was a winner.

I tried not to smile as I looked back at Al. “So I’m dead but I’m still alive?” I asked in a guarded tone.

“No, no my dear boy. Not at all.” Al said with a hearty pat on my shoulder. “You have, to use the vernacular of the day, “died” in the “world” you came from. When you “died’, oh how I dislike that word, shall we use transpired, please?” he asked. “You transpired after a fatal accident. At that time your life force took a short nap. Your life force, and it is quite strong you know, assessed the situation after the accident. Your injuries were quite massive. Your physical being ceased to function within a single heartbeat. Technically a rib punctured your heart. You bled to death internally. Within seconds of impact your life force chose to shut down. To take a nap, if you will. It was a conscious decision made by you on a level you were not really aware of. In any event your system shut down. You unconsciously did this in order to retain or preserve your life force. It made no sense to expend the energy on, shall we say, a nonviable project. Your physical being in that phase of life was no longer worth the expense of energy. So you went to sleep and woke up here. Very simple, really”.

I felt as though my grin mirrored Al’s. “That’s it, my boy. That’s it.” He patted me on the shoulder. “No need to mourn here. No need to be suspicious or guarded. You are still alive. Death means nothing. You are simply “alive” somewhere else. And that somewhere else is here, with me.”

I felt exposed by his words. “How did you know?” I stammered? “How, I mean, well, you must of, I mean…”

My confusion was undoubtedly clear. “There is no artifice here, my boy. There is no competition. There is no need for treachery. You will soon learn that genuineness leads one to genuineness.  No, I cannot read your thoughts but I can see you. I see what passes through your mind. It is written on your face. I see by your countenance that you are confused. I saw that you had a distrusting thought about me. You disliked my smile I assume. Your guard went up when I smiled at you. And it was clear that you were looking for the means to shed a tear. Your lip pouted out. If you could have found the emotion you would have cried when I told you that you had transpired. Yet the emotion to grieve, even for your own passing, was not to be found. In it’s place you found the joy of life. You were happy to be “alive’ and yet you felt a need to guard your joy. You felt as though your joy was inappropriate. And my seeing these things makes you uncomfortable.”

This final declaration was said with a firm, steady gaze. I felt as though my reaction to these words was a test of some sort. I felt Al watching me. Gauging me.

I returned his gaze. His deep, dark eyes reminded me of my grandfather’s. My long dead, or rather transpired, grandfather. His Semitic features, though different, were in many ways very similar to Al’s. The penetrating eyes. How they looked at me, Expectantly.  As if they were waiting for some type of admission, whether an admission of guilt or otherwise, like now, I never knew.

I could not help myself. Al’s unfaltering gaze. The thoughts of my grandfather. I burst into a huge grin. I felt like hollering. I slapped my knee while shouting out a rebel yell.

“Bravo.” Declared Al. “That’s it. Yes, I agree. It is quite like that, is it not?’

Learning to walk

“It is not a matter of time.” Said Al. “It is a matter of being and doing. It is a matter of understanding. Of attaining deep understanding through the exploration of the self.”

Al sat in a cross leg posture. His long, white robes hung over the edges of the bench. His back was straight and his head was held firm and high. He reminded me of pictures I had seen in the Bagavad Gita. The copies one got conned into buying at airports from supposed devotees. He was composed and apparently very comfortable. He had not moved since he had taken his seat. While I fidgeted he remained clam. His only movements were to punctuate his words with his hands. Or to reassuringly touch my shoulder or pat my knee.

I sat next to him with my knees drawn up under my chin. I still felt somewhat uncomfortable. Al’s total sense of control upset me. His enigmatic composer made it harder for me to find repose. I had been talking with Al for what felt like hours. He had patiently answered all my questions.  He spoke in a scholarly tone. Often making me feel like a dullard with his light chuckles and calm smiles.

“What time is it?” I had asked. “It is not a matter of time.” He relied. “It is a matter of being and doing. It is a matter of understanding. Of attaining deep understanding through the exploration of the self.”

I felt my frustration rise. I hugged my knees tighter.

“Relax.” Al said. “Think of a relaxing question. As I have told you. I am here for you. I am here to help you wake up. I am here to help you come to terms with your new existence. It is not as hard as you think. You are struggling with the facts as I have explained them to you. You are getting frustrated because you cannot, as yet, accept all that I say. Your frustration brings the concept of time to your mind. You become impatient.”

Al held me by my shoulder and looked straight into my eyes. “Acceptance and understanding are often one in the same. You attempt to understand but you refuse to accept. Let’s relax a bit. Why don’t you ask me some questions about the “hows” and “whys” of being here? Your dwelling on the “me” and ‘mine’ of the event clouds your understanding.”

I did feel frustrated. In a strange way I was angry.

“Where the hell did you come from and what made you so damn smart?” I asked with an acid tone.

“Well, that’s more like it.” I was surprised by his response. “A bit of anger is often useful to get over bouts of confusion.”

“As I have told you I am Alhim Akmet bin Abdul El-Haj. I am first of all sons of his Serene Goodness Azim Fassad bin Abdul del-El Haj, Caliph of Abrenzann and Crowned Regent for the Great and Glorious One Who Rules All Lands and Whose Name Can Never be Spoken. I myself was crowned prince. I was educated in the ways of rule. I was trained to follow my father’s path and rule from the Throne of the Winged Tiger. I was to follow the path that 132 of by fore-bearers had trod in my lead.

I was to be the 133rd of the unbroken line of the house Abdul to sit on the Throne of the Winged Tiger. But my eighth uncle and my second brother, along with his mother, the rest of my father’s wives, and half the palace staff, decided I was too much like my father. They conspired against the Throne. And they succeeded. And thus I am here.”

At this point Al emitted a short, friendly laugh, tapped me on the knee and carried on. “I come from a time and space similar yet different to your own. When you ask I will tell you that I lived on “earth’ as you did. Yet the time and space of the earths we have shared were dimensions apart. I came from a time and space where earth had developed into a very complicated feudalistic aristocracy. The majority of my earth was under the control of the Throne of the Double Headed Serpent. This Throne was, and incidentally still is, controlled by an ancient line of powerful men and women. Their name had been made holy a thousand generations before my own lineage was first recorded in the books of the noble houses.

My world was, and still is, a violent place. My training to be a ruler was as much a conditioning to be cruel as it was a learning to understand what it meant to rule. Power is what allows a person in my world to rule. Having power over vast numbers of armed men, often slaves. Having power and resources to buy arms, to raise an armed force, to protect and to attack. To acquire and retain.

My world developed along similar lines to your own but, at certain critical stages, my world followed the path of feudalism while your world found a path toward technology. In feudalism the most important thing is sheer numbers of subservient people. The Throne of the Winged Tiger commanded areas of incredible size yet, within the entire territory, a small percentage were free, self-owning men. The majority were slaves of varying classes. Some were indentured as soldiers or administrators. Most had been indentured for the entire length of their lineage. From when memory began. From father to Son, the obeisance of duty and commitment were passed down. Even my father was not free. He was as much a vassal to the Double Headed Serpent as was the lowest slave in his castle’s sewers.

Your world found technology. In such a world free thinking and free acting individuals are more important than uneducated troops. So, you see, in answer to your question of “where the hell do I come from”, I answer to you that I come from the house of Abdul, from the city of Abrenzann, from the land of the green river in the realm of the Double Headed Serpent.”

Reaching forward Al lifted his ceramic cup. He swirled the drink inside then took a short sip. He had offered me a cup before but I was preoccupied and had ignored his offer. I now felt an urge to drink. It is not that I was thirsty but I felt somewhat jealous that Al was drinking I wanted to drink as well.

“What is it?” I asked him.

His enigmatic smile flashed again. “It is whatever you wish it to be. To me, I am drinking the waters from the source of the Green River.”
“Will it make you drunk?” I asked with too much anticipation n my voice.

“If you wish.” Was his simple reply.

He watched me closely as I picked up my cup. It was pleasing, almost sensuous to the touch. There were small indentations where my fingers naturally fit the cup. I felt as though the cup was made for my hand.

“Whatever I wish?” I asked with a sly grin?

His reply was to arch an eyebrow and smile over his raised cup in a salute.

I recalled a spring I had found in the wilderness of North America. It sprung from the limestone bluffs near the source of the Mississippi River. Its temperature was near to freezing and was as pure and clean as a thousand feet of limestone filtering could make it. I remembered my first experiences there and the subsequent pilgrimages I made in return. I raised my cup in salute and took a sip.

My teeth were numbed by the cold. The pure fresh water entered my throat and slid down into my stomach. I felt it travel the whole way down. It made me smile.

“A good choice, I must say.” Commented Al. “Or should I say, a good year.”

“In answer to you second question,” Al continued. “I have been “alive’ in this phase of existence for what you would consider a long, long time. I have much experience here. And an ultimate understanding of many aspects of life in this phase of existence. That is why I am often chosen to greet new comers like yourself.” 

more to come…

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Posted in life force, STORIES: WORKS IN PROGRESS

Posted by: nativeiowan | April 26, 2009

fishing with frigates / sleeping under sago

Just back from Morovo. A great, short trip. Left here early yesterday (Saturday). A 3 hour run. Good weather.

My 14 year old son, Paul, has been there for a week. I have had my friends 12 year old son, Mike, since before Cmas. I went to swap sons. This is my second trip to this area. I know the place now. Not a stranger to them not them to me. I took Grace along for the ride. She hates boat trips. Arrived in time for a plate of milked rice. Had a rinse and a snooze. then went out fishing.

we chased skip jacks. I had my 10 lb test rig. Used a feathery lure Rob Guild gave me. The others are using a 150lb hand line with a squid. Got the first hook up. The rod bent double. The line screaming out. 10 minutes later we land a 2.5 – 3 kg S.J. My hand and shoulders were cramped. I had a line burn / cut on my finger. My guts sore from where I had held the rod butt. It was magic. Should have had my gimble belt with me.

Tearing around the water. A brisk wind up. Lots of chop. We race to keep up with the fish. We follow the birds. Dozens of Frigate birds. Show us where to fish. They are right over head. Next to us. Attacking our lures. We watch their antics. We are compatriots in the fishing scene. We are all after the same thing. They are just better than we are. We get another strike. The line burns out. A loud pop. The line snapped. The fish too big. I lost the feathery lure.

Quickly rig another jig. The gang catch another on the hand line. Three young boys work to haul it in. I’m in the water again. Kazzziiinggg! The reel sings. The boat going too fast. The line snaps again. We are racing over the water. Zigging and zagging. Pabulu is driving and hollering at the fish. He does this. Talks to fish. Nothing uncommon… If you know Pabulu.

His two sons, Mike and Jr. with my son, Paul triple team another fish into the boat. The swivel breaks as they go to pull it in. I get another hit. The line screams. I leave the drag off and have Pabulu turn the boat around and chase the line. We idle on the surface as I fight the fish up. It is something like 60 meters below us. My line is alternately being reeled in and being stripped out. I can’t apply too much drag. The rod is bent double. My right hand is cramped up and the butt digs a hole in my sternum. The fish sounds. I let it go then pump and wind. Gaining line. Everyone is laughing. Their hand line is a lot more efficient. Bigger. Badder. I am following Pabulu’s example. I am talking to the fish. I begin to gain on it. The line is coming in. I am actually relaxing between pumps. The line goes slack. The fish spit the hook.

We spend a couple hours chasing the birds. Hooking up on the fish. The end score is humanoids 2 fish 3. We are going back for a rematch soon.

We head home on dusk. The lagoon is a bit choppy but beautiful. We do a slow troll home with swimmers on the lines. We don’t get any bites. We arrive home. Square the boat away. Go sit in the kitchen. They are preparing a big motu. Hot stones do the baking for a Sunday feast. A king size cassava pudding. Fresh mangrove oyster soup. Baked potatoes, the fish we caught. All of in a big oven.

The rain dances on the sago-leaf roof. The smell of the smoke and the baking food makes me drowsy. We eat potatoes, fish and oysters. I swim under a frigid stand-pipe. All cleaned up and ready to sleep we talk and drink a cup of tea. I lay down to sleep. A fire ant bites my right cheek. I try not to scratch it. I think of other things.

The music of nature blends with the dancing of the rain. Like a “river dance” but with less ego and more power. The moon is bright and shines behind the clouds. I drift off to the sound of the others talking in the next room, the rain on the roof and the fire ants crawling around me.

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Posted in fishing with frigates / sleeping under sago, STORIES: ISLAND MAGIC

Posted by: nativeiowan | April 26, 2009

a meaningful meeting

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.

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Posted in a meaningful meeting, STORIES: WORKS IN PROGRESS

Posted by: nativeiowan | April 26, 2009

Flying High

Its been many years and many miles. From hitchhiking around the Midwest, to the first international fight, to becoming a seasoned traveler to… well, actually to hating travel, long trips and the hassles that goes with air travel. If I had my way I’d board a plane as seldom as possible.

And I’m traveling again.

This trip covers Honiara to Brisbane to Melbourne to Brisbane to Seoul to Singapore to Brisbane to Honiara. It started  18 days ago.

So far I’ve had a bit of time with family members in Brisbane, then a couple days of business in Melbourne then back to Brissie and packing my sons off, back to school in New Zealand, and my wife and a grandson back to Honiara.

So many years of tattered backpacks and tight or nonexistent budgets. So many years of floors and couches, of good fun and great times combined with moments of confusion, anxiety and uncomfortable miles.

I’m not complaining. I’ve had great travels. But I think a combination of age, ability and selfishness has changed me.

So, when it comes to traveling, I’ve been from the neophyte to the well experienced to the resistant to… Business class…

I use to hate the folks in the front of the plane. You walk past them as you moved back to economy class. They’d be sitting in their comfy seats sipping sparkling wine and looking far too comfortable.

I use to shuffle toward the rear section of the plane (the safest section of the plane) hoping like hell there’d be an empty seat next to me. I’d go into “shut-dwon-mode”  and become as comatose as possible for the 10, 12 or 14 hours required.

I often assisted this comatose state with small doses of valium or phenergen.

I rarely ate airline food. Carried my own water or juice. Often boarded inebriated because flying was “a party”. Seldom if ever had the cash for those nifty but expensive little bottles of booze.  I normally had my own hip flask at ready when a stiff drink was required.

Life’s a bit different, thankfully, these days. Today we’re in the air, 10 hours and 40 minutes. And I am quite happy and comfortable.

And so is Pan.

The too slim attendnats have offered to take my jacket (twice), I’m on my second glass of nice fruit juice. They serve the brand of ginseng tea I keep at home. A nice smelling meal is on the way. 

All worth the 4am wakeup call.

If I listen I can hear Pan’s pipes in the wind as it whistles over the shell of this sleek bird. Pan the seducer. Pan the prankster. Pan the inspirer. Pan, my old buddy and partner in crime.

I have no one next to me and have spread out. My jacket and Panama hat are carefully ensconced in the extra seat. My new computer is merrily draining its battery (claims to have over 7 hours of life remaining) as the new “Bond” movie (complete with subtitles) distracts my muse filled attention.

I am an experienced multitasker (or is it I am distracted easily) and work as I listen to the movie. I listen until I hear the whine of fast cars or the cough of speeding bullets. I’m after the action scenes. Of course the ever-present “bond-girls” are worth a casual glance.

But I am only partially engrossed in the movie.

My old fiend and business associate W.E. occupies the seats in front of me. He’s spread out too. It’s still a gas for us to travel together. We both giggle like naughty kids at the farcical sequence of events that led us this far…

Our first international business trip was in 1990. We met up in D.C. We were peddling our services as Pacific specific consultants, targeting US aid/ government money. We shared a hotel room. Put our glad rags on daily and knocked on doors.

We traveled back to the islands together via San Fran. We slept on friends’ floors and couches. We drank as much as possible as cheaply as possible and prepared for reentry to what we  still both agree is “the real world”.

Traveling from “over-there” to the real world is pretty difficult at best. One needs to decompress. To prepare to slow down. Living and working in the land where people go on holiday is a chore.

That trip, after making a stopover in Fiji, where we drank a bottle of cheap rum with our Doctor mate for breakfast the morning we arrived, we limped back to the Solomons where we each took no less than two weeks to recover from our “business trip”.

I do not recall any moneymaking business coming from those expenses and efforts.

So Bond is in a boat now. He somehow left Italy and the flash sports cars and is in some developing, island nation. I am obviously not paying due attention to Bond and his lady…

Pan is making too much noise. Like me he didn’t sleep much last night. Pan sleeps  very little. I heard him in the wee hours of last night as I prepared for my departure. I almost stayed up rather than accepting 4 hours of sleep. I almost stayed up to listen to Pan.

But I crawled into bed about 1am and woke groggy and flustered.  Gave W.E. a wake up call and grabbed a shower and my bags. Loaded up the rental and headed to the airport.

I’m still a bit groggy but this time I won’t let Pan’s call go unheeded.

I was just served the fancy place setting they give you in the front of the plane. I am still perplexed why we pretend that we can’t have a “real” knife on a plane. My lovely, starched napkin contained two silver forks, a silver spoon and two plastic knives. Plastic knives and silver forks… So a knife is a weapon but a fork ain’t? Go figger…

A personal little salt and pepper shaker-set and a dish of perfectly shaped butter came with the English muffin and compliments the feeling of being pampered.

A feeling I like very much.

And just as I think “tomato sauce” to go with my quiche, sausage and spuds an attendant waltzes up with a 2 ounce bottle of “Heinz tomato ketchup”

Life is good.

Bond just dropped a guy off a tall building and I just dripped ketchup on my keyboard…

The muffin was too cold, the sausage sucked, the potatoes were quite good and the quiche was passable, when smothered in ketchup. I could use another cup of tea but will sit back and see what Pan will play next for us. What the song will be as we dance our ways across the clear blue sky.

Bond is now in Spain, or is it Argentina? I’m losing interest with ol’ Bondie. Pan is much more entertaining.

I just went to the loo and was astonished at the array of personal niceties on display; tooth brush-paste kits, combs, razors, makeup (not my color), hairnets (I took three), warm socks, shoe shine cloths, blindfolds, nail files, lipstick, qtips, …  hell, they even have proper terry cloth hand towels. it’s very impressive to say the least.

Returning to a fresh cup of tea (they must be mind readers) and plate of beautifully laid out fruit, I find Bond has a new girl (I must of missed the first one’s demise) and that lunch will be served in 5 hours.

My travel experiences have shown me that Asians do pamper the customer well. Perhaps more so than Westerners. (eeee!!! No, please, not stereotypes) I compare these attendants to those on Qantas or United. With the greatest of respect to my friends that work for both airlines; sorry folks, this is really good.  

Perhaps it’s the fact that Pan is here today.

Everyone has a good time and is at their best when ol’ buddy Pan is around.

They just delivered a little bottle of water and a spray bottle of mineral water. I must have looked perplexed (a look I do real good) so the gal pantomimed spraying her face… way cool…

The first time I flew business I used my frequent flier miles to upgrade from LAX to Nadi. My wife and I were traveling together. She is as bad as a 9 year old on a plane. She’s never comfortable, has to move and shift all the time… it ain’t purtty… Very uncomfortable to be her traveling companion. So I upgraded and had a decent flight, for as change. 

Now a-days, as boss of my own company, I have it policy… if it’s over 3 hours fly-time, its business class. For me and W.E. anyway.

Bond’s bitchy boss lady is giving him a reaming as they gaze at his second dead girl.  My new computer has 5 hours and 56 minutes of battery life left. Man this is a hot machine.

I’m still saddle breaking it. A number of minor and one or two major differences to my old box. I’m still enjoying the glistening shell and unscarred screen. The box is sexy to say at least. The tomato stain suits it.

I’ve put the video machine away. Its a real nifty unit that folds about six times and then slides into a compartment below the arm rest. It would have taken a committee of engineers to design this thing. It took me quite a bit to figger out how to get it back in position.  I banged and bumped W.E.’s seat enough to make him grumble in his sleep.

He looks back and makes a funny face, “sure, go ahead and show off your new, 8 hour battery” he says. I put my thumb on my nose, waggle my fingers and chant “na, na, na, na, na, na”,

He gets a new box in June.

And Pan dances on the back of our seats.

I can hear a baby crying in economy. Here in the front of the plane it is dungeon dark. The other passengers have eaten then prepared for sleep. The attendants walk the cabin as if they were in a temple. I smile at Pan and type merrily away.

I’ve plugged in my earphones and am listening to a favored artist, Greg Brown.

