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The Decline and Fall of the United States of America: Part 1
The Decline and Fall of the United States of America: Part 1
The Decline and Fall of the United States of America: Part 1
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The Decline and Fall of the United States of America: Part 1

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Politicianthe dirtiest word in the English language. says Jacob Pirandello Kharinsky, a character in this book hailed as the UNDERGROUND CLASSIC OF OUR GENERATION: The DECLINE and FALL of THE UNITED STATES of AMERICA part I. (A theme which implies many things, possibilities and perspectives.) Jake Kharinsky discovers himself in an unknown labyrinth, a clandestine initiation, and is unable to recall what leads him there. Stranger than fiction events and stories unfold...with aesthetic word play, symbolism, humor and an architectured structure, as if crafted and written by a musician, to lead one into an expansion of consciousness, a journey of the mind, right into the HEART & UNCONSICOUS of AMERICA and beyond. At times, engaging a psychological evaluation of the American political mind, and ways out of the swamps and wastelands. Jakes visionary pursuits for the meaning of life and his endless patriotic studies into the nature and origins of our political, social, and cultural realities leads him to write an Underground Notebook which will one day be a condensed guide for the coming dark era of: collapse, fascism, empire, civil war and revolution, though the Notebook is written with hopes towards identifying and preventing this disaster. (The Decline and Fall fleshes out what Emmanuel Goldsteins The Book, from Orwells 1984, may look like today.) America, as we are conditioned and believe we know it to be, is dissolving before our very eyes. Ask yourself: what is it that is not being said? This analysis is not a black and white, an Us vs. Them simplification or pessimism (as many still hold to valid ideals in a system that no longer works for We the people.) There is no simple view, traveling towards our future from the elusive illusions of the past.
Prophetic, DYSTOPIAN, at times surrealin a exploratory epic seeking to make sense of it all, utilizing both fiction and non-fiction. Raising questions about how the spectrums of cultures and power influence and create our realities and consciousnesshow blind wealth, corruption, greed and propaganda orbit and control our lives behind seemingly invisible curtains and veils. Dynamic changes with every chapter and the flowing weight of compelling content draws and gravitates the reader to see the world differently and envision new possibilities. ( A recipe for REVOLUTION? A GENERAL STRIKE? In the organizing a grassroots Aquarian Renaissance Movement... ) Endless hours of entertainment and edifying knowledge & inspiration.***

A book unlike ever before written, yet following through on a lineage & fusion of varied literary traditions, schools of thought, and paradigms suffused with humor and knowledge. A justified literate denial of the two party bankster corporate diseased entity of the machine grinding our lives away. A welcoming and inviting challenge to trace the angst of our contemporary American wasteland and world nightmare to blaze through this storm.
,
Rebridge and pick up where our ancient Renaissance and organic connections were cut off, and leave the old world behind.

GET INITIATED!!!


Author can be viewed reading excerpt on Youtube under: information8090:
http://youtu.be/mkWyFYfT_8Q

[Back cover]: A Book for both genuine LIBERALS and
CONSERVATIVES, and beyond, who
are utterly disgusted with Democrats and
Republicans... A genre of both Kafkaesque
Dystopian fiction, & non-fiction (the Orwellian BOOK within the book), inviting the reader on a journey of Mind, Concept, Metaphor and Languageof questions and provocations, Aesthetics and
Spirituality; to evoke, articulate, and gather all those things that are collectively on our
minds, confused yet envisioned, as a Nation, and as a World; of which we all possess pieces,
and herein begin to puzzle together these telling elements: Of Politics, History, Religion,
Culture, Education, Philosophy and Deconstruction of our Ideologies, whose $old out
and manipulated Idea$ have warped the
LanguageEnglish
PublisherXlibris US
Release dateMay 18, 2012
ISBN9781469180342
The Decline and Fall of the United States of America: Part 1

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    The Decline and Fall of the United States of America - Anthony Kishko

    Contents

    Acknowledgments

    Preface

    The Omniscient Narrator

    Episode Zero

    Chapter 0

    Glassberg Gelassenheit (Dr. Lov-borg’s Lost Prophecy)

    Chapter 1

    Awake

    Chapter 2

    Green Tea

    Chapter 2B

    Chapter 3

    Esoteric Rhapsody

    Chapter 4

    El Dorado An Interlude:

    Chapter 5

    The Revolting System

    Chapter 6

    Film Script:PURGATORY By Jacob Pirandello Kharinsky

    Chapter 7

    The Underground Notes Of Jacob Pirandello Kharinsky:

    Chapter 8

    Interlude: Is There Life On Mars?