Another native Iowan, Greg was pretending to go to school at Iowa City in the same era as I. I never knew him, may have heard him sing in bars but know we are close contemporaries. His songs describe scenes I was in. His tales of life, youth, interaction, failure and success mirror my own.

Greg has made the big time. If you’re interested in his poetry put to music; Google Greg Brown+, or, red house records.

One song, “Flat Stuff” pretty much describes Iowa.

“Flat stuff, flat stuff,  way out to the, way out to the setting sun…”

An attendant just brought me a cup of tea and 3 very warm and very nice cookies. Reminds me of mama’s.

I listen to Pan, take a nap, eat another 3 cookies. Enjoy the nice tea. And the miles flash past.

And so do the days.

The company we are doing bizzyness with rolls out the red carpet in Korea. They booked a good hotel for us. The food is fantastic. The company eclectic. The pace frenetic.

Pan enjoys it all.

We spend time in Inchon, Seoul and Ulsan. Eat piles of kim chee and, on the last night, drink gallons of beer.

We eventually grab a flight to Singapore, that soulless scene of draconian authority (yes I am from the 60s). Pan chose to not get off the plane when we landed.

So I sit and think of my buddy, Pan. The fun we’ve just had. I miss his company. But I’ll see him soon… another day, two more meetings and 15 hours of flying through 2 countries and I’ll be home in the Islands.

Life is good.

 

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Posted in DATED COMMENTARY, Flying High

Posted by: nativeiowan | April 26, 2009

confined

1) The Dream

He woke with a start. A quick, deep inhalation. A jerk. Eyes wide open.

The lights were blinding.

His head was foggy.

He shook his head is if it might help. Help change the scene. Change the stark, institutional green walls. The blaring lights which hurt the eyes and made too much noise. He shook his head a second time. Let out a tortured sigh. Closed his eyes. Went back to sleep.

The dream was like a drug. An intoxicant. Deadly, dark, frightening. And soothing. Soothing in its familiarity. Soothing in its predictability. Soothing in its ability to be ever changing. Frightening in its ability to be ever changing.

It rarely changed. Perhaps it never changed. And it always changed. Perhaps it was not changing. Perhaps it was only more of the scene being revealed. More of the “place” he was dreaming being revealed to him. More of his experiences of the dream understood. More seen. Heard. Smelt. Felt.

In his wakeful musings he’d spent hours analyzing the dream. Agonizing over every single detail. Coming to terms with the experience the dream ultimately was. Coming to an acceptance and, yes, even an appreciation for the physicalness of the dream. Getting over being frightened by it. Or afraid of it. He had spent years of his life just being able to live with it. More years studying the details of it. Then it would change.

He knew he was traveling “some place” in the dream. Although he was mostly stationary. Although his ability to “move” was limited. He always felt as if he was traveling.

He’d wake in a cold sweat. Gasp for air. Gasp for being awake. Aware. Gasp out of fear. His muscles would be strained. His head pounding. He’d look around.

Initially, in the early days, this had been the greatest hurdle. To go from sleep to waking into the dream. Aware in the dream. To go from darkness to painful, full awareness in less than an instant. To go from being asleep, unaware, to being awake, in the dream, fully aware, in the dream, in such a short period of time that it took his breath away.

It took years to just be able to wake up and not scream. To be able to wake up and not feel the hot tears boiling in his eyes. Streaming down his cheeks.

For ages upon ages the knowledge, fear of waking up into the nightmare scene was enough to send him screaming like a lunatic.

He had learned, very early on, to tell when he was going to wake into that pain filled dream. His body knew well before it was time to wake into it. His brain knew too. He could tell.

Every muscle prepared by constricting beyond the threshold of pain. His brain prepared by sending that silent, screeching alarm of danger and pain throughout his body. He’d be peacefully asleep and feel his body go rigid and hear his brain start singing in panic.

Often, in the early days, waking into the dream would be enough for him to lose his bowels. The fear of the dream and the knowledge of his reactions made it impossible, for years, for him to take the step toward looking at the dream calmly. It took a massive, conscience effort of sheer will just to be able to wake up and not lose complete control.

Between experiences with the dream he would analyze what he felt. What he had sensed and, eventually, he began tabulating what he had learned from his previous experiences. He eventually came to the conclusion that the dream was not going away. He concluded that the dream was apart of him and that he would, by necessity, have to learn to understand the dream.

Yet, even in his maturity, after all these years. All those experiences with the dream. The dream still scared the life out of him. Shocked him beyond terror. Shocked him to the point of madness. And nothing was more shocking than to wake into the dream and find something new. Something different.

It started happening slowly at first. After spending ages just preparing to wake into the dream and be in control. Exercising the self-control to feel the dream coming. To refuse the body and mind’s invitation to open his eyes, scream, shit and piss all at the same time. After many trials and failures. He managed to open his eyes, relax his neck muscles, take a deep breath and look around him.

The ceiling and the lights were the first thing he always saw.  Long, industrial flouro tubes encased in semi-opaque plastic. Casting a soulless glare which instantaneously burned his eyes and made the bile build up in his stomach.

He practiced. For ages. Practiced waking into the dream, relaxing his neck muscles, breathing deeply through his nose, closing his eyes for a second then opening them again, taking a good look.

Behind the glare of the soulless light he eventually made out the green painted ceiling. It was the same color he associated with the insides of dead animals. Darker than lime green but much lighter than the green of something living.

Between the blaring lights and the sick, green paint it was ages before he mastered his senses enough to “look” around.

This too he practiced between dreams. Practiced opening his eyes, relaxing his muscles, taking a deep breath and looking beyond the bright light and the green walls. Blinking his eyes, shaking his head and taking a good look around him.

It did not work every time. Even now, years later. But he was constantly getting better at staying in control. And staying in control longer.

After what appeared to be an eternity of waking into the dream. Fighting the lights and the sick, green paint. After several deep, controlled breaths. He was able to relax his neck enough to actually look around him.

As opposed to the looking straight ahead, into the lights, looking around was easy.

He made great progress quickly after his first few, slow attempts at looking around. He learned that he could turn his head a minimal amount to right or left. He could blink his eyes and slow his panicked breathing.

He began to look forward to waking into the dream. It became a game. How far can I go this time? How much can I gain this time? What will I see this time?

The concept of the dream being a game helped him very much. It allowed him to bury his fear. To prepare for his next “visit”, as he thought of it, to “his” dream.

He began to take stock of his surroundings. Keeping mental lists of what he had seen and experienced. He began to ask questions. Why can’t I move? Is something holding me down in the dream. How and why am I restrained? Do I even have a body in the dream?

His early field of vision. His early mental inventory. Included two large flouro lights behind plastic covers. An expanse of green ceiling the size of a large room. Corners where the ceiling met the walls to his right and left. The same sick, green painted walls meeting the ceiling.

He quickly added to his inventory a long, feathery build up of cobwebs in the corner to his right and a large, yellowed stain to the left of the flouro tubes.

He’d daydream about his inventory of knowledge. About the dream while he was awake. He’d make plans to look more and harder in other directions. He’d fantasize about great and glorious discoveries.

Yet waking into the dream and staying aware was always a struggle. It appeared to vary for no reason at all. He would have a consecutive number of reasonably easy entries into the dream. Then have to start all over. Start with the basics of opening his eyes, relaxing his neck muscles, taking a deep breath and looking around.

He somehow got the idea of waking into the dream but keeping his eyes closed. Being awake but trying to sense what was around him without using his eyes. Sense what was around him by using his body. He practiced waking into the dream and opening not his eyes but his ears. Opening his entire body. Opening everything but his eyes to the dream so he could hear and feel the experience as opposed to “seeing” what was around him.

He rightfully assumed that the bright lights bombarded his senses too much. Bombarded him with such aggressive stimuli that he became ill and frightened.

So he learned to wake in the dream and not open his eyes. He learned to wake, relax his neck muscles, take a deep breath and lie still. To listen first. To breathe softly. Listening to what his dream might have to say.

He practiced this between dreams. He worked hard to feel the dream coming, stay in control, to wake into the dream relaxed and prepared.

He wanted to practice listening before he woke into his dream. He wanted to get good at breathing and staying in control while hearing what his dream had to offer.

He took a deep breath. Felt himself wake into the dream and willed his eyes shut. His ears and his body open. He breathed through his nose. Slowly. Evenly. Straining to identify a distant sound. An indistinct, moving sound.

He was not sure what a dream was suppose to sound like but he knew that the sound he perceived should not be in ‘his” dream. He knew that he did not want sounds like that in “his” dream. He knew that sounds like those were dangerous, deadly, evil.

It was a combination of a high pitched squeal and a monotonous, repetitive, insidious action. Like a bone of an animal being sawn while the animal was still, almost alive. The incessant grinding of the saw with the muffled, repeated whimpers of pain.

The sound was coming closer. Coming for him. He knew. He could not run. Could not move. He felt the panic in him rise. His breathing become erratic He willed his eyes shut as the scream entered his throat. It was no use. His eyes opened wide as the scream filled his head. Filled his world. Every muscle strained. His body arched and tore at itself. It was worse than he had expected. Worse than he had ever dreamed possible. The nightmare was revealing too much. Too quickly. His eyes, now open, were seeing too much too quickly He screamed again. Convulsed. Fell heavily back. Passed blessedly out of the dream and into blackness

 2) The Living

She pushed the medication cart down the row of beds. She planned to park it at the end of the room before beginning to organize each patient’s meds. She was new to this ward. Unfamiliar with the human refuse that ended up in the chronic ward of a state mental institute. She was more experienced with the geriatrics. This chronic ward frightened her. Any chronic ward frightened her. And this was the chronic ward of all chronic wards.

Seven patients who were all either vegetables, catatonic or perpetually in lala land. Seven patients who were known to the attending staff by number. Seven patients who, between the lot of them, had spent over three times her life without knowing what was around them. Seven patients who collectively had spent more than twice her life in this same room with it’s industrial green walls and glaring, blaring fluorescent lights. Lights which remained on twenty four hours a day.

Seven patients who were held in their sterile, stainless steel beds by leather belts and cuffs.

Seven patients who were tended as one would tend an unwanted, unholy garden. IVs were checked twice a shift and changed when needed. Sheets were checked and changed twice a shift – or so the rule was. Meds (all intravenous on this ward) were administered as per doctor’s instructions that usually meant every six hours.

All were cuffed and belted at their heads, wrists and ankles.

It was a dull if not boring ward to work on. But it had its good sides. So few demands on you that you could relax more than any ward she had ever worked. She enjoyed reading the patients’ histories.

Drinking black coffee to stay awake she had read that number four, Mr. Jackson Hepworth, had been a normal, happy man who, at the age of 17, drove his motorcycle into a car and suffered severe head injuries. Although he would thrash and often do a fair imitation of a dance he had not responded to any external stimuli since his accident in 1973.

Number four was one of the more “mobile’ patients and required an additional belt around his waist which was in turn belted to the bed.

It had been a very slow night. Often other nurses from other wards would come up with reasons to meet for a coffee while running errands. But the chronic ward offered no opportunities to run errands. It was a one “man” ward. There were strict instructions not to leave the ward. The chronics (flowers as she though of them) could not be left alone. Had to be tended one hundred percent of the time.

Number five, Mr. William W. Wilkinson the Third, had been a successful businessman. He had inherited his fathers business in 1977 at the tender age of 21. The family business dealt with textile manufacturing and had been started during the first world war by none other than Mr. William W. Wilkinson the First.

 Mr. William W. Wilkinson the Second had committed suicide and left the family fortune and the family burdens to young WWW the third. Young WWW the third had been in his second year of university when his father passed on but young WWW managed to run the business and complete his studies in only eighteen months.

He appeared to be a raging success then one day, after running the business for three years, he laid down for a midday nap (a habit he took up in school) and simply never woke up again.

Well, no, he did wake up but every time he woke up he would go into fits of screaming which ended in convulsions. They had tried everything. Money had not been an object. Specialists. Modern techniques. Imported hacks from around the globe. But each time he opened his eyes he would go into terrified screaming then pass out.

Mr. WWW the third had a belt that ran around his forehead all the way around the bed. They said it made it easier for him to endure his convulsions.

A very sad story, she thought, as she pushed her cart past number five’s bed. The ancient cart groaning and screeching with every revolution of it’s wheels.

3) The Nightmare

His earliest memories were of his father. They were on the campus of the university his family had thought of as theirs’. Perhaps it had been a class reunion. Perhaps it had been a ball game. He remembered being carried and jostled. Walking with his hand in his father’s. Ice Cream. Popped corn. Soft drinks. Cakes.

He remembered the green expanse of the quadrangle. His father and some friends had walked out on the manicured lawns. Were sitting. Telling stories. Little or none of what they said made sense to him. Made an impression upon him. His memory was of what he’d seen. The senses he had experienced. His confused emotion of happiness and dread.

Every time he brought this memory forward he felt the same confusion.

The happiness of spending a day with his father. Of being a part of his father’s life. Of feeling important. Again. For a change.

The dread of knowing it would all end. That they would leave this green and clean smelling wonderland. He would return to the dark and brooding building everyone called home. Return to the care of efficient and uncaring hands. To schedules and clocks.

His father would leave him at the place called home. Perhaps spend a night. Perhaps not. But he would leave. Again. Vanish from the face of the planet. From his life. Disappear and leave him in the hands of well-paid and professional yet uncaring hands.

He chased butterflies and grasshoppers as his father sat and talked. He felt expansive and joyful. He smiled and laughed. Every time he ran up to his father he was petted and hugged. The men with his father were gentle and kind. He remembered running toward them, then being thrown high in the air by strong, sure hands.

He remembered being very focused on snatching one large brown grasshopper. Of having it in his hands. Of it kicking and getting free. Hopping and flying a short distance away. He chased it. Grabbed it a number of times. But it was too big. It kept getting away.

He remembered literally running into a large marble block set in the middle of the quadrangle.

Head down. Intent on the grasshopper. He remembered running head first into the hard stone. Falling back on his seat. Looking up and screaming with fear and revulsion.

The bump on his head had hurt for days. He had cried each time he was bathed. But the sight he beheld when he fell backwards was worse than pain. It was pain personified. Pain revered. Worshipped.

His first screams had brought his father’s group running. He remembered being beyond himself with fear. Screaming and wriggling. Not knowing whose outstretched arms to fall into for comfort.

He remembered being lifted. He remembered soothing sounds. He remembered having his head inspected. He remembered screaming and shaking the entire time.

And he remembered the man on top of the stone pedestal. All dark. Arms stretched upwards. A tormented expression on the face. The mouth open. The eyes looking downward. Directly into his.

He cried and carried on so much that his father carried him to the automobile. Drove straight to the place they called home. Delivered him directly to the well paid, professional hands. Returned to his gleaming automobile. Drove away.

He remembered sleeping poorly that night. Remembered the shadows. The dark corners of his large room. Remembered the sounds of the old building groaning and complaining. He remembered the emptiness of the crisp white bed he slept in. Remembered the itchiness of the dressing that had been taped to his forehead. The efficient confidence with which he had been stripped, bathed and tended to. He remembered it all. Very clearly. As clearly as he remembered the total absence of love. Of any emotion. In the faceless hands that ministered to his needs. 

All other memories began for him when he was six.

It was September. HomeComing at his family’s university. He was with his father. His father’s friends were there. They had all brought along their sons. He remembered that every man they met had a son about his age by the hand. They all wore, as he did, a blue blazer, white shirt and trousers, shiny black shoes and a thin yellow tie.

This memory was easy to dredge up. It was very clear because for every HomeComing game for the next fifteen years he would dress in the same way. Accompany his father. Meet his father’s friends. Get to know the other progeny of the world’s elite.

The world’s elite. He chuckled to himself. All dressed the same. All proud of their damned yellow ties. Of their past. Of their present. Of their future. Of their superiority.

All lying, thieving, whoring bastards. All of them. Except him. And except Paulie.

They taught you all that and more in “their” university. They taught you how to lie better than anyone else. They taught you how to steal and get away with it. To even be commended for it. They taught you that whoring, abusing women was their god given right. Their booty in a world where the strong ruled and the weak suffered.

They taught that those who entered the glorious gates of their university were elite. Were strong. Were gods among modern man. They taught that common rules did not apply to those who benefited from the teaching of “their” revered institution. They taught that the world and those who ruled it belonged to the elite. They taught that the elite rarely stood in the limelight. They taught that true power was the power that came from behind the source. The power that made rulers and aristocrats was true power. Was their power.

Their university would be a focal point of his life up until his early twenties. Up until the time his father passed away.

4) While Sleeping

It was after his father passed on that he had a chance to learn more about his family. About his father. About himself.

It was only then that he gained access to the volumes of family documents. The contracts, deeds and letters of agreement. It was only then that he understood why his garndfather’s study was always locked.

His father had always been distant. Always busy. Always gone. There was a time that the only annual calendar event where he could be sure to see his father was the HomeComing festivities at their university. He had once gone an entire year without seeing him. Gone an entire twelve months with only messages delivered by paid professionals. Hand written notes signed by his father but written by another hand. Post cards sent from exotic lands by private pouch and delivered by friendly yet hurried staff. No one could ever explain what his father was doing or even, at times, where he was.

In his early days of schooling he would track his father’s travels on a map of the world as big as a billboard. He would receive a card or a memo and, if it mentioned where he was, he would place a colored pin in that location on his map.

His geography lessons would often consist of reciting the locations his father visited. His tutors would be pleased if he could name the city, the country and explain something important about the location. Often, it was enough to state that his father owned a factory there.

When his father spent time at the place everyone called home he would unlock the huge old library that had been his grandfather’s study. He new it had been his grandfather’s study for two reasons. One, it had a painting of the old man over the main fireplace. And two, he had once, when six or seven, been admonished for playing in his grand father’s study by one of the withered, old housekeepers. If his father was not in residence the door remained locked; the drapes would remain pulled shut. No one would enter to dust or clean.

His father would often return unannounced. The staff would be in a frenzy as the great man drove up in some predatory looking automobile. Leaving his bags in the automobile, his father would stride through the grand entrance. Walking directly to the study. He would unlock the door. Telling the housekeeper what time he expected to begin working. When he did this everyone knew he would be staying for more than a short while. If he entered and went directly to his suite of rooms it was clear that he would not be staying long.

There had been a few times, not many, when his father had made every appearance of living in the place others called home. Then the great study would remain unlocked for months. Grand automobiles driven by dark suited men would bring the elite of the world to this place called home. Bring the elite of the world to consult and pay homage to his father.

Or so he had thought. He had spent the majority of his young life believing his father was a man among men. A true leader.

Throughout the years of his primary education he saw his father as a hero in a world of mediocrity. His father was a king’s king. One of the few elite on the planet who was wise, just and trust worthy.

His primary education took place in the East wing of the place they called home. There the tutor of the day had his apartment adjacent to the fully furnished classroom.

He remembered being dressed every morning at eight o’clock, fed his breakfast of juice, toast and one three minute egg. Wiped clean and marched to the East wing. He remembered learning his basic mathematics, his early history and geography, his first music lessons and, of course, his first lessons in business and finance. All while looking though the same windows at the same scene year after year.

The education was designed to prepare him for a life of power. He spoke French and German (and read Latin) by the time he was twelve. His lessons were in one of the four main languages and often a combination of two would be used.

He learned modern thought and philosophy by reading the great philosophers in their native language. He was versed in the theories of Euclid. Knowledgable of the world’s mondern countires. He knew who or what ruled the important countries and could discuss social and ethnic problems existing or inherant in each. Educational trips were taken to all points on the globe. Well paid, professional scholars tutored him in the classics. Opened his mind to many wonders. Tended him as one would a valuable, exotic, poisonous flower. Tended him with cold, calculated logic. Nurtured him with respect and fear.

In Spetmeber, after his twelvth birthday, he was driven by his tutor of the day to meet his father at their university. He had assumed it was their yearly outing to the HomeComing game but was surprised when a number of heavy, leather bags were deposited on the road side where they were to meet his father.

Either they were early or his father was late. They wiated almost fifteen minutes.

 5) The Light of Day

The first William W. Wilkinson left very little information about his early years. His date and palce of birth is unconfirmed if not unknown. There is no reference in any documents to his parents. His swarthy good looks lent one to believe he was of Italian or Spanish decnet. His skill with languages was a matter of awe to all who ever met the man.