    Chapter 9

    The Night Watch

    Chapter 10

    Sacramental Ashes and the Fall of the Republic: Masquerade and Metaphors of History and Tragedy: The Brutus Factor

    Chapter 11

    The Counterfeited Alternative by Jacob Pirandello Kharinsky

    Afterword

    Chapter 12

    Chapter 14

    Who Are The Prisoners? : Imprisoned By ‘The Look’ of ‘The Other’ In The War of Ideological Othering /(An Experimental Kharinsky Analysis)

    Post Script Who Are The Prisoners? Chapter 14 Part 2: Cinematic Cultural Contexts/ Apocalyptic Celluloid Mirrors

    Chapter 15

    The 82nd Psalm:

    Endnotes

    Shri Guru Charana Saroj Raja, Nija Mana Mukura Sudhaar Baranou Raghubara Bimala Jasu, Jo Daayaku Phala Chaar.

    The Hanuman Chaleesa

    Sing Heav’nly Muse . . . I thence invoke thy aid to my advent’rous Song.

    John Milton

    Paradise Lost

    Everybody seems to think I’m lazy—I don’t mind, I think their crazy.

    I’m Only Sleeping

    Lennon/ McCartney

    Acknowledgments

    I would like to thank those who have been sources of help, friendship and inspiration: Gregory Wu, Joseph Galione, William

    C. Dell, Kate Goldswer, Arjuna Bruggeman, Byron L., Dara Spinken-Untig, Pier Francesco Baccarro, Sean Egan, Timothy Lawton, Dr. A.J. Faas, Wayne Green, Derek Alberti, the Hurleys, Dennis Alekseyev, Richard Giordano, Patricia Scaduto, Maria Splendorio, Dennis Iulo, Paul Cardillo, Carmine Faravola, Brian Hennessy, The Bryson Family: David, Gina, Dan and Emily . . . Dr. Michael Kogan, Dr. Daryl Demarzio, Dr. Naomi Liebler, Robert Whitney, Wendy Nielsen, Walter Benjamin, David K. Kennedy, Matt Fordney, Rick Cerniglio, Alex Lifeson, Geddy Lee, Norm Meltzer, Vinny B., June Avignon, Karen Sorvik, Ron Diana, Shnack, Jess Rosenblum, Sierra Schaeffer, Peter Jackson, Chris Hedges, Owen Wilson, Wes Anderson, Steve Harris, Bruce Dickinson, Adrian Smith, Dave Murray, Nicko McBrain, Neil Peart, Roger Waters, Jon Anderson, Steve Howe, Bill Bruford, Chris Squire, Terence Butler, Tony Iommi, Peter Gabriel, Collins, Hacket, Rutherford, Banks, Natalia Z., George Lucas, Spielberg, John McLaughlin, Robert Fripp, Krishna Das, Shyamdas, God, the soul of Fyodor—everyone else, and relatives whose spirits have passed on.

    Thank you.

    Preface

    The Omniscient Narrator

    The ‘Game’ [or The Book] is the Museum of Museums. In it, each time it is played [or read], all the human works, all the arts, and all knowledge come to life and wake up, in their infinite variety, in their changing relationships, in their fugitive unity.

    Blanchot The Book To Come

    [Commenting on Hermann Hesse’s Glass Bead Game]¹

    Dear Reader,

    Greetings and Salutations.

    Thank you for your interest, and the journey of Mind and Thought you’ve chosen to embark on. Though I do not wish to thwart what Coleridge calls the suspension of disbelief—but because of the uniqueness of this book I’ve included this Caveat Emptor. After hearing it, you may self destruct this message, or simply turn the page, and come back to it later . . . since I would prefer not to explain anything, or offer a crude preface at all, and rather allow the dynamics of the story to flow and speak for itself—yet, due to its strange and challenging beginnings, I do not wish to put off any fickle or temperamental readers who believe an author should stick to the rules. Everything in the book, however seemingly obscure in some details, is for a purpose. If a section appears too poetic, experimental or philosophic for your taste, just skip it, or listen to the audio version, and come back to it. It will be non-essential to the linearity of the book. Of course, if you find yourself skipping chapter after—I don’t know what to tell you. Ungeschickt lasst grussen.

    However dense, unfamiliar and alluringly strange the wording, at times, in appropriate sections—the writing is not meant to overload or confuse the brain so much as expand consciousness and create certain states of mind and evocations, whilst still reflecting particular concepts of narration or character. Its author, being a musician, sculpts with the intent of sonority, rhythm, symbolism, structure, dynamics and aesthetics. Each chapter is different, and rather then the orthodox steady prose monotony of a typical novel or non-fiction, it dynamically shifts, like ‘evolvements’, lovemoments or movements in symphony; or like walking through Prospero’s Masquerade party in Poe’s Masque of the Red Death, wherein each room has its own color and theme, but the party is haunted by this searching stranger, a viral epidemic, this metaphysical question, this pendulous sword that threatens to destroy our nation, our way of life, which it already possesses from within, through the epic play and staging of illusion . . .