The Anglo name belied the speculation that WWW Sr. was a Jew. His refined, european manners and his skill with languages made people suspect. But his thouroughly Anglo ways (including attending church services) moved him through the speculation, and upward in life.

It is known that he was not young when he traveled to the european continent to join the world as they took sides and fought one another from trenches dug in the earth. That he was penniless when he enlisted is a fact. That he was fluent in no less than three European languages is fact. It is also fact that his mental and physical abilities allowed him to rise in rank and status in those trenches. He entered the army as a simple enlisted private and left as a field commissioned officer.

He worked for military intelligence. Gathering what information he could by crossing lines and gaining confidences. His work eventually caught the eye of some elite in the European High Command. That was the beginning of the now upwardly mobile William W. Wilkinson.

His role as a soldier was never that of a soldier. His was the world of intrigue and intelligence. He was known by his rank by his supriors only. It was often thought that he had too much freedom, too much latitude. But his results were impressive. His worth was incalculable.

As the war came to an end his contacts on both side were sufficient for him to be given the covert assignment to stay on in Europe and monitor the situataion covertly. His cover had always been that of a somewhat wealthy industrialist. With the war ending and industry moving from manufacturing death to serving a new and blooming consumer market WWW Sr. stepped in and began to become incredibly wealthy.

His contacts with the miltary on both sides of the past conflict were obscure at best. It is known that he had contacts in the High Command of every country in Europe. Access to both political and military leaders in many countries. His influence and resources were wide spread. And so, eventually, were his financial holdings.

By the mid 20s WWW Sr. had industrial holdings throughout Europe, in Asia and in South America. He had homes in Europe and America. He traveled incessantly. Seeking new oportunities. Expanding his holdings.

It was in the mid 1920s that WWW Sr. began to move his textile empire East and South. He sold most of his European holdings. Moved from the “old country” to Asia and South America. It was in these new lands that he found a wealth of cheap labour. Much like the industrialists of the late 1800s, WWW Sr. wanted cheap, unskilled labour in a land where unions and workers rights were nonexistant. 

6) …

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Posted in confined, STORIES: WORKS IN PROGRESS

Posted by: nativeiowan | April 26, 2009

grey night

The sky is a wash of gray and blue. The world. As far as the eye can see. Muted tones. No bright pastels. Glowing cobalts. Streaks of brilliant light. Not tonight. This eve’s artist is in a gray mood. This eve’s artist is using a minimalist’s pallet. Is using a wide brush. With little color.

A busy day. Woke up late. Didn’t get my usual hour before work. The day was bright then. Bright and hot. A group of guys moving several cubes of timber. The timber is in the depot. I want it in the workshop yard. 10 guys. Several hundred heavy, hardwood boards. They complained of the heat.

They got half way done today. Complained of sore shoulders. The two-by-fours are easy enough. The six-by twos and six-by-threes are a struggle. The ten-by twos and six-by-sixes make them groan. It’s all vitex. The hard, heavy blond timber I love to build with. I joke with them. Playfully complain – you’re only carrying one? –

The sea is flat. Hardly a ripple on the surface. A mirror. Reflecting the gray sky. A squall hides Simbo. Thick and black. No visible movement. No sound. Just a curtain of a darker shade. Hanging. From sea to sky. Drawn across the view. Hiding something? Protecting what? An evil deed? An act in progress?

Did another heavy job last Friday. Good Friday. We were suppose to work half a day. A barge came in with 130 drums of fuel. Had to be unloaded and put away. A big timber-working machine I bought came in too. It weights 1.380 metric tonnes. Over three thousand pounds. Of solid, dead weight.

We greased up a bunch of timbers. Grabbed a couple six-foot steel pry bars. Get the timbers under the crate. Tie a rope around the crate. A couple guys behind, pushing. A couple guys in front, pulling. It did not want to move. 1380kgs resisting our efforts. Qalo said the job would be easy.

 – Easi fo iu ia – as we say in pidgin. Started moving it around 11:30. By 2:00 we had it in the depot. I wanted it through the depot and down the road 50 meters. In the workshop. Out of the crate. I wanted to plug it in. Wanted to play with my new machine.

4pm we had it in front of the workshop. 20 feet, up hill, to the door. A small hill but we were shot. Got a come-along out. Started pulling it in. A truck of drunk Choiseul guys. Celebrating an early Easter. They stop and come to lend a hand. All smiles and noise. It worked.

The breeze is light. Palms moving leisurely. Lazily. Mountains of clouds build the horizon. Stationary. As though guarding. Protecting. Adding to. Accentuating the over all theme. The preponderance of the vague. A minor statement on a grand scale. A statement of majesty and beauty. Understating the power. Building up. Held. Possessed by. The gray clouds.

I got the machine set up over the weekend. It’s a single head planer with a 630-millimeter bed. Bought it to machine my rough sawn timber. The bed is wide enough for slabs. I’m looking forward to my next projects… use the machine to carve rockers for chairs. How’about a rosewood rocking chair?

Or machine ,off cuts, real thin. Dove tail small boxes of light wood. Inlay the thin off cuts into the dark wood. Combine the blond vitex with the dark red rose wood? I also want to experiment with bending the wood. Machine pieces thin. Steam them then bend them into shapes… coat racks? Hall trees?

The darkness is thick. The gray of the eve has led to impenetrable blackness. Frogs sing. Wind has died down. It started raining about 4pm. Came down pretty good. A nice change from the blistering hot day. Looks like it’s here for the night. Be fun to see what my timber carriers complain about tomorrow.

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Posted in grey night, STORIES: ISLAND MAGIC

Posted by: nativeiowan | April 26, 2009

Sum Like It Hot

Posted by: nativeiowan | April 21, 2009

Yapo

His name was Yapo. Born “before time blo missionary”. His home was the wild eastern Solomons. The island of Santa Cruz was his birth place.

It was on these islands that Alvero de’Mendana eventually died. Long before the other islands of the Solomons saw a “white-man” the Eastern Islanders had not only seen but had defeated and eaten these new comers. They found both the killing and the eating to their liking.

Yapo’s tribal affiliations were harsh and demanding. Before memories of her were formed, his mother had been carried off and murdered by marauding tribal enemies. She did though, before her unfortunate disappearance, carry out the ritual piercing of his ears and nose. Such were the signs of a warrior.

Yapo had been “traded” around the tribe’s available wet nurses and by the time he was 5 years old he lived in the house of Kapu, a respected and powerful chief-of-chiefs.

It was at this age when he was “given” away as intertribal collateral or security and it is here that our story begins…

In “island custom” there are times when one tribe may hold claim over another. Such claims my be for minor  (or major) transgressions. Basically, the tribal party of the first part lays a claim against the tribal party of the second part. They would seek “compensation” for the perceived wrong. In lieu of payments as demanded and to be negotiated, collateral, in this case Yapo, was often sent to the aggrieved tribe. The aggrieved tribe could not dare harm or even inconvenience such collateral. Until the “due-date, that is. If they did, a counter claim would quickly be laid against them.

And perhaps the ancestors would become displeased.

In Yapo’s case his tribal benefactor had “one moon” to make a payment of acceptable value or, sadly, young Yapo’s life would be forfeit.

In the Eastern Islands of the Solomons payment could be in the form of pigs, garden produce, human currency (preferably young females) or the prized and rare belts of red-feather money, “Twau”.

Twau is unique to the Eastern Solomons and is a story unto it’s self.

Made of woven bush-materials and the breast feathers of the male “Mzgza” bird. Each Twau takes years to make. Birds are trapped, the desired feathers removed, then  it is released. The feathers are cunningly glued to the belt to make a lush, brilliant red coil of feathers and string. Measuring up to 5 meters in length, each single belt is a masterpiece of singular beauty. Each belt possesses a story of provenance stretching from the time of its inception, through the many years of its development and use. Each Twau is tribally important and to hand one over to “another tribe” is both a disgrace and a financial set back.

It was feather money, not pigs or women that Yapo’s captors were waiting for. Feather money, or blood…

As is the case throughout the Melanesian archipelago: Each region has it own unique peculiarities. In the Savage western islands the tribes traveled in  massive war canoes. Paddled by over 40 warriors, these dreadnaughts of the islands ferried the blood feuds from island to island. These warriors favored long shafted fighting axes with strong, woven shields for defensive aggression. Malaitan warriors favored a strangely shaped wooden club, which could double as both a spear, a shield and at times even a paddle. The eastern warriors were multi hulled sailors and favored bows and arrows to close-hand fighting. For hand-to-hand combat they preferred  spears or heavy “iron-wood” clubs…

Old chief Kapu was terribly unhappy about the claims being levied against his tribe.

One of the younger males had been caught on the wrong side of the tribal boundary. He was of course caught with a young maiden and as such the transgression was compounded. Rather than standing and fighting like a true warrior, this young fool ran when he was found-out. And he ran straight to Kapu. Begging for protection he had led the perusing warriors to Kapu’s village.

As a respected leader, a well known warrior and a chief-of-chiefs Kapu found the armed entry into his compound terribly hard to accept. Yet, with the cringing youth at his feet he could do little. He could not lie. He could not laugh or bluff. He had to stand tall. He felt lucky that he had his feathers of station standing proud in his nose holes. His carved bone piece was held level in the hole between his nostrils. As he stood he new he cut an imposing image.

He collected his war club, stood to his full height and cast a baleful eye on those entering his home, unwelcome. His stare slowed them down but, and it was unfortunate, the eldest son of his friendliest enemy, Maena, had led the group. Maena’s son was no callow youth. He was being trained to replace his father and knew the custom ways well.

Ensuring he broke no rules of etiquette the young chief stated his claim, stated the deadline and demanded security on the claim then walked out of Kapu’s village without a backwards glance. The security would be delivered within one day or the deal of one month’s grace was off. It would be full tribal war. War until suitable retribution was reached. And in times of war, retribution has a way of adding up; each act of injurious warfare added to the list of retribution required.

This encounter had left old Kapu both shaken and invigorated…

Kapu had a great reputation as a warrior and raid leader. In these islands there were no real battles. There were never enough men to stage a head-to-head fight. Rather the warring parties would stage “raids”. Small numbers of warriors would attack a work party in the gardens. Or steal a few women or children who were too far from male protection. Seldom would a raid be carried out on a village. Such would be much to costly in terms of killed, maimed or injured warriors.

Kapu had been shaken because young Maena had addressed him as an equal. He knew that his strength was no match for these younger men. His blood boiled when he knew he could not curse the young warriors for trespassing. Could not order his young warriors to snarl and dance with war promised frenzy.

Age was a burden that sat heavy on Kapu’s shoulders that day. He was frustrated. Frustrated by the impediment of age. Frustrated that his relaxed life had been disrupted. Frustrated that his young clan member had been stupid enough to get caught with the maiden. Frustrated that the young clan member had run to him for protection rather than be dealt an honorable beating if not an honorable death.

Kapu had also been invigorated by the prospect of war. It had been many years since he and Maena had come to terms and settled generation-old disputes. They had traded pigs and taro. Maena had received a handful of young maidens and in return Kapu had received the same from Maena’s blood lines.

Each tribe had exchanged one belt of feather money. The symbolism here was that each tribe held a singularly valuable item of importance to the other tribe. The history, provenance of each belt was given with the belt ,making each tribe a caretaker to part of the other tribes’ past.

Kapu had seen into the situation clearly: This incident was a chance for Maena to either have his original belt of feather money returned or to gain one more belt from Kapu’s treasury.

Kapu found this proposition unacceptable and, with the taste of the slight he’d endured fresh in his month, experienced the warmth of the flow of war-juices in is veins.

Being a wiley and wise leader Kapu chose to sleep on the situation and decide what would come, tomorrow.

Before he slept Kapu sent word to the head of the clan of the young fool who had caused the problem. He wished to see him first thing in the morning.

That next morning was so lovely Kapu almost forgot he had problems. His youngest wife made such a pleasing sight, child on hip, breasts full and bouncing as she boiled yams for the morning meal. He had been content and even pleased with life.

Then Maneiapi, his kinsman, arrived as he had been ordered. He approached Kapu’s cook-house politely and scratched quietly at the door. He bowed low and entered with great respect after Kapu had gruffly acknowledged his presence.

It was obvious Maneiapi had been up all night. His eyes were red with smoke and lack of sleep. Being older than Kapu he was less excited than frightened by the prospects of war. He was beyond his raiding years and could only lose from the situation that had transpired. The perpetrator herein was a foolish, least favored nephew and Maneiapi had spent the night in an apoplectic rage. He was now, answering Kapu’s summons, drained and quite uncertain.

Kapu had every right to disown Maneiapi and his kinsmen. To pull his protection away, leaving Maneiapi and his small clan unprotected and at the mercy of Maena’s tribe. With no real wealth in Twau and little land he could bargain with, Maena could easily devour Maneiapi’s tribe, assimilate it into his own. It could well be the end of his “line”.

He needed Kapu’s good graces for the survival of his clan. He needed the backup of his Twau. The strength of the numerous warriors Kapu could command.

And Kapu had chose to show compassion. Maneiapi was an old and dear friend. Unhappy as he was, he could not disown Maneiapi. He was though unsure what he would do.

It was at this moment that Yapo stumbled onto scene. Literally. He had been sitting quietly by the fire but, being impatient for his breakfast and jealous of the baby at the teat Yapo had inadvertently overturned the stone pot of boiling yams.

Thus it was that Maneiapi was taxed with delivering Yapo to Maena’s village…

And the moon had passed quickly.

Old Kapu had paid little attention to the Yapo case. He was a busy man. He was not young any more. He had many wives. Many children. And had basically forgotten about Yapo.

He had given Maneiapi the chore of coming up with a solution. He had made it clear he would not part with another belt of feather money. Maneiapi would have to decide what could be done, offer a number of pigs and some of his line’s land or entice old Maena, perhaps, with a couple nice young maidens.

But Maneiapi had fallen ill after his night of aggravation and anger. The walk to Maena’s village (a fair hike for an elderly gentleman) had done little good. He was distraught and unwell. And nothing had been done about Yapo.

Until word had been sent to Kapu from Maena.

The moon had passed and a feast would be held in the honor of Yapo’s death. The pigs Maneiapi had sent would be cooked with his yams and taro. These would be prepared by his maidens. Next eve, Maena’s warriors would feast and dance. Dance themselves into a killing frenzy and young Yap’s blood would be spilt on the ground as Maena’s spears and clubs drank deeply.

As the words of death were carried to him by Maena’s emissaries Kapu felt his fondness for Yapo.

Yapo was a finely knit youngster. Engaging and animated. Broad of shoulder and healthy of wind and muscle. With no blemishes he had often entertained Kapu as he played or assisted the women in their work. Kapu had seen in Yapo a fine warrior and potentially a strong leader.

It was at this moment that Kapu decided to save Yapo. If he could.

Technically he was almost out of time. The attempts of restitution made had been rejected. No single measure or action on Maena’s part had been contrary to custom. He had every right to take anything offered to him but he alone stood to judge as what he deemed as fair compensation for the crime committed.

It was then that Kapu decide what he would do…

Yapo had initially been angered then frightened by the situation which he could not understand. He was sitting merrily by the fire, had made a minor mistake and upset the breakfast pot but had not expected to be lifted bodily by his hair and chased out of the village. Upsetting the pot was worth a good whipping but the resulting anger and violence had left him confused and frightened.

Kapu had grabbed him by the hair and handed him to Maena. Maena being too old to lift the stout child had snatched up a sago palm switch and started whipping the child, driving him ahead of him as he walked out of Kapu’s Village.

Yapo had screamed for help but understood quickly, by a single glance at Kapu, that no help was forthcoming. Instead he had attempted to stay out of range of the switch and was summarily marched through the jungle until he arrived at Maena’s village.

Old Maneiapi was unhappy with the situation, with Kapu’s reaction and even more with the long walk to Maena’s village. In his anger he employed the switch ruthlessly. Only once had Yapo attempted to run back, dodging around Maneiapi only to be grabbed by the hair, thrown to the ground and whipped until he scurried out of the old man’s reach.

Upon entering the strange village Yapo had been frightened beyond all possibilities. The warriors of Maena’s tribe had known of Maneiapi’s arrival and had lined the path leading to the Chief’s  house. In full regalia the warriors were imposing with their polished earplugs jiggling, their nose feathers swaying and their feet stamping as they performed their aggressive dance. As they brandished their spears and clubs and screamed ferociously.

Even old Maneiapi was frightened for his life. There was no telling how well these young warriors would control his blood lust once danced into frenzy. Maena and Maneiapi had never been friendly. Maneiapi was jealous of Maena and had laughed at him when he could. He was far from certain that Maena would let him leave unharmed.

Then everything changed…

The imposing figure of Maena was waiting outside his house. The double line of warriors led to him. He stood tall, composed and imposing. As those near him danced, stamped and screamed, Maena stood with a distant look on his face.

Maneiapi had changed. He held Yapo close to him, protectively, knowing that the warriors would be less inclined to club him if he was close to the child. His self-preservation was misinterpreted by Yapo as affection. He clung to Maneiapi, and cried with fear.

With an unseen sign from Maena all noise stopped. He looked long at the sky then slowly lowered his gaze to Maneiapi and the child. His face was full of contempt as he gazed at the cowering old man. This was not the way for an honored elder to act. He should hold his head high and show no fear of death. To cling to the shell of life as the body became weak was disgusting. He glared at Maneiapi for a long moment as the old man groveled with the child in his arms.

Maena’s countenance changed as he surveyed the child being sent to him. A fine, strapping young male. Wide of shoulder and attractive in the face. His skin the color of a young coconut and his hair as bright as beach sand in the sun. His teeth were white and straight. He would make a good sacrifice and would ensure the loyally of warriors gone too long without blood. It would actually be a shame to allow such a fine child to be given to the ancestors. But a fine sacrifice would ensure happiness and prosperity for Maena and his tribe. He was well pleased.

Maena knelt slowly and with great kindness he reached out to the frightened child. He gently removed Maneiapi’s grasp from around Yapo and brushed dirt from his face as he drew him near. He held the child away from him and surveyed him closely. His face showed his pleasure and Yapo, with the skill of an orphan, read the pleasure in the stranger and gave a shy but teary smile in exchange.

With a word a woman appeared and swept Yapo into her arms. As Maena’s senior wife it would be her honor to care for this child, this sacrifice to the ancestors. She smothered him with kind words and caresses. He was promptly cleaned and fed. Such kindness was lavished upon him that he smiled and entertained his crowd of doting women and interested warriors. No children were allowed near him. He would be carried every where he went. He would be given the choicest foods. The next month would be some of the happiest times of his life.

Maneiapi was summarily chased like a cur out of the village…

And the Moon passed. Old Kapu had initially paid little attention to Yapo’s case. He was a busy man. He was not young any more. He had many wives. Many children. And had basically forgotten about Yapo.

He now called his senior warriors. Instructing them to scout the trails and boundaries joining Maena’s territory. He required to know who was watching. Was the message of death a cunning ploy or was Yapo to die?

He then paid a visit to Maneiapi. In exchange for his planned actions Maneiapi would “give” him the youth who had caused the problems. This coward would become a “slave” in Kapu’s house. Kapu had every intention of working this fool to near death before he married him to a minor niece in his household. But first he would travel with him to Maena’s village. With luck one of Maena’s warriors would be provoked into violence at the sight of the perpetrator. This could only serve to assist Kapu’s position.

Lastly Kapu went to his cookhouse and removed Maena’s Twau. He was loath to part with any of his wealth but returning this single piece would potentially be perceived as an insult and would protect the tribe from losing more of their history. He would act as though he cared little for Maena’s Twau. Once again, if his actions were reacted to, he would gain and possibly lay a claim of his own against Maena…

It was a feast day and everyone was excited.

Yapo had woke early. His Matron washed him thoroughly and dressed him in a beautifully made “tapa” loincloth. A finely engraved bone was placed in his nose-hole. Magnificent feathers were placed, two on each side, into the small holes on the side of each nostril. Small “gold-lip” plugs were placed in his ear holes. A chiefly breastplate of the same gold shell was hung around his neck. A headband of string, petrified clamshell and turtle shell was woven into his hair.

Yapo danced and played but was gently controlled by his matron. A finely woven pandanas mat was laid in front of Maena’s house and Yapo placed upon it. As Maena’s tribal members arrived for the proceedings they deposited gifts of fine delicacies and valuable trinkets on the mat in front of Yapo.

He tasted all the foods and played with all the trinkets.

The day passed quickly. Yapo sat with his Matron on the mat. Alternately eating, playing or napping. He was touched and patted by all. Everyone seeking good luck from the ancestors who was manifest in this young sacrifice. The gifts of food would make the sacrifice more pleasing to the ancestors. The trinkets were a show of respect.

The atmosphere was gay and festive. Everyone was happy.

Except the warriors chosen to do honor to the sacrifice. These men stood aloof. Lining, in social ranking, from most important to least; They were a guard of honor stretching from Maena’s house, where Yapo sat, through the center of the village and spreading our to create a picket around the village.

They stood tall and proud. Their feathers and bones creating an imposing visage. Their breastplates and headpieces gleaming in the sun. Their weapons held motionless yet at ready.

When the food had been cooked and distributed to each clan according to custom. When the entire tribe was gathered. The elders of each clan drew near to Yapo’s mat. The youthful males stood close behind. The women and girls gathered on the fringes. The warriors stood statuesque and frightening. Casting their protective stares over the masses of expectant spectators. No one fidgeted. Not a sound was heard.

When all was in readiness Maena appeared behind Yapo and raised his voice in greeting to the ancestors.

He called upon them by name. Welcoming them to this feast. Enquiring upon their well being and bestowing praise and honor on each, from the most to least important.

With the mention of each Ancient’s name the warriors would stamp and shout. With a loud “GHWAA” the earth would shake. For each of the names, spanning over fifteen generations, this salute was offered. And with each offering the warriors’ blood grew hotter.

The heat increased and the warriors were soon ‘dancing”. Stamping and brandishing their weapons. They were working themselves into a frenzy. A frenzy of religious zeal, pent-up energy and promised bloodletting.

There was blood in the air as Maena offered Yapo, by name, to the Ancestors.  There was a palatable energy as Maena beseeched the Ancestors to protect the tribe from malevolent spirits, sickness, pestilence, bad weather, strong enemies, poor harvests, barren women, cowardly warriors and a long list of other potential woes.

Maena stood tall and erect. His voice trembled with passion. Tear streamed down his face. He stamped and shouted with the warriors and felt the juices of war flow through his veins. He raised his arms to the sky above, raising his voice proudly to the Ancestors he sincerely offered the sacrifice to the honor of those who had gone before.

The warriors were dancing into position to be part of the blood letting. Everyone was crowding forward. This was a fine sacrifice. One that would become part of their tribal history. It was important for each warrior to be part of the kill. To wet their weapons. To do honor to the Ancestors and to their clans. It was important for all present to actually witness the sacrifice. To be part of the bloodletting, even if only to view that magical movement when the suffice would become one with the Ancestors…

A loud and demanding cry was heard from the jungle path leading to the village.

All gathered had been so intent on the proceedings that none saw or heard Kapu’s approaching party. It startled and angered Maena’s tribe.

Kapu shouted again.

Calling out that he had, according to custom, come to redeem the crime of his clansman. That he came in peace and expected nothing less.

He entered the village standing tall. Dressed in his finest he carried Maena’s Twau on a stick over his shoulder. The Twau was exposed for all to see. To be recognized as the Twau of their tribe.

Behind Kapu walked his frightened clansman. Dressed as a warrior he had been warned that any show of fear or cowardice could possibly mean death, on the spot, by Maena’s warriors but would definitely mean death, once they returned home, by Kapu’s own hand. He stood firm but privately was shaken to his core.

Kapu strode directly to where Maena stood. He looked neither right nor left. He paid no attention to the shouts or taunts of the warriors on either side. His eyes were locked on Meana’s and he enjoyed what he saw.

Meana was visibly shaken. Kapu had timed his entrance perfectly. His intrusion would cost Maena dearly. The Ancestors do not like being called upon. And, once called upon, they would not like going without the promised sacrifice.

Kapu Stood before Maena as an equal. He shifted the Twau in the direction of the senior warrior on Maena’s right. With a simple movement he shrugged the load off his shoudler and toward the warrior. Caught off guard the warrior had to either accept the burden or let it fall.

Once accepted it could not be returned, without insult.

He then cast his eye toward Yapo. He smiled inwardly as he saw the finery and valuable items on and around Yapo. He had forgotten how much pleasure the sight of Yapo gave him. He was well pleased.

He glared hard at the Matron who cowered low, hiding her head with her hands. With a grunt from Kapu she crawled from Yapo’s side and off the mat.

With a swift movement Kapu collected Yapo and slung him high onto his shoulders, leaving his hands free. He then turned to survey the gathering. He looked each warrior in the eye until each looked away. He stared with recognition at each of the elders and reveled as they lowered their gaze to the ground. At last he returned his eye to Maena.

Maena looked like an old woman. The teary eyes and the dry lips. He did not look away but his gaze was weak and compliant.

With a curt nod Kapu motioned his companion to collect the mat containing the various offerings. With quick movements each corner was gathered and the entire mat was pickup, sack like. He looked tentatively at Kapu but, feeling the advantage, raised himself high and proud and turned to leave.

Kapu followed slowly. Savoring the victory. Savoring the submissive attitude. Savoring the damage he singularly had inflicted on Maena and his tribe. It was a great victory that would be talked about for generations… 

Yapo lived a long and fruitful life. His story was and is recounted often. And many times  over his long life, by himself, for the benefit of his large and eclectic family.

Yapo died in 1996. He was a respected member of the Anglican Church. He was buried with all church rights and tribal honors. He is buried at Lata, Temotu Province, Solomon Islands. His family lives near by and still passes his tale to the “next” generations.

 

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Posted in STORIES: WORKS IN PROGRESS, Yapo

Posted by: nativeiowan | April 19, 2009

A Cyclonic Night

You can hear it coming… It’s very hard to describe. The first time (for the several first few times) it’s scary as hell to hear. It starts kinda quiet. A back ground kinda sound. Like rollers pounding the beach. You hear it. But have to pause to identify what you hear. Far away. Silent. Coming.

It’s the Doppler effect that throws you. The red shift as they call it. It has to do with sound moving slower as it comes towards you but moving faster as it meets and passes you. Or some such bs I failed to learn in Astronomy 101. It’s coming. Quietly. At first. Then louder… louder.

If you had to describe it… An army of thousands, hundreds of thousands, millions. On the move. An air borne army. Wingless yet flying. Borne by the air. Carried by the wind. Bearing down. Directly in it’s path. You sit. Listening. Waiting. Wondering. If only it was. An army of thousands. If only it was.

The sound gets louder. Clearer. The ocean is a drum. A drum having the shit beat out of it. The wind is the alto and tenor to the drums’ booming bass and baritone. More sounds appear. Voices in the air. Airborne voices belonging to the faceless army. Wind competing with the drum. Alto versus Bass.

Or, is it alto and bass coming after you? The wind and the sea? Air and water. Two of the four original elements. Coming. Just for you. Where is fire and earth? Are they on your side? Lurking somewhere behind the other two? No time to run. No time to hide. It’s coming. Coming fast.

Wind hits first. A tremendous blow. Shaking the dwelling. Feel it lift? Strain to hold the earth? Is earth on your side? Will it let go? Let you, your dwelling go blowing away? Like Dorothy in the twister? Not a single blow. You realize. But a sustained effort to evict you from your rooted stance.

You hold on. Hold your dwelling to the earth. With your toes. Your eyes, ears… your will. Another strong gust. The dwelling rocks. The roof screams. Strains to hold. The walls shiver. Twist. Your bed shakes. Get up? Run? Where to? Outside? Into the wind? The fury. The fury trying to move you? Destroy you?

Feel it weaken? Gusts subside. Move on. You sigh. Relief. Then the noise. The army of thousands… millions. Upon you. A single blow. A million single blows. You are the drum. A drum hammered by a million pellets. Pellets of water. Not rain drops. Not these. Drops are little. Little and meek. These, big and fierce.

Your equilibrium has been damaged. You thought it was over. Or ending. Almost ready to relax. Roll over. Pull the sheets up. Dream a sweet dream. Forget about the wind. The noise. Forget about the sea thundering and the wind howling. No chance of standing now. Running… out of the question. Lie tight. Hang on.

The rain beats you. Driving into the earth what the wind could not uproot. The sound deafens. The tin roof now the drum. You’re inside. The windows rattle. You wish you’d ran outside. Into the Wind. The rain. Away from the dwelling. The dwelling has no chance. No chance in hell. Against such a force.

It’s a long, long night. Tiring Sleepless. Frightening. Lonely. Alone with the wind. The rain. Alone with the sounds. The noise. The dwelling moving. Being moved. Being twisted. Being torn. Brutalized. Abused. Vandalized. Victimized. Whipped and beaten. You console yourself. Stupid thoughts, really. But, at least, it could be worse; you could be at sea. 

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Posted in STORIES: ISLAND MAGIC

Posted by: nativeiowan | April 14, 2009

It seemed like a good idea

Chapter 1

It seemed like a good idea. At the time, all things considered, it seemed like a damn good idea. At the time I must have been stricken with a form of momentary dementia. Must have lost my marbles. Something must have slipped. It did seem like a good idea, A fine idea, at the time.

Now, it was all a bad, bad mistake. I wanted to take it all back. Recant my decision. Be automatically transported away from here. Back to where I was safe. Dry. Well. Not threatened. Not beaten. Not battered. Not freezing. I wanted out. Away. Away from this rolling, heaving deck. Away. From this angry sea.

I look up at Kev. He’s hanging on to the ship’s wheel. Hanging on for grim death. Every time a wave kicks us. Beats us. Batters us.  Kev hangs onto the wheel to keep from being washed over board. The wheel wobbles rocks in its pedestal. At what point? Kev, wheel, all. Going over board?

I lie on the deck. Arms wrapped around a small alloy rail. Another wave washes the decks. Attempts to clear all, everything from this very small craft. I keep my head pressed to the deck. Lifted it once. Earlier. A wave hit. Smacked my head to the timbers. Scrambled my brains. I almost let go.

Charlie hollers from below decks. I scoot over to the hatch. He’s lifting up a bucket. Dirty, oil tainted water. I take it. Spilling some on my legs. It’s warm. Feels good. I toss it overboard. Give the bucket back to Charlie. The oily water up to his shins. He fills it again. And again.

I lie back. Wrap my arms around the rail. Another wave. Kev’s feet wash out from under him. More water into the boat. I am freezing. I am sick. I hate this. I want out. Away. Now. I made the wrong decision. And it’s all too late. The sea will win if we give up.

The sea will take this vessel and drive it to the briny deep. It will take our soft skinned bodies and turn them into wrinkled cartoon versions of us. It will feed our sweet flesh to the creatures of the deep. It will freeze us. Beat us. Torture us. Humiliate us. Humble us. Before it finally drowns us. 

Charlie calls. I hug the warm bucket. Let the oily, liquidy brine spill down my front. It feels good. For a moment. But, like the sea, it lies. Promising warmth I smile. Then it changes, quickly. The chill of my skin. My bones. I empty the bucket. Pass it back to Charlie. Continuing his labors.

His task? To keep the boat afloat. A liter water bottle in hand. It’s top cut off. The boat filling up. Sinking. Sinking. A red bucket. He must empty the boat. Keep it afloat. The bilge too narrow for the bucket. Use the water bottle. One liter at a time. Fill the red bucket. Again.

How much longer? How many hours? Now? How many days? How much longer? Soaked through. For an eternity. So sick there is nothing left to regurgitate. I lie. Still. Cling to the deck. Wretch. Stomach muscles knotting. Straining. Nothing there. Pain. Suffering. I wish. Long. That I had been a bit smarter. Not so stupid.

How did this happen? Me? Who hates boats. Gets seasick easily. The farm boy. Never this stupid before. What happened to me? Why the digression? What could have changed? To make me think this was a good idea? Another wave. Washes my body across the decks. I hold on. Soaked through. Freezing. I don’t understand. How?

It seemed like a good idea. At the time, all things considered, it seemed like a damn good idea. At the time I must have been stricken with a form of momentary dementia. Must have lost my marbles. Something must have slipped. It did seem like a good idea, A fine idea, at the time.

My buddy Big Kev had been talking of moving his yacht from Gizo to Honiara for ages.  Damn near every time I saw him he spoke of the trip. Talked of what a good sail it would be. “Thirty hours in a straight line. Leave on Saturday and be to work Monday morning. Not a problem.”

Kev. One of these guys whom you automatically trust. He’s big. Robust more than big. Robust and big. He knows a lot about a lot. Is eager, even generous, to share what he knows. He often travels fast and lose with the facts but, when the crunch comes, he knows a lot about a lot.

Kev’s had a multitude of experiences Crock hunter, ship-owner, miner, baker, farmer, butcher, candle stick maker… you get the idea. He’s interesting. Has a good sense of humor. Well, It may suffice to say that he is one of those characters that you tend to meet in a little back water spot like Gizo: Definitely larger than life.

Kev had sailed to Gizo in early 1998. He had set up shop next door to my depot. At the fisheries center. He had rented the wharf and shop space to work on his boat. I’d seen the boat come in. I’d seen a big guy walking through town. But paid little notice of it.

Somewhere along the line, while walking past the fisheries, I heard a tirade of verbal abuse being thrown about. Being nosey I rubber necked to see what was happening. It was the big yachtie I’d seen. Was going ballistic on an employee. I was to learn later that Kev has a habit of going ballistic.

We all got to know Kev quickly. He’d bought the yacht in PNG. It’s a 46-foot fiberglass hull with a ketch rig. The hull of good pedigree. You could tell at a glance that it had been a pretty snazzy vessel in its day. You could also tell “that day” had been some time ago.

Kev was around Gizo a bit over six months. He bought timber. Re-did the boat’s decks. Worked on replacing much of the hardware. Started renovating the interior. Basically was doing a refit in our quiet little backwater. I learned that he had recently sold a big cattle “station” (Australian for a “Ranch”) in West Queensland.

He had also been working in PNG. There he’d bought the yacht. Somewhere along the line he’d decided to come to Gizo and fix it up. He was no stranger to the Solomons. He’d run ships through these islands in the 70’s. By the sounds of it he was coming back for an early retirement.

Eventually he had flown to Honiara to get things for the boat. Then not returned. We all thought it odd. Later found out that he had been offered a job working for a guy he knew from the “old days”. So there he was in Honiara. Running a hardware business, his yacht sitting in Gizo.

Damn near every time I saw Kev he’d talk of sailing from Gizo to Honiara. Talk of what a good trip it would be. “Thirty hours in a straight line. Leave on Saturday and be to work Monday morning. Not a problem.” It was one of those subjects that were fun, interesting if not repetitive.

So the months go by. Kev’s settling well into Honiara. I see him on my frequent trips to town. Perhaps I needle him about the boat sitting in Gizo. Perhaps I get tired of hearing him talk about the trip. Eventually I decide: If he gets it organized, and soon, I’ll sail back with him.

Chapter 2

And It seemed like a good idea. At the time, all things considered, it seemed like a damn good idea. At the time I must have been stricken with a form of momentary dementia. Must have lost my marbles. Something must have slipped. It did seem like a good idea, A fine idea, at the time.

My cold, miserable state. Not comforted. Suffering. The thought: – I brought this all upon myself. I am to blame. Solely. Completely. Utterly. It is my fault. –  I had forced Kev’s hand. Had goaded him too many times in public. For a laugh. At his expense. To the delight of others. Now I pay.

The cock pit area is recessed into the deck about eight inches. It is self-bailing with scuppers all around. It fills up like a bathtub when the waves crash upon us. I lie crammed up against the starboard side. Trying to hide from the wind. Making myself less than eight inches high. Hiding.

Hiding from the wind. From the waves. Hiding from the cold and the misery. From my sore, wrenched guts. Hiding from the boat heaving. From the sail flapping. Hiding from the rigging screaming. From the sound of the engine. Hiding from the smell of the exhaust. From everything. Especially my thoughts. Yes. Especially my thoughts.

I hear the engine mocking me. The rhythmic wop – wop – wop – wop – wop… is laughing at my suffering. I hear it say – you had a plane ticket – Again and again. I hear it laugh as another wave crashes upon us. Another wave patiently tries to suck me off the ship. Suck me into the sea.

The long ago catholic in me tries to remember the act of contrition. The words are lost. But I want to be contrite. I am sorry. I didn’t really mean it. I was only joking. All those times I’d rib Kev about the boat. Sitting in Gizo… It was all a joke. A playful joke…

I’d pester him whenever I could… If I had some free time, knew I’d be in Gizo, I’d get after him. Send him faxes. Say I was ready for this “great trip”. I’d frequently “have a go” at him about the yacht just sitting.  About this “great trip” we were missing. The missed adventure.

 It was the weekend of the 4th of July. Kev finally called my bluff.    ” The 4th” was a Friday.     The   ” 7th   (Independence Day in the Solomons) was on Monday we had a long, weekend filled public holiday.  Just what we needed.  Kev flew up Saturday.   We were to sail early Sunday.

 Kev arrived to find his boat less than ” ship shape “.     He had left a young Choiseul guy.   Charlie.   In charge of things.  Charlie had been a bit lax with his work ethic. Kev arrived to find all six ship’s batteries discharged. The engine would not start. Our trip was in peril of never beginning.

  Charlie’s instructions had been simple. Move the solar panel leads that charged the batteries from one battery to another.  For some reason this proved too hard. Instead he had drained them all.  Only one battery held any charge.  Though it did not have enough juice to start the four-cylinder engine.

It’s Saturday. Kev’s running around.  Screwing with his batteries.  Replacing the compass that had been stolen.   Digging sails out of the locker.   Starting and checking the engine.   Somewhere around noon he motored the boat to my wharf.   Fill up with fuel. Fill the eskie with ice. Load supplies.  Load beer.   Started drinking.

 Hell, this sailing business is easy.  Tie up to a wharf, sit back and pop another beer.   Damn, the beer ain’t real cold . . . run over   (Charlie!)   To fisheries.  Buy a bucket of ice for a dollar.   Fill the icebox to the brim.   Beer and flaked ice.   Hell I could sail forever.

 Hell. What do I know about sailing?   Nothing!  Nothing at all.  But this wharf side drinking is sure easy to learn. I think I could get good at this… Saturday passes us by.   Kev complaining, between beers – really should do more to the boat  -…   not technically ready to sail… – I open him another beer.

Kev fretted… The portholes had been removed.  They were somewhere below decks.  The forward hatch’s dogs   (the things that lock it down) had been removed.   They were somewhere with the missing portholes. The ship’s wheel had been taken out and not properly replaced. It wobbled a lot but the rudder turned.

 The new compass had a light.   But with flat batteries we could not check to ensure it had been hooked up correctly.  The engine ran. The batteries were in bad shape.  Kev had rigged a Genoa so we had sails.    We had cold beer.  Hell!  I figured we were ready to roll.

The wharf side drinking session. A bon voyage party. Several of the town’s worthy guzzlers. Visit. What’s up? Have a chat. Drink the ship’s supplies. We sit on the stern. Popping beers. Telling stories. Pat Purcell figured we were not yet ready. Peter Pabulu figured he’’ go too. His wife would have none of it.

 Kev, Peter and I decided to go to the hotel for supper.   We were pretty far-gone when we left the boat.  We walked / staggered to the hotel.   Once there, like true sailors about to leave port, we had a huge meal drank dozens of beers and prepared for the next day’s adventure.

 Somewhere in it all Peter decided that he needed to get Kev  “weighed”. We were all drunk. Now, Peter has a drunken habit of trying to chew his tongue and speak at the same time. He’s often hard to understand. I was drunk. He was drunk. Kev was drunk. Our chances of communication were slim.

– All the time you’ve spent here – Peter slurred  – I’ve never got you weighed. –  Kev and I exchange strange glances.   –  Mi like fo helpem you get weighed – Peter slurred on.  – Hem easi tu mus for me gettim you weighed. Mi savy, mi savy – he insisted time and time again.

I had a strange image of Peter deciding he needed to weigh Kev. Of more beers in the workshop. Ropes and weights. Pulleys and a chain block. Hanging things from the rafters. Peter getting caught up with his new project. Taking it scientifically. Playing the game of problem solver. Having fun. Until somebody gets hurt.

 – Mi savy one fella girlie.  – Peter’s head bobs drunkenly as he leers conspiratorially at Kev.   – By me go lukoutem hem. Hem young girlie.   By mi help gettem you weighed. – Kev and I both burst out laughing at the same time. Peter wants to get Kev laid, not weighed. The mystery solved.