    If at anytime one chapter appears to be too dense or particularly intellectual, I simply recommend going to the next, and as the unique styles of language and reference become more familiar, to return to it. The book’s linear quality will not be hurt by this. Certainly the utopian philosophic method of language in chapter Zero, or others may appear thus, so press further on ahead to begin at chapter 1, or specifically 7, if you must. (This is, in part, why I have also labeled the first sections as Episode Zero and Chapter Zero.) Nevertheless, throughout the spectrum of the book, some chapters may not be for everyone, which is fine, for there is surely something here for you.

    Overall, you may discover a copious influence of classical and modern genres from different world periods and cultures, as well as its evolving and expressing unique voicings in dialectic synthesis and contrast with the post modern and post-structuralist, both serious and satirical, as we enter the threshold of 21st century consciousness. Pretensions be damned!

    Though seemingly a slightly long book, it is intended to be understood and appreciated, ideally, by a second reading. I have performed an audio version to make the rhythm, melody, difficulty and concept of its language, where evident in brief sections, more accessible in the stream of consciousness, surrealism and existential architecture of its craft, as possible, or more readily available to the ‘non-reader’. (Pending its release.)

    The Decline and Fall of the United States of America is not meant to be a work of pessimism. Rather, it is written as a defense of culture and civilization during a tryingly dark time for America and the world—its critique, continuity and preservation in the face of its disintegration. However much the present appears to be demising in a dystopian/ science-fiction like fashion, as the world we thought we knew is being vaporized, the analysis of such dark and pressing subjects as: ideology, politics, culture, history, and religion, is done with love and deep patriotism, however impassioned and disturbed the main character’s vehemence appears for the contemporary political landscape, as we all are, and may defer to the great G.K. Chesterton towards its subject matter, that: The whole modern world has divided itself into Conservatives and Progressives. The business of Progressives is to go on making mistakes. The business of the Conservatives is to prevent the mistakes from being corrected.

    As an artist, this work was begun for elevating aesthetic purposes, as a vehicle to search out a core of meanings, and once arrived at that core and vortex, its poetic, esoteric and entertaining passages—whilst striving towards the Transcendental, pales to its core of meanings it finally yields in its clearest prose at its center: expostulating on what really matters, on what really is important, as seen and attempted from every element, varying directions and possible ways in our brief period of time. This author also encourages the reader to make use of the book’s citations and sources to hopefully access or purchase its quoted authors, especially of those still living and concerned with the contemporary political scene, and continue to pursue your own research and elucidation, for this book is just as much entertainment as it is a didactic vehicle to carry ideas out of the wasteland into a widened cultural horizon. This book and its ongoing project, is conceptually, just as much about seeing the world through the methodology and lens of Literature, approaching from different angles as to how we read, analyze, and interpret. Interpretation is the thing to catch the conscience of the King.

    The narration and language evolves and matures towards this goal, like wayward souls thrown into this odyssey, then slowly turning round to retrace our steps to our source. Maybe the book is only fertilizer, a handful of seeds cast upon the soil . . .

    Nevertheless, for those few who may find themselves skipping the early aesthetic journeys of this mystery novel’s first chapters, will therein discover more of what they were looking in the Book’s Title and thereby may go directly to the center piece of the work, the book within the book, very much inspired by Emmanuel Goldstein, in The Underground Notebook of Chapter 7—which is still worth the price of admission.

    Cheers,

    Your Humble and Strange Narrator,

    Anthony Kishko

    Enjoy the journey, bold possibilities, and good fortunes of a new surreal world.

    Rage against the dying of the Light of Love and Reason . . .

    ******After the great continental congress, a woman accosted Benjamin Franklin as he came out of the final vote, she asked him what type of government we had, and he responded, A Republic madame—if, you could keep it.******

    The Kings of the world are growing old and they shall have no inheritors.

    Their sons died while they were boys, and their neurasthenic daughters abandoned the sick crown to the mob.

    The mob breaks it into tiny bits of gold.

    The Lord of the World, master of the age, melts them in fire into machines, which do his orders with low growls; but luck is not on their side.

    Rainer Maria Rilke²

    When it shall be said in any country in the world, my poor are happy, neither ignorance nor stress is to be found among them; my jails are empty of prisoners, my streets of beggars; the aged are not in want, the taxes are not oppressive . . . when these things can be said then may that country boast its constitution and its government.

    Thomas Paine³

    The Government that governs best, governs least.

    Thomas Jefferson

    Stay out of foreign wars.