We split up after supper.  Kev and Peter heading down the street. Arm in arm. Me, up hill. On my motorbike. Peter still slurring about getting Kev weighed. Kev still laughing at the impossible prospect (in such a drunken state) and the fun we’d had trying to figure out what Peter had been talking about.

And as we split up. Drunken. Safe, Sound. It still seemed like a good idea. It seemed like a damn good idea. At the time I was very drunk. Not ill with a form of momentary dementia. Good ol’ fashioned drunk. And it did seem like a good idea, A fine idea, at the time.

I woke feeling less than healthy. The first, of many, bad omens. I don’t care for boats. Don’t like being on them. They do not make me feel good. I get sick, quite easily, on boats. As I lay in my bed. Bile in my throat. Head pounding. I knew this was a jinxed trip.

It was later than 10:am when I got to the boat. Kev was up but moving slowly. Very slowly. – So much for an early start.– we both laughed. Set about getting ready to sail. For Kev this meant messing with the batteries. Charlie had re-drained the battery. We were back where we had started.

Kev is blowing his cool. Again. Ranting and raving at Charlie. Charlie looking perplexed. All he’d done is carried on with the party Kev and I had started. He’d just stayed on the boat. Turned the engine off. 12v Lights on. Drinking the beer we’d bought. And draining the battery we’d spent all day charging.

I check to see what the beer situation may be. We’d left a couple crates. Hadn’t thought that Charlie and the guys would finish it off. Hadn’t thought of no beer sales on Sunday. The prospect of a dry ship. I dig around the deep eskie. My hand freezing. I grasp an ice cold one.

I feel a couple more. Hell. Plenty buried deep. Deep and cold. Looks enticing. All night on ice… – Hey Kev. – I say as I pop the beer open. – Catch. – I delicately toss the open beer to him. Another magically appears in my hand. It sounds so good being popped. Tastes so good going down.

I’m amazed how well I take to this sailing stuff. And I was worried… felt jinxed… naw… no reason for worries. The boat is in fine shape. Who needs batteries? Who needs port holes? Or a compass with a light. Hell. Pass me another cold beer. I’m a sailor. I don’t know what worry means.

So the day passes. Readiness prevails. We steal the battery from my tractor. Charlie puts some cardboard over the portholes. – It’ll keep the water from dripping on your bed. – We scam another crate from a Chinese shop. We stop for lunch. (Working not drinking) The day is ending. Captain Kev reckons we’re ready to sail.

Chapter 3

And it still seemed like a good idea. Damn straight. At that time, right then. Drunk and happy. It seemed like a damn good idea. I admit it. I must have lost my marbles. I know something definitely slipped. Not like me. At all. Because it did seem like a good idea, at that time.

Either: I am getting better at hanging on to this toy boat getting kicked to hell in a very serious sea. Or, The seas are backing down. I lift my head to look around. A wave catches my head and tries to carry it away. My body aches. I am wet through. Froze through. I’m dying.

I am dying. Dying of stupidity. Insanity. I have lost track how long we’ve been having the hell kicked out of our scrawny asses. I remember leaving Gizo Sunday around 3pm. The trip out of Gizo was magic. A fantastic sun set. Good running seas. Brisk wind. The boat doing 10 knots. Motor sailing. Out, through the harbor.

Cold beer. Warm dusk. Sailing along nicely. The genoa pulled close. Filled with wind. The engine thumping. Happy for the help. 10 knots in a brisk following sea. We are running faster than the waves. It’s like surfing. Comfortable surfing.  Big boat surfing. Cold beer surfing. I’m in the captain’s chair. Steering with my foot.

My shirt is off. Balmy wind feels good. Old cut offs enough for my needs. Kev and Charlie are dressed similar. Shirtless with shorts. I leisurely puff a cigarette. Sip a cold beer. Steer with my foot. What a life. Sun setting behind us. Lighting up the Eastern sky. A light show. Just for us.

I had volunteered to be first round, chief cook. Figured we’d need a good feed the first night out. I had brought what I needed for my most basic one-pot-wonders. Noodles, onions, taiyo. Charlie took the wheel. Kev refreshes everyone’s beer. I head to the galley. Chatting how – sailing ain’t that bad. –

I do my wonders in fry pans. I put six onions in Kev’s little pan. Browned ‘em real good. Added soy. Pepper. Taragon. Get everything smelling good. Poured in some water. Mixed in the instant noodles. Added Taiyo. Stirred it all up. Cooked it until the bottom was crispy. Served it smothered in chili sauce. 

It’s dark. Stars are out. We’re into the new moon. It will be a moonless night. Kev hangs a small light above the compass. – It’s no light; no lookee where you go. – laughs Kev. –But it’s ok. The seas are fine… And I brought heaps of spare batteries. – We like his joke. Everyone laughs.

Life is good. The one pot wonder went down well. The sea is fine. I’m laying on the deck. To the starboard side of the wheel. Kev is steering easily. Charlie sits on the cabin. The stars shine like jewels. The small flash light Kev hung swings to and fro. Hypnotically. A gentle, contented swing.

Kev sets the watches… four hours at the wheel. Four hours on the deck keeping the helmsman awake. Four hours in the bunk. Charlie takes the wheel. I stay on the deck. Kev heads to his bunk. Charlie and I speak little. We smoke. I keep checking his heading. It’s a starry, starry night. Beautiful.

Charlie and I are still shirtless. The air is warm. The breeze fills the sail. Makes things comfortable. The engine’s throaty wop, wop, wop is pleasing to the ear. We hear Kev rustling around. I check my watch. Right on Midnight. Kev appears. Pantomime of a bear stretching. I head below. Rack time for Mike.

Chapter 4 …

1 Comment

Posted in It seemed like a good idea, STORIES: WORKS IN PROGRESS

Posted by: nativeiowan | April 13, 2009

For Nicole

heard from a friend

been silent too long

 

words of life an living

trials and adventures

changes and rethinking

 

reorganizing a personal inventory

creating a new set of symbols

 

wandering the concrete wilderness

surrounded by masses

forever alone

 

incessant searching

no markers on the Path

no assistance nor guide

wandering as lost

following no known trail

 

stumbling

at times falling

hurt

frustrated

 

feeling

lost

forlorn

 

sounds of laughter

warm lit room

door ajar

welcoming

 

cold wind

chilled

the bone

cutting

the tired core

 

Warmth

not to be

 

absent

perhaps remembered

touch

an anchor

 

holding

halting

 

movement

 

Forward

Forever Forward

 

Notice not

Warmth

Laughter

Touch

 

Attention fixed

The Path

The Journey

The Goal

 

age means nothing

time means nothing

nothing is important

not self

not want

not warmth

not touch

 

The Goal

The dream

The  abstract vision

 

one foot

at a time

 

lose yourself

your meaning

your importance

 

The Path

will teach

guide

carry

 

onward

the vision

Freedom

 

2 Comments

Posted in For Nicole, STORIES: NATURE AND ENERGY

Posted by: nativeiowan | April 13, 2009

Ron’s day

The day started. Glow of promise. Awoke. Predawn gray. Lie in my bed. Yawned. Stretched. Slowly woke. The light in the East glowing bright. Orange. After a week of rain. Storms. – We’ll have a nice day – I thought. Rolled over. Gazed South. Clear, calm sea. What a change. From the storms. Then I remembered.

The day before. Had woken. A gray, wet day. No change. Much to do. Through mud. To my office. Early. Working. Catching up. Gone too long in December. Neglecting the golden goose. Too long. Much to do. To catch up on. A call. The Doctor from the government hospital. Old Ron. The cranky Texican. Dead.

I’ll be right there – I said. Added – oh shit – for good measure. Shut computer down. Grab cash. Thinking. Thinking – What’ll need done? How to do it? Who to contact? –  To the truck. A plan. Forms. I call Terry… Nineteen. Big. Young. Strong. Time to learn. So young. So alive. Time to learn. Touch. Death.

Another truck. At the gate. The same message. – Be right there. Tell Dudley. I’ll pick him up. –  To Ron’s one room castle. Grab his mattress. To a shop. Four yards plastic. Two sheets. – You ever touched Death? – I ask Terry. – How do you do it? – his response. – With honor – the only reply.

Hospital is busy. Life. Death. Their business in trade. Busy morning. The Male Ward. Used to be. Lime green walls. Too skinny Choiseul man. A darker picture of slow death. A bloody stub of a Malatian’s used to be leg. Young Shortlander. IV in arm. A screen in the corner. A crowd around. Ron’s bed.

Alloy tubing. Plastic wheels. Cheap, dirty plastic. A movable screen. Used to hide. Not let others see. Offer privacy. Protect. Conceal. Seeing may disturb. Death. In the Male Ward. Death comes. Often. It’s why they travel. Across seas. From comfortable homes. Illness too strong. Local clinic. Not enough. To. Used to be. Lime green walls.

It’s why Ron. Came to these. Used to be. Lime green walls. He was ill. Dying. – Of what? – you ask. – Why so soon? – I hear. – Sixty-one in November. A fit man. Paddled all over. To hell and back. – Some say. – He gave up. Gave up. Fighting. – Some say. – His kidneys. His lungs.-

Living crowd. Around a movable screen. Family. Closest. Friends. Still near. Well wishers. On the fringe. Gawkers. Safest. Farthest away. Craning. To catch a glimpse. I nudge through. The Crowd. I peer over. The movable screen. Yellow in death. Mouth. Nose. Stuffed with cotton. I sneak a glimpse. Too. Death. Lying where Ron. Was yesterday.

I have a song. In my head. Plaintive tones. A harmonica. – Way down yonder – I hear. Think.  Yesterday. I sat. Right there. Looking up. These used to be lime green walls. Far beyond in need of a cleaning. The dust, dirt accumulated. Years. The fabric of life, death. Congealed in and on these very walls.

Sentinels. Companions. Concubines. For both. Life. Death. Both. Come here. Abide here. Both are home. Here. These used to be lime green walls. Cobwebs. In every corner. Dust accumulating. Year by year. Each particle. A memory. Cold stainless bed frames. Plastic covered mattresses. Starched white nurses. All. Acholites. Attendants. Servants.  To the living. For death.

Way down yonder. In the land of cotton – The song continues. We dress old Ron. Low. Murmured grief. Tears on his bare chest. Yellow arms. Mouth open. Cotton stuffed. We dress him. In his best. Simple khaki slacks. Light blue shirt. No shoes. Hands placed on his breast. Wrapped. Mummy like. In new sheets.

Tears in my eyes. I stifle a sob. Turn. Leave the tending. Of death.  To the attendants. Of death. I can’t help. But think… Modern society. Has lost something. Never sees. Touches. Others paid to handle. Caress. Attend. The dead. The dying. This feels good. Natural… Tears in my eyes. I head to the truck.

Terry there. Has backed the truck in. Waits. Mattress wrapped in plastic. In the back. We’ll load the body. What used to be Ron. Wrapped in new sheets. Go to my house. Let Ron enjoy the view. We enjoy his cantankerous company. Drink a beer with. Share a meal with. Share tears. One last time.

A group of friends. We discuss… What to do? Where to bury? Who’s in charge? … George willing. Will organize the grave digging. Ora. Will get a coffin built. I call Annie. She’ll stay at the house all day. Terry will help. Play host / hostess. Dudley. His lady, Rachel, willing. Mike. Wants to get drunk.

Time enough. For that. Much to do. The song plays on – Way down yonder. In the land of cotton. Old times there. Be not. Forgotten – Body loaded. Grieving wife. Head up the hill. Through the mud. Images of Ron sliding out. Half way up. Sliding through the mud. A mummy wrapped corpse. Downhill skiing.

We’re at the house. Lay Ron on the floor. Wife’s family fill the place. Friends. All grieving. We organize a meal. Feed the grief. The living tears. The living loss. Ron. No longer hungry. No longer ill. No longer in need. In his two new sheets. On his plastic wrapped mattress. The grieving touch. Remember.

Lots of running to do. Shuttle people up and down. The dogs go wild. Every time a new group arrive. They bark. Pretend. Fierce guard dogs. Guarding? What? The people sit. Women mostly. On the floor. Around the corpse. Tear stained eyes. Men. On the verandahs. Smoking. Quietly. Talking. In groups. Weak smiles. Uncertain eyes.

By noon. Things quiet down. I take time off. Lunch at the hotel. Pass the word. – Drinks with Ron. On the verandah. This evening.- Organize more cooking. More food. Feed the masses. The living. Their grief. The song still plays. – Way down yonder. In the land of cotton. Old times there. Be not. Forgotten –Look away. Look away –

The corpse. Lying on the floor. In state. The family beside. Friends. Gathered. Near. The song plays on. – Way down yonder. In the land of cotton. Old times there. Be not. Forgotten. Look away. Look away – As the grief blends a gentle harmony. As the tears punctuate the words. – Look away. To Dixie land. –

Ron looks. South. Expanse of sea. The day. Trying to shine. Bright. Does Ron see? Where is he? What is death? Why this song? In my head. Who’s singing? Which band? Is there reason? A reason? Does an answer exist? Why the song? Why the need? For a reason?

Does it help? The Grief? The grieving? Tears? I work through the afternoon. Hide in the mundane. Daily affairs. Normal. Known. Often a nuisance. Often drudgery. Today. An escape. A phone call. Coffin is ready. Ora to deliver to the house. Get a pastor. From his wife’s church. Bless the box. The womb of afterlife.

Words of comfort. Lift the corpse. Gently lay in the box. Simple plywood. Freshly constructed. Nail the lid. One step closer. One step farther. Ron closer. We farther. He to the grave. We from him. The song plays on. In my head. Can the others hear? Do we all play a song? Who’s it for?

– Way down yonder. In the land of cotton. Old times there. Be not. Forgotten. Look away. Look away. Look away. Look away. To Dixie land. Oh I wish I was in Dixie. Hurray. Hurray. In Dixie Land. I’ll make my stand. To live and die in Dixie. Look away. Look away. Look away. To Dixie Land. –

I ask Pat to say a few words. Explain. “White man’s Custom”. To share a drink. Old friends. To say good bye. With a smile. A story. A laugh. To say good bye. We pull the drinks out. Pop the caps. Pass the bottles. Around. Solbrew. Soft drinks. The atmosphere changes. More voices. Louder. Laughter.

We talk and smile. Relax. Death. Is in the box. Contained. Sealed. More distant. A moment ago. Death. Wrapped in two new sheets. Lying on the floor. Reminding all. Used to be Ron. Now. The nails driven home. The box sealed. Death. Farther away. Now. We talk and smile. Relax. Death. Is. In the box.

Day ends. Supper cooked. Eaten. Mourners gone. Only the women. Remain. Sit near. Plywood coffin. Covered in fresh, white cloth. Hand made wreaths. Fragrant flowers. Placed on top. The women sleep. With death. Death. In the box. Used to be Ron. They comfort each other. Lie close. Hand woven mats. Hand made coffin. And death.

The day starts. Glow of promise. The predawn gray. Lie in my bed. Yawn. Stretch. Slowly wake. The light in the East glowing bright. Orange. After a week of rain. Storms. – We’ll have a nice day – I Think. Roll over. Gaze South. A clear, calm sea. What a change. The tempest. Then I remember.

Gotta dig a grave. Organize transport. Deal with the living. While we deal with the dead. – Hope the road to the cemetery is passable – I think, As I make my mental list. Things to do. Much to do. The surf. In the distance. Like a drum. Heralding the advent of morning. A clear, bright morning.

The road to the cemetery is pretty good. I take the diggers out. We look for a spot. A place. To dig. Six by three wide. Six deep. An old, disorganized cemetery. I light a cigarette. For Paul Sirell. I place it in the head stone. Honor the dead. Ram Dari. John Szetu-Ho. Francis Gill.

We dig next to Paul’s grave. They were similar. Two cantankerous Americans. Perhaps they will have something to talk about. Something to share. Their past unhappiness. Their loves. Their losses. Misadventures. Failures. Successes. Finding the Solomons. Finding Gizo. A home. Friends. Family. A place to rest. Relax. A place. Six by three wide. Six deep.

We’re ready to go. Ora takes the coffin. Rollo takes a load. I drive through town. Pick up stragglers. About forty people gather round the sight. Fresh cut logs span the hole. Mound of red earth. The Plywood coffin. Covered in fresh, white cloth. Hand made wreaths. Fragrant flowers. Placed on top. The women weep.

Ashes to ashes… Dust to dust… –  Words meant to heal. Spoken. Read. Translated. The tears continue. Strong ropes. Pulled tight. Logs removed. The Plywood coffin. Covered in fresh, white cloth. Hand made wreaths. Fragrant flowers. Placed on top. Lowered. Gently placed. Into the red earth of Gizo. Mother earth. The womb of death.

I drop a flower. In the hole. The grave. Ron’s resting place. Hands full of red earth. Sprinkle. Stain the white cloth. Damage the fragrant flowers. Bang the plywood coffin. Bid a final farewell. A final hand shake. Final salute. Hands on shovels. The hole fills quickly. Covers the box. Hides the flowers. Hides death.

The hole fills. The women sing. The diggers sweat. I look at my feet. The sun hot. Burning my neck. The red earth building a mound. We place concrete blocks. Around the grave. Slacks and Shirt. Two new sheets. Plywood box. Fresh, white cloth. Hand made wreaths. That’s all Ron carries. Possesses. Owns. In death.

Pat says the final words. He keeps it simple. Says what we all know. Need to hear. Articulates what we all feel. Grief comes out in sobs. As the words touch the ears. The women cry louder. I still look at my feet. Blinking away. The tears. Well up. As Pat says – Adios Amigo. –

It’s one PM. Trucks head back. Some. Meet at the pub. Salute the old Texican. Beer in his honor. Jug of bushlime. Couple sandwiches. I’m exhausted. Not sure why. The song. In my head. Is gone. Words appear. Another story. A story of a cantankerous old Texican. Whom I had the honor of burying today.

1 Comment

Posted in Ron's day, STORIES: ISLAND MAGIC

Posted by: nativeiowan | April 11, 2009

Mauki

Prologue: This story was written by Jack London in the early 1900s. London spent about a year in the Solomons and wrote many great stories while there. (Google “The Terrible Solomons”, one of  my ultimate favorites) I publish “Mauki” here as a helper in that the Islands are an amazing place. I know my words do a disservice. If you are interested in more from Jack London check out:

http://london.sonoma.edu/

Mauki:

He weighed one hundred and ten pounds. His hair was kinky and negroid, and he was black. He was peculiarly black. He was neither blue-black nor purple-black, but plum-black. His name was Mauki, and he was the son of a chief. He had three tambos. Tambo is Melanesian for taboo, and is first cousin to that Polynesian word. Mauki’s three tambos were as follows: First, he must never shake hands with a woman, nor have a woman’s hand touch him or any of his personal belongings; secondly, he must never eat clams nor any food from a fire in which clams had been cooked; thirdly, he must never touch a crocodile, nor travel in a canoe that carried any part of a crocodile even if as large as a tooth.

Of a different black were his teeth, which were deep black, or, perhaps better, LAMP-black. They had been made so in a single night, by his mother, who had compressed about them a powdered mineral which was dug from the landslide back of Port Adams. Port Adams is a salt-water village on Malaita, and Malaita is the most savage island in the Solomons–so savage that no traders or planters have yet gained a foothold on it; while, from the time of the earliest beche-de-mer fishers and sandalwood traders down to the latest labor recruiters equipped with automatic rifles and gasolene engines, scores of white adventurers have been passed out by tomahawks and soft-nosed Snider bullets. So Malaita remains today, in the twentieth century, the stamping ground of the labor recruiters, who farm its coasts for laborers who engage and contract themselves to toil on the plantations of the neighboring and more civilized islands for a wage of thirty dollars a year. The natives of those neighboring and more civilized islands have themselves become too civilized to work on plantations.

Mauki’s ears were pierced, not in one place, nor two places, but in a couple of dozen places. In one of the smaller holes he carried a clay pipe. The larger holes were too large for such use. The bowl of the pipe would have fallen through. In fact, in the largest hole in each ear he habitually wore round wooden plugs that were an even four inches in diameter. Roughly speaking, the circumference of said holes was twelve and one-half inches. Mauki was catholic in his tastes. In the various smaller holes he carried such things as empty rifle cartridges, horseshoe nails, copper screws, pieces of string, braids of sennit, strips of green leaf, and, in the cool of the day, scarlet hibiscus flowers. From which it will be seen that pockets were not necessary to his well-being. Besides, pockets were impossible, for his only wearing apparel consisted of a piece of calico several inches wide. A pocket knife he wore in his hair, the blade snapped down on a kinky lock. His most prized possession was the handle of a china cup, which he suspended from a ring of turtle-shell, which, in turn, was passed through the partition-cartilage of his nose.

But in spite of embellishments, Mauki had a nice face. It was really a pretty face, viewed by any standard, and for a Melanesian it was a remarkably good-looking face. Its one fault was its lack of strength. It was softly effeminate, almost girlish. The features were small, regular, and delicate. The chin was weak, and the mouth was weak. There was no strength nor character in the jaws, forehead, and nose. In the eyes only could be caught any hint of the unknown quantities that were so large a part of his make-up and that other persons could not understand. These unknown quantities were pluck, pertinacity, fearlessness, imagination, and cunning; and when they found expression in some consistent and striking action, those about him were astounded.

Mauki’s father was chief over the village at Port Adams, and thus, by birth a salt-water man, Mauki was half amphibian. He knew the way of the fishes and oysters, and the reef was an open book to him. Canoes, also, he knew. He learned to swim when he was a year old. At seven years he could hold his breath a full minute and swim straight down to bottom through thirty feet of water. And at seven years he was stolen by the bushmen, who cannot even swim and who are afraid of salt water. Thereafter Mauki saw the sea only from a distance, through rifts in the jungle and from open spaces on the high mountain sides. He became the slave of old Fanfoa, head chief over a score of scattered bush-villages on the range-lips of Malaita, the smoke of which, on calm mornings, is about the only evidence the seafaring white men have of the teeming interior population. For the whites do not penetrate Malaita. They tried it once, in the days when the search was on for gold, but they always left their heads behind to grin from the smoky rafters of the bushmen’s huts.

When Mauki was a young man of seventeen, Fanfoa got out of tobacco. He got dreadfully out of tobacco. It was hard times in all his villages. He had been guilty of a mistake. Suo was a harbor so small that a large schooner could not swing at anchor in it. It was surrounded by mangroves that overhung the deep water. It was a trap, and into the trap sailed two white men in a small ketch. They were after recruits, and they possessed much tobacco and trade goods, to say nothing of three rifles and plenty of ammunition. Now there were no salt-water men living at Suo, and it was there that the bushmen could come down to the sea. The ketch did a splendid traffic. It signed on twenty recruits the first day. Even old Fanfoa signed on. And that same day the score of new recruits chopped off the two white men’s head, killed the boat’s crew, and burned the ketch. Thereafter, and for three months, there was tobacco and trade goods in plenty and to spare in all the bush villages. Then came the man-of-war that threw shells for miles into the hills, frightening the people out of their villages and into the deeper bush. Next the man-of-war sent landing parties ashore. The villages were all burned, along with the tobacco and trade stuff.

The cocoanuts and bananas were chopped down, the taro gardens uprooted, and the pigs and chickens killed.

It taught Fanfoa a lesson, but in the meantime he was out of tobacco. Also, his young men were too frightened to sign on with the recruiting vessels. That was why Fanfoa ordered his slave, Mauki, to be carried down and signed on for half a case of tobacco advance, along with knives, axes, calico, and beads, which he would pay for with his toil on the plantations. Mauki was sorely frightened when they brought him on board the schooner. He was a lamb led to the slaughter. White men were ferocious creatures. They had to be, or else they would not make a practice of venturing along the Malaita coast and into all harbors, two on a schooner, when each schooner carried from fifteen to twenty blacks as boat’s crew, and often as high as sixty or seventy black recruits. In addition to this, there was always the danger of the shore population, the sudden attack and the cutting off of the schooner and all hands. Truly, white men must be terrible. Besides, they were possessed of such devil-devils–rifles that shot very rapidly many times, things of iron and brass that made the schooners go when there was no wind, and boxes that talked and laughed just as men talked and laughed.

Ay, and he had heard of one white man whose particular devil-devil was so powerful that he could take out all his teeth and put them back at will.

Down into the cabin they took Mauki. On deck, the one white man kept guard with two revolvers in his belt. In the cabin the other white man sat with a book before him, in which he inscribed strange marks and lines. He looked at Mauki as though he had been a pig or a fowl, glanced under the hollows of his arms, and wrote in the book. Then he held out the writing stick and Mauki just barely touched it with his hand, in so doing pledging himself to toil for three years on the plantations of the Moongleam Soap Company. It was not explained to him that the will of the ferocious white men would be used to enforce the pledge, and that, behind all, for the same use, was all the power and all the warships of Great Britain.

Other blacks there were on board, from unheard-of far places, and when the white man spoke to them, they tore the long feather from Mauki’s hair, cut that same hair short, and wrapped about his waist a lava-lava of bright yellow calico.

After many days on the schooner, and after beholding more land and islands than he had ever dreamed of, he was landed on New Georgia, and put to work in the field clearing jungle and cutting cane grass. For the first time he knew what work was. Even as a slave to Fanfoa he had not worked like this. And he did not like work. It was up at dawn and in at dark, on two meals a day. And the food was tiresome. For weeks at a time they were given nothing but sweet potatoes to eat, and for weeks at a time it would be nothing but rice. He cut out the cocoanut from the shells day after day; and for long days and weeks he fed the fires that smoked the copra, till his eyes got sore and he was set to felling trees. He was a good axe-man, and later he was put in the bridge-building gang. Once, he was punished by being put in the road-building gang. At times he served as boat’s crew in the whale boats, when they brought in copra from distant beaches or when the white men went out to dynamite fish.

Among other things he learned beche-de-mer English, with which he could talk with all white men, and with all recruits who otherwise would have talked in a thousand different dialects. Also, he learned certain things about the white men, principally that they kept their word. If they told a boy he was going to receive a stick of tobacco, he got it. If they told a boy they would knock seven bells out of him if he did a certain thing, when he did that thing, seven bells invariably were knocked out of him. Mauki did not know what seven bells were, but they occurred in beche-de-mer, and he imagined them to be the blood and teeth that sometimes accompanied the process of knocking out seven bells. One other thing he learned: no boy was struck or punished unless he did wrong. Even when the white men were drunk, as they were frequently, they never struck unless a rule had been broken.

Mauki did not like the plantation. He hated work, and he was the son of a chief. Furthermore, it was ten years since he had been stolen from Port Adams by Fanfoa, and he was homesick. He was even homesick for the slavery under Fanfoa. So he ran away. He struck back into the bush, with the idea of working southward to the beach and stealing a canoe in which to go home to Port Adams.

But the fever got him, and he was captured and brought back more dead than alive.

A second time he ran away, in the company of two Malaita boys. They got down the coast twenty miles, and were hidden in the hut of a Malaita freeman, who dwelt in that village. But in the dead of night two white men came, who were not afraid of all the village people and who knocked seven bells out of the three runaways, tied them like pigs, and tossed them into the whale boat. But the man in whose house they had hidden–seven times seven bells must have been knocked out of him from the way the hair, skin, and teeth flew, and he was discouraged for the rest of his natural life from harboring runaway laborers.

For a year Mauki toiled on. Then he was made a house-boy, and had good food and easy times, with light work in keeping the house clean and serving the white men with whiskey and beer at all hours of the day and most hours of the night. He liked it, but he liked Port Adams more. He had two years longer to serve, but two years were too long for him in the throes of homesickness. He had grown wiser with his year of service, and, being now a house-boy, he had opportunity. He had the cleaning of the rifles, and he knew where the key to the store room was hung. He planned to escape, and one night ten Malaita boys and one boy from San Cristoval sneaked from the barracks and dragged one of the whale boats down to the beach. It was Mauki who supplied the key that opened the padlock on the boat, and it was Mauki who equipped the boat with a dozen Winchesters, an immense amount of ammunition, a case of dynamite with detonators and fuse, and ten cases of tobacco.

The northwest monsoon was blowing, and they fled south in the night time, hiding by day on detached and uninhabited islets, or dragging their whale boat into the bush on the large islands. Thus they gained Guadalcanar, skirted halfway along it, and crossed the Indispensable Straits to Florida Island. It was here that they killed the San Cristoval boy, saving his head and cooking and eating the rest of him. The Malaita coast was only twenty miles away, but the last night a strong current and baffling winds prevented them from gaining across. Daylight found them still several miles from their goal. But daylight brought a cutter, in which were two white men, who were not afraid of eleven Malaita men armed with twelve rifles. Mauki and his companions were carried back to Tulagi, where lived the great white master of all the white men. And the great white master held a court, after which, one by one, the runaways were tied up and given twenty lashes each, and sentenced to a fine of fifteen dollars. They were sent back to New Georgia, where the white men knocked seven bells out of them all around and put them to work. But Mauki was no longer house-boy. He was put in the road-making gang. The fine of fifteen dollars had been paid by the white men from whom he had run away, and he was told that he would have to work it out, which meant six months’ additional toil. Further, his share of the stolen tobacco earned him another year of toil.

Port Adams was now three years and a half away, so he stole a canoe one night, hid on the islets in Manning Straits, passed through the Straits, and began working along the eastern coast of Ysabel, only to be captured, two-thirds of the way along, by the white men on Meringe Lagoon. After a week, he escaped from them and took to the bush. There were no bush natives on Ysabel, only salt-water men, who were all Christians. The white men put up a reward of five-hundred sticks of tobacco, and every time Mauki ventured down to the sea to steal a canoe he was chased by the salt-water men. Four months of this passed, when, the reward having been raised to a thousand sticks, he was caught and sent back to New Georgia and the road-building gang. Now a thousand sticks are worth fifty dollars, and Mauki had to pay the reward himself, which required a year and eight months’ labor. So Port Adams was now five years away.

His homesickness was greater than ever, and it did not appeal to him to settle down and be good, work out his four years, and go home. The next time, he was caught in the very act of running away. His case was brought before Mr. Haveby, the island manager of the Moongleam Soap Company, who adjudged him an incorrigible. The Company had plantations on the Santa Cruz Islands, hundreds of miles across the sea, and there it sent its Solomon Islands’ incorrigibles. And there Mauki was sent, though he never arrived. The schooner stopped at Santa Anna, and in the night Mauki swam ashore, where he stole two rifles and a case of tobacco from the trader and got away in a canoe to Cristoval. Malaita was now to the north, fifty or sixty miles away. But when he attempted the passage, he was caught by a light gale and driven back to Santa Anna, where the trader clapped him in irons and held him against the return of the schooner from Santa Cruz. The two rifles the trader recovered, but the case of tobacco was charged up to Mauki at the rate of another year. The sum of years he now owed the Company was six.

On the way back to New Georgia, the schooner dropped anchor in Marau Sound, which lies at the southeastern extremity of Guadalcanar. Mauki swam ashore with handcuffs on his wrists and got away to the bush. The schooner went on, but the Moongleam trader ashore offered a thousand sticks, and to him Mauki was brought by the bushmen with a year and eight months tacked on to his account. Again, and before the schooner called in, he got away, this time in a whale boat accompanied by a case of the trader’s tobacco. But a northwest gale wrecked him upon Ugi, where the Christian natives stole his tobacco and turned him over to the Moongleam trader who resided there. The tobacco the natives stole meant another year for him, and the tale was now eight years and a half.

“We’ll send him to Lord Howe,” said Mr. Haveby. “Bunster is there, and we’ll let them settle it between them. It will be a case, I imagine, of Mauki getting Bunster, or Bunster getting Mauki, and good riddance in either event.”

If one leaves Meringe Lagoon, on Ysabel, and steers a course due north, magnetic, at the end of one hundred and fifty miles he will lift the pounded coral beaches of Lord Howe above the sea. Lord Howe is a ring of land some one hundred and fifty miles in circumference, several hundred yards wide at its widest, and towering in places to a height of ten feet above sea level. Inside this ring of sand is a mighty lagoon studded with coral patches. Lord Howe belongs to the Solomons neither geographically nor ethnologically. It is an atoll, while the Solomons are high islands; and its people and language are Polynesian, while the inhabitants of the Solomons are Melanesian.

Lord Howe has been populated by the westward Polynesian drift which continues to this day, big outrigger canoes being washed upon its beaches by the southeast trade. That there has been a slight Melanesian drift in the period of the northwest monsoon, is also evident.

Nobody ever comes to Lord Howe, or Ontong-Java as it is sometimes called. Thomas Cook & Son do not sell tickets to it, and tourists do not dream of its existence. Not even a white missionary has landed on its shore. Its five thousand natives are as peaceable as they are primitive. Yet they were not always peaceable. The Sailing Directions speak of them as hostile and treacherous. But the men who compile the Sailing Directions have never heard of the change that was worked in the hearts of the inhabitants, who, not many years ago, cut off a big bark and killed all hands with the exception of the second mate. The survivor carried the news to his brothers. The captains of three trading schooners returned with him to Lord Howe. They sailed their vessels right into the lagoon and proceeded to preach the white man’s gospel that only white men shall kill white men and that the lesser breeds must keep hands off. The schooners sailed up and down the lagoon, harrying and destroying. There was no escape from the narrow sand-circle, no bush to which to flee. The men were shot down at sight, and there was no avoiding being sighted. The villages were burned, the canoes smashed, the chickens and pigs killed, and the precious cocoanut trees chopped down. For a month this continued, when the schooner sailed away; but the fear of the white man had been seared into the souls of the islanders and never again were they rash enough to harm one.

Max Bunster was the one white man on Lord Howe, trading in the pay of the ubiquitous Moongleam Soap Company. And the Company billeted him on Lord Howe, because, next to getting rid of him, it was the most out-of-the-way place to be found. That the Company did not get rid of him was due to the difficulty of finding another man to take his place. He was a strapping big German, with something wrong in his brain. Semi-madness would be a charitable statement of his condition. He was a bully and a coward, and a thrice-bigger savage than any savage on the island.

Being a coward, his brutality was of the cowardly order. When he first went into the Company’s employ, he was stationed on Savo. When a consumptive colonial was sent to take his place, he beat him up with his fists and sent him off a wreck in the schooner that brought him.

Mr. Haveby next selected a young Yorkshire giant to relieve Bunster. The Yorkshire man had a reputation as a bruiser and preferred fighting to eating. But Bunster wouldn’t fight. He was a regular little lamb–for ten days, at the end of which time the Yorkshire man was prostrated by a combined attack of dysentery and fever. Then Bunster went for him, among other things getting him down and jumping on him a score or so of times. Afraid of what would happen when his victim recovered. Bunster fled away in a cutter to Guvutu, where he signalized himself by beating up a young Englishman already crippled by a Boer bullet through both hips.

Then it was that Mr. Haveby sent Bunster to Lord Howe, the falling-off place. He celebrated his landing by mopping up half a case of gin and by thrashing the elderly and wheezy mate of the schooner which had brought him. When the schooner departed, he called the kanakas down to the beach and challenged them to throw him in a wrestling bout, promising a case of tobacco to the one who succeeded. Three kanakas he threw, but was promptly thrown by a fourth, who, instead of receiving the tobacco, got a bullet through his lungs.

And so began Bunster’s reign on Lord Howe. Three thousand people lived in the principal village; but it was deserted, even in broad day, when he passed through. Men, women, and children fled before him. Even the dogs and pigs got out of the way, while the king was not above hiding under a mat. The two prime ministers lived in terror of Bunster, who never discussed any moot subject, but struck out with his fists instead.

And to Lord Howe came Mauki, to toil for Bunster for eight long years and a half. There was no escaping from Lord Howe. For better or worse, Bunster and he were tied together. Bunster weighed two hundred pounds. Mauki weighed one hundred and ten. Bunster was a degenerate brute. But Mauki was a primitive savage. While both had wills and ways of their own.

Mauki had no idea of the sort of master he was to work for. He had had no warnings, and he had concluded as a matter of course that Bunster would be like other white men, a drinker of much whiskey, a ruler and a lawgiver who always kept his word and who never struck a boy undeserved. Bunster had the advantage. He knew all about Mauki, and gloated over the coming into possession of him. The last cook was suffering from a broken arm and a dislocated shoulder, so Bunster made Mauki cook and general house-boy.

And Mauki soon learned that there were white men and white men. On the very day the schooner departed he was ordered to buy a chicken from Samisee, the native Tongan missionary. But Samisee had sailed across the lagoon and would not be back for three days. Mauki returned with the information. He climbed the steep stairway (the house stood on piles twelve feet above the sand), and entered the living room to report. The trader demanded the chicken. Mauki opened his mouth to explain the missionary’s absence. But Bunster did not care for explanations. He struck out with his fist. The blow caught Mauki on the mouth and lifted him into the air. Clear through the doorway he flew, across the narrow veranda, breaking the top railing, and down to the ground.

His lips were a contused, shapeless mass, and his mouth was full of blood and broken teeth.

“That’ll teach you that back talk don’t go with me,” the trader shouted, purple with rage, peering down at him over the broken railing.

Mauki had never met a white man like this, and he resolved to walk small and never offend. He saw the boat boys knocked about, and one of them put in irons for three days with nothing to eat for the crime of breaking a rowlock while pulling. Then, too, he heard the gossip of the village and learned why Bunster had taken a third wife–by force, as was well known. The first and second wives lay in the graveyard, under the white coral sand, with slabs of coral rock at head and feet. They had died, it was said, from beatings he had given them. The third wife was certainly ill-used, as Mauki could see for himself.

But there was no way by which to avoid offending the white man who seemed offended with life. When Mauki kept silent, he was struck and called a sullen brute. When he spoke, he was struck for giving back talk. When he was grave, Bunster accused him of plotting and gave him a thrashing in advance; and when he strove to be cheerful and to smile, he was charged with sneering at his lord and master and given a taste of stick. Bunster was a devil.

The village would have done for him, had it not remembered the lesson of the three schooners. It might have done for him anyway, if there had been a bush to which to flee. As it was, the murder of the white men, of any white man, would bring a man-of-war that would kill the offenders and chop down the precious cocoanut trees. Then there were the boat boys, with minds fully made up to drown him by accident at the first opportunity to capsize the cutter. Only Bunster saw to it that the boat did not capsize.

Mauki was of a different breed, and escape being impossible while Bunster lived, he was resolved to get the white man. The trouble was that he could never find a chance. Bunster was always on guard. Day and night his revolvers were ready to hand. He permitted nobody to pass behind his back, as Mauki learned after having been knocked down several times. Bunster knew that he had more to fear from the good-natured, even sweet-faced, Malaita boy than from the entire population of Lord Howe; and it gave added zest to the programme of torment he was carrying out. And Mauki walked small, accepted his punishments, and waited.

All other white men had respected his tambos, but not so Bunster.

Mauki’s weekly allowance of tobacco was two sticks. Bunster passed them to his woman and ordered Mauki to receive them from her hand. But this could not be, and Mauki went without his tobacco. In the same way he was made to miss many a meal, and to go hungry many a day. He was ordered to make chowder out of the big clams that grew in the lagoon. This he could not do, for clams were tambo. Six times in succession he refused to touch the clams, and six times he was knocked senseless. Bunster knew that the boy would die first, but called his refusal mutiny, and would have killed him had there been another cook to take his place.

One of the trader’s favorite tricks was to catch Mauki’s kinky locks and bat his head against the wall. Another trick was to catch Mauki unawares and thrust the live end of a cigar against his flesh. This Bunster called vaccination, and Mauki was vaccinated a number of times a week. Once, in a rage, Bunster ripped the cup handle from Mauki’s nose, tearing the hole clear out of the cartilage.

“Oh, what a mug!” was his comment, when he surveyed the damage he had wrought.

The skin of a shark is like sandpaper, but the skin of a ray fish is like a rasp. In the South Seas the natives use it as a wood file in smoothing down canoes and paddles. Bunster had a mitten made of ray fish skin. The first time he tried it on Mauki, with one sweep of the hand it fetched the skin off his back from neck to armpit. Bunster was delighted. He gave his wife a taste of the mitten, and tried it out thoroughly on the boat boys. The prime ministers came in for a stroke each, and they had to grin and take it for a joke.

“Laugh, damn you, laugh!” was the cue he gave.

Mauki came in for the largest share of the mitten. Never a day passed without a caress from it. There were times when the loss of so much cuticle kept him awake at night, and often the half-healed surface was raked raw afresh by the facetious Mr. Bunster. Mauki continued his patient wait, secure in the knowledge that sooner or later his time would come. And he knew just what he was going to do, down to the smallest detail, when the time did come.

One morning Bunster got up in a mood for knocking seven bells out of the universe. He began on Mauki, and wound up on Mauki, in the interval knocking down his wife and hammering all the boat boys. At breakfast he called the coffee slops and threw the scalding contents of the cup into Mauki’s face. By ten o’clock Bunster was shivering with ague, and half an hour later he was burning with fever. It was no ordinary attack. It quickly became pernicious, and developed into black-water fever. The days passed, and he grew weaker and weaker, never leaving his bed. Mauki waited and watched, the while his skin grew intact once more. He ordered the boys to beach the cutter, scrub her bottom, and give her a general overhauling. They thought the order emanated from Bunster, and they obeyed. But Bunster at the time was lying unconscious and giving no orders. This was Mauki’s chance, but still he waited.

When the worst was past, and Bunster lay convalescent and conscious, but weak as a baby, Mauki packed his few trinkets, including the china cup handle, into his trade box. Then he went over to the village and interviewed the king and his two prime ministers.

“This fella Bunster, him good fella you like too much?” he asked.

They explained in one voice that they liked the trader not at all. The ministers poured forth a recital of all the indignities and wrongs that had been heaped upon them. The king broke down and wept. Mauki interrupted rudely.

“You savve me–me big fella marster my country. You no like m this fella white marster. Me no like m. Plenty good you put hundred cocoanut, two hundred cocoanut, three hundred cocoanut along cutter. Him finish, you go sleep m good fella. Altogether kanaka sleep m good fella. Bime by big fella noise along house, you no savve hear m that fella noise. You altogether sleep strong fella too much.”

In like manner Mauki interviewed the boat boys. Then he ordered Bunster’s wife to return to her family house. Had she refused, he would have been in a quandary, for his tambo would not have permitted him to lay hands on her.

The house deserted, he entered the sleeping room, where the trader lay in a doze. Mauki first removed the revolvers, then placed the ray fish mitten on his hand. Bunster’s first warning was a stroke of the mitten that removed the skin the full length of his nose.

“Good fella, eh?” Mauki grinned, between two strokes, one of which swept the forehead bare and the other of which cleaned off one side of his face. “Laugh, damn you, laugh.”

Mauki did his work throughly, and the kanakas, hiding in their houses, heard the “big fella noise” that Bunster made and continued to make for an hour or more.

When Mauki was done, he carried the boat compass and all the rifles and ammunition down to the cutter, which he proceeded to ballast with cases of tobacco. It was while engaged in this that a hideous, skinless thing came out of the house and ran screaming down the beach till it fell in the sand and mowed and gibbered under the scorching sun. Mauki looked toward it and hesitated. Then he went over and removed the head, which he wrapped in a mat and stowed in the stern locker of the cutter.

So soundly did the kanakas sleep through that long hot day that they did not see the cutter run out through the passage and head south, close-hauled on the southeast trade. Nor was the cutter ever sighted on that long tack to the shores of Ysabel, and during the tedious head-beat from there to Malaita. He landed at Port Adams with a wealth of rifles and tobacco such as no one man had ever possessed before. But he did not stop there. He had taken a white man’s head, and only the bush could shelter him. So back he went to the bush villages, where he shot old Fanfoa and half a dozen of the chief men, and made himself the chief over all the villages. When his father died, Mauki’s brother ruled in Port Adams, and joined together, salt-water men and bushmen, the resulting combination was the strongest of the ten score fighting tribes of Malaita.

More than his fear of the British government was Mauki’s fear of the all-powerful Moongleam Soap Company; and one day a message came up to him in the bush, reminding him that he owed the Company eight and one-half years of labor. He sent back a favorable answer, and then appeared the inevitable white man, the captain of the schooner, the only white man during Mauki’s reign, who ventured the bush and came out alive. This man not only came out, but he brought with him seven hundred and fifty dollars in gold sovereigns–the money price of eight years and a half of labor plus the cost price of certain rifles and cases of tobacco.

Mauki no longer weighs one hundred and ten pounds. His stomach is three times its former girth, and he has four wives. He has many other things–rifles and revolvers, the handle of a china cup, and an excellent collection of bushmen’s heads. But more precious than the entire collection is another head, perfectly dried and cured, with sandy hair and a yellowish beard, which is kept wrapped in the finest of fibre lava-lavas. When Mauki goes to war with villages beyond his realm, he invariably gets out this head, and alone in his grass palace, contemplates it long and solemnly. At such times the hush of death falls on the village, and not even a pickaninny dares make a noise. The head is esteemed the most powerful devil-devil on Malaita, and to the possession of it is ascribed all of Mauki’s greatness.

 

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Posted in JACK LONDON in the SOLOMONS, Mauki

Posted by: nativeiowan | April 11, 2009

the history of fly fishing

I recently got introduced to the ancient and fine art of fly fishing. It’s 100% insane, addictive and, from a food fishing point of view, totally irrational.

It all began…

Imagine, our long petrified, semi Bipedal fore-bearers… they are slowly making the transition from tree to land, from a four posted stance to two, from gathering and gathering to gathering and killing, from a creature at nature’s whim to a the self made monster in control of his environment we know today… this noble ancestor of ours slowly learned and invented… he learned to use fire. He invented the tooth pick to get the nasty bits of carbonized food from tween his teeth. He eventually left the berries and nuts that were seasonal and learned to follow the herds of wild animals. He invented false teeth and a fire sharpened stick.

These same animals that man learned to hunt had at one time intimidated our ancient uncles and aunts… With the advent of fire this new dietary supplement, meat,  was actually edible. They wanted meat, liked killing big, wondrous animals and learned to team up against the mightiest and bring them down. And the cooking of the meat allowed our dear cousins to store the excess from their kills for the next day. (the beginning of both wealth and leisure time??)

They invented clubs with which they killed their worthy prey. These were hard to use and dangerous to wield. They fashioned spears with sharp, stone heads. These though better than clubs, were thrown from a rather near proximity with the intention of piercing the heart on the first throw. More often than not it bounced off the horny hide of the furry mammoth… doing little more than pissing this monolithic  bovine off and often causing the death or maim-ment of the would be virile hunters of our long distant tribe. Thus the bows and  arrows of our first archers came into being. They were harder to learn to use than spears but one hell of a lot safer.

So they followed the herds and lived pretty well. They had hides for the covering of the body and early day Guccies and Yeves St. Laurents who told the females what was cool this year. The man hunted, the woman gathered, tended the fires and dropped kids. A fair division of duties.

As is now (Mother Nature has always disliked men) women out numbered men. In the beginning this was bad for women because men could be picky and women needed a mate to fulfill her biological functions. Eventually women got together and decided to get what they wanted by collectively refusing the men their portion of the communal teat rationing.

It worked. women were now in the driver’s seat.

 And eventually the women decided the nomadic way of life was a crock of shit and told the men they were planting their asses in one place. Thus our ancestors left the plains and savannas and began building little communities in hidden valleys and on high peaks.

 All early communities were built with a need for protection. The wild animals (for all mankinds’ inventions) were still a threat. Other, yet nomadic tribes, had a bad propensity to invade the stationary beings, destroying all they had built and dragging the women off and back on the nomadic trail they had forsaken.

Thus the invention/ emergence of a military force was conceived. Modern scholars often believe this to have occurred before the stabilization of stationary life but I am certain it occurred in defense of the woman’s home and for payment of the teat.

These early settlements were always near water. Man had learned early on the value of water and even more the value of the flesh of fish. It was the best of all. Better than mammoth and iguana. better even than stegosaurus tongue.

Fish was the best. But the slippery buggers were hard to catch. First came rocks thrown into the pools. A game angler fromthese days could expend all of his strength in a single afternoon, kill not a single fish, totally fill the tidal pool the fish were attracted to and expire from exhaustion and hunger with out even a respectable nibble on the end of his hurled rocks. Spears were used with better effectiveness. A spear chucking angler could do well for his efforts. Bows and arrows were employed with greater reward. Man, the inventor!

Thus we have some early grand-sire parked by some body of water feeling rather pleased with himself. Their community is fortified and protected. The kitchen sink has been invented and the women are happy. Our grand -sire gets his fair share of the communal teat and contentment has settled in. They had long since domesticated animals. Hunting was used as a pass time and a show of prowess. Many plants, also, had been domesticated. No longer the gathering, gathering of old days. Now they had gardens and fences. Grain silos dotted the landscape.

This old bugger felt good. It was that detrimental sort of “I got it good” feeling. “I gottit so damn good I gotta do sumting to fuck it up” sorta feeling… It was that BIG “I got it good, gonna fuck it up good” feeling.

It was this feeling as well as the inventor in man that led him to twisting some spider webs together and whittling a hook outa bone. It was time sitting heavy on his shoulders. It was a contented wife that only found more to complain about. The fenced in garden and a herd of animals made life too  good for her. She was becoming impregnated a dozen times in her life and a solid four of the kids were making it to adulthood. She had a fire in the kitchen and a sink in the clam shell. She was showing signs of holding back the magic teat and man, in his accumulated wisdom, said “I’m going fishing”.

Not the stone hurling, spear chucking arrow shooting sorta fishing that feed the tribe. No, this was different. This was important. Our ancient forefather was treating himself to something akin to the first christmas present… the first “this is going to be great and just for me”… he was going to cast a line in the waters and lazily wait for the elusive fish to bite his pro-offered lure and give our original hand on line angler a chance to tell the world’s first true fish story.

And it worked. As women slowly emasculated the male. As she held back the teat more and more often. As she complained more and more about nothing at all… our noble ancestor spent more and more time lazily casting a line upon the water.

He learned much, quickly. He noted the seasons of the fish. They changed in unison with the moon. He noted the variety of bait and lures which worked. He improved his original line. No longer a sticky ball of spider webs. He was no chump (or chimp). We quickly saw the use of processed silk, polyester and kevlar. We saw our uncle the inventor tie his line to a willow branch. We saw him take a bit of balsa wood and use it as a bobber. We saw him bend the baby’s diaper pin and fashion the first steel hook. He stole some of the old ladies nail polish and dolled the hook up a bit.

Through all of this man had effectively made the art of fishing more specialized, more intricate and much harder. Ol’ stone hurling uncle neadertal was often more effective than our now modern angler. But catching fish was no longer the point! The point was to get out of the house and find a substitute for the now totally refused teat. The point was to gain another “fishing story”.

And the inventions continued… a wooden cleat on the side of the willow rod to hold extra line. Better lures, longer lines, stronger hooks.

Somewhere in here man got on a floating log and called it a boat. He tied vines together and called it a net. He was able to bring in tons of fish. They had fish coming out of their ears. Fished pickled, fish smoked, fish dried and fish baked. Fish was no longer more special than the iguana tongue or the gonads from the stripped marsupial long tailed monkey. Fish became a commoner’s food. And the fisherman became a commoner as well.

But this bothered him little. The pleasure received from casting a line on the water was enough. The rush of feeling a fish take the hook was better than the teat. Fuck the world… fish and fishing was still the best.

And to prove it some enterprising grand son of the first fisherman decided he’d show them all. He’d invent a type of fishing which would be so hard, such a waste of time and so foolish that everyone, including the gentry, the nobles and even the women, would want to do it. But it needed some thinking… what could cover the base criterion? What would meet the broad based objectives…

Taking it back to the basics our noble inventor returned to the long disused tools of his fore-father fishermen… more of the sticky spider web. But this was finely twisted and rubbed with wax. The original willow rod had split from the dry heat. He cleaned this up, bound it together with the spider wire and made it longer by making it into a two piece unit. Next the  utilitarian cleat of the old days was replaced by a mechanical reel of such a design that even the most dexterous member of society found it clumsy. To top it off our maniacal fisherman decided that only the smallest of bait and lures should be used on this apparatus. Nothing larger than the fly of May would be allowed on the end of the line.

These items: the too long, flimsy rod, the very, very thin line, the clumsy reel and the light lure constituted man’s first  fly fishing rig.

It was an instant hit. Leaders of the community (usually militarily inclined individuals) decided that the employ of these rigs and even the waters where they were cast should belong only to the hierarchy of the community.

Wars were waged over a good trout stream. The teat was forsaken for the elusive salmon. Population decreased. But man went on fishing. Women took to pretending they were interested just for the opportunity of being near a man. Fishing had reached its pinnacle. The teat was no longer number one… fly-fishing had replaced the ever impotent mammary gland.

Modern archeological digs have unearthed finely preserved rods and reels of this fashion. They were amazed to find that the ancient tools varied little from the bamboo rods and wooden reels still sold in uncle hogie’s bait n’ tackle.

 That’s where I got mine and I’m loading it up and heading  out to see what’s biting today.. I know that I’ll hook my arm and the back of my head a couple times. Come up with a couple magnificent tangles, catch no fish but it’ll be fun.

Wanna come?

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Posted in STORIES: HUMOR AND LIFE, the history of fly fishing

Posted by: nativeiowan | April 11, 2009

and Mother farted

DISCLAIMER: All my stories are purely fictional. And, as usual, the names have been changed to protect the innocent.

 

Being raised in a family of women leaves one with a strange sense of proprieties. Being raised in an old fashioned family filled with women leaves one with a profoundly warped sense of proprieties. I was raised in such a family. In a very old-fashioned and Matriarchal family.

There was my proper and prim Grandmother. In her eighties she was the very essence of a mature matron. Erect if not stiff. Tender but very firm. She never swore. Had a small glass of schnapps on “special occasions”. Took a nap every afternoon. And wore a large hat and clean white gloves when she worked in the garden. She always smelled of roses.

There was my forceful and loving Mother. In charge of everything. She ran her world as a Master Sergeant would run an army. She knew what was happening before it transpired. She was able to see through walls and hear across large distances. She was omnipresent and clairvoyant. She was a force to reckon with.

There was the gaggle of sisters I called “mine”. I was never sure how many there were. I know there must have been better than half a dozen. Yet they changed so quickly I could never tell. They also tended to bring home friends whom they looked alike thus one could very seldom tell one visiting female from one in residence.

Within this mess of female functions existed my Father, my elder brother, my younger brother and me. We “men folk” tended to live within this flurry of the female lives that we were little more than satellites to.

I am not sure if I learned about women from my Father or the females around me. There were many, many rules pertaining to a life ordered and operated by women. Perhaps I followed my father’s and the elder brother’s lead in some things but I think that I learned most of the rules from the women themselves.

Women were to be respected. Failure to show respect could result in Mother rapping you on the head with a four-pound wooden spoon, direct and still hot from the pot of simmering stew on the stovetop. Grandmother was adept with the backhanded dishrag. Take a step away from the accepted and Grandmother would snap you about the face with a greasy and hard worked dishrag fresh from the sink. My various sisters, being younger and less trained in the ancient female arts of inflicting pain, would simply punch, bite, scratch, kick or other wise render you delirious with pain and humiliation.

Women were to be treated with honest attention and decorum. Failure to pay proper attention to a female was in direct violation to most civilized rules. One was expected to be as telepathic as they were. Failure to anticipate the need to hold a door open was a misdemeanor. Yet failure to anticipate the need to open a door – when her arms were full of something- was a hanging offense.

Women were made, came off the assembly line, equipped with the tools to investigate, try and judge any crime. They can worm answers out of you with little more than a raised eyebrow. A stern glare is enough to make a “big boy” wet himself. A smile and a bit of kindness can make even the worldliest man fall over him self to please. Women may well be the perfect creatures. They know all, see all, and understand all. They can work better than most men. The females I was raised with were always stronger than I. They could clean, bake, sew, hammer, build, paint, tend, plant, dismantle and think (so I was raised to believe) better than men.

The one thing they could not do was fart.

I was raised with the belief that women did not need to fart. I always thought they were above it. That men, being the crude and semi-domesticated creatures we are, abased themselves by “passing gas’ whilst in a communal setting. I was raised allowed to laugh and make light of the male ability to “pass gas”. My Grandfather would hold his finger out to small children and tell them to “pull it”. The result would be a startled child and a Grandfather roaring with laughter.

In the warped upbringing of the matriarchal household I felt as though it was a fair trade. I could fart and they could rule. I learned from my father that I could cock my cheek and let a “good one” rip. Grandmother would simply state that “You’re too much like your granddad”. My mother would ignore it completely. My sisters would move without comment.

I spent little time pondering this difference between the genders. There were so many differences that something as simple as – guys fart, gals don’t – made a perverse kind of sense. This sense was enforced by my strict private school education where then nuns and the “young ladies” in the school enforced rather than dispelled this belief. I actually believed that either women could not or did not need to “pass gas”.

I was sixteen. I had hitched a ride to a near by city to see a popular rock band in concert. A gal I vaguely knew from “around town’ picked me up. She was several years older and, at that time, living a “Hippy” life style. As we were tooling down highway 20 in her beat up corvair she looked soulfully at me and said “Mike, I need to ask you something very serious”.

My heart went into my mouth. My imaginations ran wild. She, this older gal, a hippy gal, was going to ask me “something serious”. Sweat broke out on my palms. I was tongue-tied. I simply nodded for her to go ahead.

“Mike”, she said, “I don’t want to give you the wrong impression but… I really need to let a fart”. And with that short introduction she cocked her cheek to the left and let rip with a prize-winning rumbler.

At the same time, as she filled the small car with noxious fumes, my life forever changed.

I was dumb struck. I am certain that my mouth hung open like an idiot’s. I am certain that I stared at her in disbelief. I saw her blush under my stare. I assume I made her feel uncomfortable. All I could do was stare. I was experiencing an epiphany.

Epiphany is the right word to use. It is defined as: a sudden intuitive leap of understanding, especially through an ordinary but striking occurrence.

Ordinary and striking are so very right.

Females had been lying. All this time. In many, many ways. I saw it clearly. My epiphany, my revelation allowed me to see it all. The hallucinogenic tab the hippy gal had given me before she farted was not required for me to see through the smoke and mirrors of this small mystery of life. No, it had not taken effect yet. I was still sober. And I would remain sober through the course of the night. The tab had been a waste. As the bands came and went on the stage. As the decibels pounded my eardrums. I kept running the scene through my mind. My epiphany had irrevocably damaged me and made me unconditionally stronger at the same time. My world had changed.

I remember thinking about the childhood story of the Emperor’s New Clothes. How everyone went along with the farce simply because everyone went along with the farce. I saw this scenario in so much of my life. It applied to everything. In the religious dogma I was spoon fed each day. In the pseudo relationships I saw others foster and yearn for. In the horseshit propaganda trickled down through the media.

I think my youthful rebellion in life began at this time. I knew now that women were not infallible and that I did not have to spend my days worrying about their superiority. The agreed farce of life became clear to me. If women need not be feared then all else was 100% unadulterated boloney.

I started my rebellion by no longer listening to the nuns in school. I went out of my way to challenge them. I began to stand up for myself and to argue with these women who ruled our academic lives. And every turn I took, every challenge I instigated, they would back down.

I do believe that I got lost in this heady world of rebellion. I know I was perverted by this revelation. It was like learning the secrets of the ancients. Like learning something mortal man was not fit to know. It was information far too serious and dangerous for a 16-year-old, testosterone poisoned punk like me.

I became a jerk. I lost my respect for women. My elder sisters would attempt to dominate me and I would pop them in the chops. All this “thou shall not hit a woman” crap was expunged from my psyche. I would argue the nuns into tears of frustration. I am certain my grandmother spent time praying especially for my salvation. My poor mother never realized what hit her.

And the years rocked by. The youthful rebellion was replaced by the need to feed a family. My wife dispelled any doubt in my mind that women did not require the release of abdominal gases. My grandmother passed away. My mother got old and my many sisters learned to never screw with me. I would still pop them in the chops.

It was a quiet winter’s eve. We were sitting at my parents’ house in rural America. My father had a nice fire going. Mother had just cooked an expansive meal. My wife was finishing the dishes. My teen-aged children were fighting over which video they would watch. We decided to play a couple hands of cards before we called it a night. The table was shifted. Chairs were carried in. The cards were brought out and shuffled. I made a pot of fresh coffee.

The general confusion that occurs at the beginning of a game of “friendly” cards was taking place. The general arguing over who kept score, (if my daughter keeps score she always wins) the vying for positions at the table (don’t sit next to my wife, she’ll look at your hand) and the establishing of the basic ground rules for the game (grandfather could not fall asleep in the middle of a hand).

I was waiting for the coffee to percolate. I had chosen a seat between the living room and the kitchen. My father was on my left. My mother was on my right. My daughter had the pad and pencil and was preparing to keep score. My wife was positioning her chair so she could see the hands to the left and the right of her. My father was taking a quick nap.

We were playing a two-decked game. Two decks were combined to allow everyone to play at the same time. It was a quick paced game like gin rummy but with more cards and more people. The deck was being split up and handed around for shuffling. My mother fumbled with her share of cards to be shuffled. A card fell on the floor. She leaned out of her chair to pick it up.

As a youth with little to do we would discuss the best farts and the best farting situations. The old oak pews in church were pretty good. The plywood seated folding chairs at the VFW were ok. But the consensus was that hard seated, straight-backed wooden chairs were the best. These old style chairs with the carved out places for your cheeks gave you a chance to “play” the chair. You could let a winner rip with out too much effort. The hard wood had a nice tonal quality. For the farting aficionado these chairs were the epitome.

I was about to stand up and get a cup of coffee. I had half turned in my seat. My father was chin on his chest napping in his chair. My daughter was laboriously writing our names on the score pad. My youngest son was arguing with his brother over who would sit next to my wife. My wife was getting the cards ready to deal. My mother was in the act of retrieving the card she had dropped.

She would have won a prize at any fart fest. If there were medals awarded for farting this would have won the platinum with diamond trim. It was possibly a world record. It started as she was in decent, hand stretched out for the card. Mother’s age and her arthritis could not allow her to cut it short by quickly sitting straight. She was committed to touching the floor, retrieving the card and pushing off the floor with her hand to gain her upright position.

It started and it lasted. For the entire duration it took her to bend over in her chair, touch the floor with her hand, grasp the card then push herself upright. I estimate it had a complete duration of something near twenty seconds.

The divergent tonal qualities achieved through the variation of the “angle of attack” through the changing of the position of the stationary cheek would have left a master in awe. It was a virtuoso use of the old fashioned hard-seated chair. I have never seen a better performance.

My father’s eyes popped open. He held his face in a noncommittal and non-commenting demeanor. My wife blushed. My daughter held her hand to the perfect “O” her mouth had become. My sons were looking around the table for a clue as to what their reaction could safely be. I fell out of my chair.

I rolled into the kitchen. I choked with laughter. I held my ribs. I was in pain. I was in awe. I could not breath for the convulsing air erupting through me. The memory of that epiphany came shattering into the light of day. It took me ages to compose myself enough to get up off the floor. I returned to the card table with my coffee.

My father had not changed his countenance. My daughter was politely smiling at a distant spot in the air. My wife was patting my mother’s hand telling her to ignore me. My son’s were following my lead and making a bit too big of a deal about it. My mother was glaring at my father. Was giving him the hard look. I had gathered myself up off the floor in time to see her point a finger at him and say. “Not a word from you. Not a damn word.”

I was distracted in my card playing. I kept falling into fits of laughter. My father had managed to not crack a smile over it all. I was impressed by his self-control. By his sense of self-preservation. I ended up losing the game. It made my mother feel better. She had been embarrassed. She deserved to win. I was caught up in the revelation type memory of that trip with the hippy girl all those years ago. I saw a story coming together.

A story about the night we had played cards and mother farted.

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Posted in and mother farted, STORIES: HUMOR AND LIFE

Posted by: nativeiowan | April 11, 2009

Shootout at the Gizo Hotel

Prologue: In June 2000 the Solomon Islands experienced an armed coup that removed the then Prime Minister from office. The coup was ethnically fuelled and was basically a dispute between various tribal groups from Guadalcanal and Malaita. The “ethnic tension”, as it is know, was brought to a semblance of equilibrium in 2003 when the Regional Assistance Mission Solomon Islands (RAMSI) came into existence and removed the rule of gun by returning some level of law and order to the place.

The main “battles” during the tension took place on Guadalcanal. There was lawlessness throughout the islands as police services fell apart, as the government was held at ransom, as the disenfranchised youth of the nation took up arms and had a bad-dream party, as the decent leaders of the Nation ran to their villages, as the less than decent leaders joined in the frenzy of anarchy.

Gizo was a strange “safe haven” for much of the time. As with the Bougainville conflict that started in 1990, Gizo was a place where the various “troops”, leaders, conmen, fringe dwellers and wanna-bes could get a hotel room, a cold beer, a decent meal. It was quite surreal throughout it all.

In a sad way Gizo got kinda use to the random gun shot. Usually on a Saturday night, at a dance, or afterwards the guys with guns would get so dern happy they’d pop a few caps. Usually harmless in it’s own right it was not a real pleasant way to live. But, the up-side was that both periods of time were good for business in. Strange, that, conflict over the boarder equals good money for the safe haven.

There were a couple “deaths” early on in 2000 but these were isolated and had a handle that we could grasp. There were enough reasons apparent in each isolated situation that allowed us all to understand or explain the shootings.

In late 2000 a rude awakening came to Gizo.  A gun fight ended up with 4 dead, one wounded and the Bougainville mercenaries that perpetrated the “hit” in charge of the Police Station if not the town.

So: Been a lot of words, speculation, accusations, overreactions and verbose banter tossed around concerning this incident. I know many of you hold Gizo dear to your hearts. I call it home. And to have this coming down in your “home”… well, I’d lived through better days. I’ll tell you the story as I saw it / see it…

Saturday 11 November 2000

 My kids and I were cooking supper. Gracie and the three youngest kids had been in the states since July. I had Ozborne (a nephew) age 17, Terry, age 19 and Annie, age 23 living with me here in Gizo. Ozzie was still in secondary school. Annie and Terry worked for me and Ozzie worked after school. We shared the big house on the hill. We get along, didn’t get in each other’s way too much and often had fun. Saturdays (we don’t open the Biz on Saturdays) were small job / clean up days at the house. The dogs got their weekly baths. We’d scrub the downstairs floors to get rid of accumulated mud and dog smell. We’d clean windows, scrub bathrooms, etc. We didn’t start early and usually planned a big meal in the eve.

That week we had invited Pat, Ash, Dan and Kerry to supper. Annie had done a big mess of spaghetti. We had a couple beers before supper, a couple bottles of acceptable red with the meal and got stuck into a bottle of single malt with the coffee. By around mid night we were slowing down. The kids were watching a video, the guests took off and I cleaned things up a bit and got ready for bed. I was in my room getting prepared to lay down, relax and float of to sleep to that easy, inebriated dream world.

The phone rang. It was 1 AM. Ash had caught a lift down the hill with Dan. Ash was staying at a pub in town. He’d been working with the province since he’d left Honiara in July. Ash said that there had been gun shots at the Gizo Hotel. He asked me to go get the Chief of Police, Ora, and come down.

There had been gun shots at and around the Hotel before but this was the first time I’d been called and told to get Ora. Something was different this time. It did not feel like the drunk bad boys popping off a couple rounds.

I stopped by Ora’s but the lights were out and I was hesitant to wake his family. I was sure he was either down the hill already or heading that way. Ora is a good man and a good cop.

On my way to get Ash I stopped by my business and got my Rottweiler, Asia, She was a good dog, trained to a lead and being black and big she was intimidating. I am still unsure why I did this. Perhaps only because, being real nervous, a dog just makes me feel better.

We drove by the Hotel on the way to the police station. The shore side of the road had a number of guys standing with guns at ready. Kinda spooky to drive down a road and get between a group of armed guys and their target, the hotel. In any event we got to the police station just as the manager of the Hotel, Dave, walked in. There were a number of coppers there. All were wide-eyed and a bit pale. There had been shots at the hotel (a large number from more than one gun… obviously not a drunken pop off) and the road was “guarded by guys with guns.

Ora showed up. Nobody knew what was up and the guys on the road sorta made us all hesitant to go have a look. Ora, Dave and I decided to check it all out. The hotel was about 40% full. The shooting had been around the pool. As far as we knew no one had been in or out of the area. I walked up to one of the guys with guns that I recognised. I asked them what was happening and if they could please pull back from the hotel so we could go in. The guys with guns were hard to see / count. At first I saw 3 then 5 then 10 then… They were, as near as I could tell then, all Bouganvillians.

We figured out that they were after “Cornelius”. This Corny is a Bouganvillian who had been around for months causing trouble and getting away with it because he had guns and a small band of thugs. These guys apparently were there to take their rouge brother “out”.

So we get them to back down a bit and Ora, Dave and I go into the hotel. We check the wings around the pool where Corny had been staying. Nothing. We came back out. Had some dramas when a person in one room was watching from behind the curtain. The guys with guns were nervous, prepared to target the movement as a threat, so I went up and found a very frightened woman with a baby peeking through the window.

Things get a bit confused here. Ora had gone somewhere else. Dave and I decided to have a look at the rooms in the back garden area. A group of Corny’s guys had been in room D so we headed that way. Dave was about to knock on the door when I found the first body. He was lying on the sidewalk, no shirt on, sprawled on his back. It was dark and I could not see too well but it was obvious he was not breathing. I called Dave back from the door. For all we know the shots had come from there.

We backed out and asked a copper to go get Ora. Room D did not feel good to me. I sat in the shadows and waited for Ora. In the mean time a young Police Field Force guy, Jim, walked up to room D from the other direction. He opened the door. We could see in from where we were. It looked as though there’d been a visit there from Feddy Kruger. I could see blood on the walls.

 

Jim came back just as Ora arrived. Jim said that there was no one alive in the room. He and Ora had a look. Three dead. As with the guy on the side walk, all were shot by high power rounds. Bullet holes in the wall, floor, ceiling.

I was outside. Asia was interested in going behind the building. I looked down and saw blood on the footpath. I walked with Asia to the side of the building and saw a very bloody pair of flip-flops that someone had stepped out of. Water was running to beat the band. We thought someone had left the water on in room D but in actual fact the bullets going through the walls had punched holes in 3 20,000 gallon tanks.

I called some of the cops over to have a look around. I was concerned that a wounded, and maybe armed, person was lying somewhere near.  I went back and walked around the bar and restaurant area, following a number of bloody tracks. The upstairs bathroom by the bar was pretty messy. It was obvious someone had been in there trying to fix themselves up. Bloody tracks went in many directions. It was strange.

The police were in charge of the 4 bodies and the scene. We had pretty well figured out that there were no bad boys with guns holed up in the hotel. We pulled back, lit smokes and worked it all out.

We heard then that some girls had gone to the hospital with wounds. This explained the bloody tracks. I went and had another chat with the guys with guns. Corny was not in the Hotel. He had run off. They wanted him, the 3 automatic rifles he had and his boys who were still alive. They figured they’d go “hunting” for him. Ora and I figured we could talk him in. We asked the guys with guns to hold off. Ora made some phone calls and eventually got Corny on the line. Gizo is a small place. I spoke to him. Agreed to meet him.

Ora and I went. They were on the side of the road going toward the power station, hiding in the bush. Corny was understandably agitated. He had one guy with him. I talked them into agreeing for me to go tell the guys with guns that I would get Corny to a phone and they could talk. We left him and I went back to discuss it with the guys with guns.

My concern was that they’d let us find Corny then kill him. I didn’t like the idea of being a judas goat and I liked the idea of being near a guy, who was being shot at, even less. We talked with the guys with guns and got their word that, if we brought Corny in, he’d be safe. More to the point, we who brought him in, would be safe.

Ora was on the phone making a report to his boss in Honiara. We were ready to go back out. I did not want to go alone so I grabbed Ash. We met up with Corny and took him to my office. I left them locked in my yard and went back to the police station. I got one of the leaders of the guys with guns on the phone. They spoke in a language I do not know. But the long and short of it was that Corny would come in.

Ora and I went down to the yard. Ash was nervous. He had not been happy that I’d drug him around the hills and valleys dealing with hit men and targeted bad boys. He had a flight to catch at 7:30. It was about 6am by now. The sun was coming up. Ash took off. I made coffee and we all sat around and smoked ciggs and chatted. That done we loaded up in the truck and took the back way to the police station.

The guys with guns were there and acted very reasonable. I went and bought the makings for coffee, some biscuits and some smokes. The guys (the hunted and the hunters) sat around and had breakfast, smoked ciggs and acted as though things were normal. We even said grace before our meal. The Islands are surely amazing…

By this time I was beat. Several hours earlier I had fallen in a hole Dave Ashe was digging for a well. This hole had filled up with water from the holed tanks. My boots were full of water. My butt was wet. I had left Asia at the yard hours before. I went in and asked Ora if I was “off duty”.

I went to the Hotel bar. It was about 9AM. I slugged three beers and headed home to pass out.

So what happened? Two bouganville guys from Crony’s gang were drinking in room D. With them were three girls, A guy from Guadalcanal and a couple guys from either Bouganville or the shortlands. They had no less than 3 SLRs (self loading rifles… 7.65mm automatic assault rifles) The Bouganvillan hunters had entered the room and then raised their guns. The Gcanal guy and the two guys of Corny’s had all reacted. 18 shots were fired. 14 of which hit and killed three guys. One round hit a girl in the leg. Two guys did not move and did not get shot. 

Corny had been up stairs in another room and had sent a Morovo guy down to see what was going on. He came onto the scene as the perpetrators were still in the room. He shouted something and got two rounds in his chest. Corny by this time was heading out.  All he had with him at this time was a .357 revolver.

Corny went to a known safe-house for the bad boys. Ora had this figured out way before any of us. I figure he had left way earlier to talk to him. This is the only explanation for his long absence.

The next week saw Corny jailed in a small, open to the weather, concrete cell. The only Authority in town at this time was the group with the most fire-power. I eventually got to know and very much like the leader of the Hit Men, Lua.

Lua had been a bright teen ager when the Bougainville wars started. He left school and became a bush fighter, and he was good at it.  He was very intelligent. We’d sit later and discuss esoteric topics. So sad that such a bright mind became a combatant through nothing more than a mischance of timing, place and circumstances.

Our leaders of the day were worse than ineffectual. Most residents of Gizo were too frightened to do too much. Our ol’ buddy Ora was a god send in that he had respect and he had balls. One tough old cuss, Ora was able to at least keep the entire shebang from falling into chaos.

A group of us regular citizens had, in June, formed a “civil society” group that organised community policing, regular meetings and a default counsel where disputes, grievances and general discussions could be tabled.  I firmly feel that between the strengths of Ora and the Civil Society group we managed to save Gizo from “falling” as did other urban centres in the country.

It took ages but eventually we balanced things out. I’ll not say things are “back to normal” because I’ve never figured out what normal, in the islands, is.

Lua was eventually tried and convicted of murder. The politicians and their “advisors” that actually hired Lua and his guys to get rid of Corny are still walking free.

Ora retired a few years back. I have not seen him for ages.

Dave and his family moved back to Aus, Ash once again works for the government. I believe Corny is back on Bougainville.  And after all these years I complete the tale of the “shootout at the Gizo Hotel”.

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Posted in DATED COMMENTARY, Shootout at the Gizo Hotel

Posted by: nativeiowan | April 10, 2009

images of the isles

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Posted in images of the isles, PHOTOS AND IMAGES

Posted by: nativeiowan | April 10, 2009

the ghost of my childhood

When I was little. Many things frightened me. Made me feel alone. Lost. Forgotten. When fright assailed me. It was usually in large gatherings. With lots of noise and commotion. Everyone busy doing something else. Busy acting like they were enjoying themselves.  Too busy to see me watching. Too busy to feel me watching. Intruding.

When I was little. Nothing frightened me. I was always alone. Knew what it meant to feel lost. To feel forgotten. When fright assailed me. It was usually in large gatherings. With lots of noise and commotion. Everyone busy doing something else. Busy acting like they were enjoying themselves.  Too busy to see me watching. Too busy to feel me watching. Intruding.

When I was little I often felt like the ghost. Like the ghost in our house. The ghost that would come and watch us as we slept.

I first noticed the ghost one night. As I slept. I woke slowly and opened my eyes a slit. I felt something there but felt, intuitively, that I did not want to disturb that which I wanted to see.

I opened my eyes a slit and damn near shit the bed.

An unclear form of a person stood at the foot of my bed and gazed intently at me. When I opened my eyes I jerked, shuddered if you will. The ghost jerked, shuddered as well. I think we were both caught unawares by mutually being caught looking at each other.

That night I laid in my bed all hunched up, surrounded by pillows. I tried to barricade myself in. I tried to pray to the god they taught about in school. I tried to pray to the virgin. I asked for help. I spent the night terribly alone. My brother sleeping soundly next to me.

The next time I saw the ghost I was more prepared. I jerked but I did not spasm. I woke, opened my eyes and controlled my response. I said “hello”.

Eventually the ghost told me that it was sad. Sad and tired. It was sad because no one ever noticed it. It was tired of walking among people, alone and unnoticed. It confessed doing childish things to get attention: turning on lights. Turning off the refrigerator. Moving keys. All of this was done to be noticed. To get someone to say hello.

I learned that the ghost would watch my family sleep. It would move from room to room and gaze at each individual. Willing each of us to wake up and say “hello”. Willing someone to wake up and break the bonds of isolation and loneliness.

I very much sympathized with the ghost. Its loneliness was something I could understand. As I got to know the ghost better I revealed my feelings of tortured loneliness. My feeling of isolation and oft times abandonment.

The ghost spoke of living forever in the huge house. The huge house teeming with life. The huge house filled with voices and actions. Yet being ignored in this huge house. Being not seen. Not heard. Not acknowledged.

The family moved from the old house when I was still young. Yet I returned to visit later in my life.  The house was still “in the family”. I searched the rooms for the ghost.

I found evidence of my life there.

A scratched initial on the hardwood banister.  A scar on the hallway wall where I had thrown a projectile at my sibling. A hidden notebook, childishly scrawled then secreted in the root cellar.

All were treasures for a searching adult. But I could not find the ghost.

I unnerved those around me by sleeping in a different room each night. Sleeping on the floors. In the beds that were so large in my childhood. Eventually in the cellar where it was damp and musty.

I willed the ghost to come say hello. I walked the hallways at night, as others slept. I shamefully entered the other rooms. Gazed on the sleeping forms that I knew so well yet could not speak to. Searching for the ghost.

The ghost of my childhood.

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Posted in STORIES: NATURE AND ENERGY, the ghost of my childhood

Posted by: nativeiowan | April 10, 2009

the muse calling

I feel the muse calling… As the sun sets. As the day wanes. Darkness. Coming. Soon. Day: Being replaced. Being driven away. By night. Those that sleep. Flying home. Dig in. Take roost. Bed down. Their calls. Heard. In motion. Moving. Returning. They prepare. A safe haven. A strong defense. They prepare. For the night.

Those that wake. Prepare. For the night. Wait. For the night. To hunt. To mate. With the night. They are patient. Listening. Calling out. Testing the air. Tasting the air. Looking for signs. In the night. Life is predatory. Life is cheap. Life is fleeting. In the night. The strong survive. Mate. Endure. The night.

You sit. Watch it all change. From light to dark. From visible life… to that which is not seen. From sensory overload. To deprivation. Warmth, security to… Darkness. Insecurity. Fear? The unknown. Heard. Sensed. Not seen. Felt? Surely. Felt. Near by. In the night. Of the night. You know you are. Of the night.

The sun drops below the horizon. Trees, bushes. Dark profiles. Shadows lengthening. The darkness they cast: Growing. Larger. Covering the ground. Consuming the earth. Around me. Darkness. Grows. Engulfs me. Covers you. As a warm wrap. You feel content. Awake. Alive. In the dark. Your senses sharpen. Eyes widen. You feel at home. In the night.

The light can blind. Burn. Disable. Maim. Even, kill. The darkness is friendly. Home. Welcoming. Safe. The darkness offers comfort. Protection. Those of the day: Shun the night. Fear the night. Hide. Bury. Protect themselves. From the dark. From those of the dark. Who know the dark. Who feed the dark. As it feeds them.

Night sounds. In full chorus. Near. Far. Calling. Beckoning. Begging… Come out. Come hunt. Come mate. Come be one. In the night. With the dark. Wrap its shroud around you. Sit still. Open your ears. Open your eyes. Breathe deeply. The night. The dark. Transforms. You. Your Eyes. Ears. Senses. Into one. With the night.

In the night. Your eyes now see. The night. The dark. Offer more. The stars. Vibrate and shine. Their light. Casting shadows. The wind. Carrying scent. The air. Moving. Caressing you. Carrying sound. Telling you tales. Giving you directing. In the night. You now see. Hear. Smell. You are now awake. Alive. In the night.

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Posted in STORIES: NATURE AND ENERGY, the muse calling

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