    George Washington

    A man began writing a book about insanity in the third person—and finished it in the first.

    Soren Kierkegaard

    You know only a heap of broken images.

    T.S. Eliot, The Wasteland

    The dirtiest word in the English language (all languages for that matter) is—politician.

    Jacob Pirandello Kharinsky

    Episode Zero

    The Devil answer’d . . . if Jesus Christ is the greatest man, you ought to love him in the greatest degree; now hear how he has given his sanction to the law of the ten commandments: did he not mock at the sabbath, and so mock the sabbaths of God? Murder those who were murdered because of him? Turn away the law from the woman taken in adultery? . . . bear false witness when he omitted making a defense before Pilate? . . . I tell you, no virtue can exist without breaking these ten commandments. Jesus was all impulse and acting from virtue, not from rules.

    When he had spoken, I beheld the angel who stretched out his arms embracing the flame of fire and he was consumed and arose as Elijah.

    Note: This Angel has now become a devil and is my particular friend. We often read the Bible together in its infernal or diabolical sense which the world shall have if they behave well.

    I have also: The Bible of Hell:which the world shall have whether they will or no.

    ‘The Marriage of Heaven and Hell’

    William Blake

    Unchain the colors—before my eyes,

    Yesterday’s sorrows—tomorrow’s white lies;

    Scan the horizon, its clouds take me higher,

    I shall return from out of the . . .

    ‘Remember Tomorrow’

    Stephen Harris

    Hollow darkness surrounds the ineffable silence. Immersed in impenetrable shadow. Jacob finds himself sunk amidst stark sheered perplexity. Drowned in pitched-blackness. Confronted by the gaping fissure of vast isolation and madly unable to recall how he got here.

    The senses wander—disembodied. Reeling in seas of formless

    emptiness, bending consciousness, as it forms a center of gravity unto itself amidst the visible weightlessness of intangibility. Paralyzed. Yielded mercilessly to the yawning chasm of an abyss. Impossible volumes hang brooding like imposing mountains, viable in their unseen presence. (And now he can only remember answering a series of initiation questions.)

    Slowly, an effortless rustling was approaching. Grave and heavy walks aged somberness. A glinting star appears. A ghostly torch grew blazing in the starless void. Clothed in concealing robes, solemnly a hooded figure materializes, carrying the flame whose fire burned from some kind of crystal. Two scintillating lights gleam shrewdly orbed under the hood, and beckons.

    Hypnotically Jacob follows. Across soundless floors and walled-less corridors. A winding windy coolness whispers. A chamber contained merely by a circle of stars comes in view. An unworldly chanting had arisen of endless incantations—eerie and irresistible.

    Feverishly Jacob tries to come to grips. Hoping for an answer to restore some semblance of sanity, unmasking this dim deception, this impossible pantomime. Yet his curiosity increases exponentially. For the growing possibility that this unthinkable phantasm, this state of psychic hysteria, could actually be real, is dawning with unbearable stimulation.

    Wasn’t he searching for the impossible?

    The excitement launches momentum breaking down all metaphysical parameters. He tries to hold back the tide that is rising to engulf him. Powerless he succumbs. The Will evaporates in this place of placelessness, yet unleashes a greater will power—gives birth and bestows quickening.

    Dreadful and evocative drone the gathering voices.

    Inside he is screaming, but no noise escapes his lips. Nothing from the past can penetrate the angles of his mind.

    Embalmed chambers tender the dry tinder kindling of ashen incense. Sandalwood timbers spray the fume of smoldering enunciation. The mind recoils on the stony swept shoals enshrouded

    with fabricating distortions—maligned and infringed fraught with divulging divergency. Fermenting embers brew enigmatic.

    Exploit’s ill-favored murmurs exceed prodigious minglings—recovers narrowing the vaulted cellar steeped upon the broad brood. Strife ripens. Rigor qualifies replete entangling prevailed. Prevalent gratitude contributes the capacity of star-hewn

    bounty. List lingering frail aesthete exiled in scouring exodus. Gorged gargoyle discourages excavating trampled temples of lauded perplexity. Glint of a gloved out-foxed yielding. Grove of a summer’s groove rooted in humid perspirations grinds the tropical essence into forlorn frigidity. Prefer the fevers of the Mediterranean scorched soil flesh.

    Siren’s noxious opulence jilted the pierced spawn: riven spurned and spewed in its scarce sparse and terse incision. Unequivocal equivalent precedes its forthcoming announcement.

    Mesmerized darkling in the iron glade, the glen, the shaft. Tenuous

    exoneration catapults the excoriated glutting capitulated. Blazing

    elevations collide, injected jagged—blithe liberty founders its blight of unavailed vows. Filtering the listen of the bestowed bowstring’s staunch flange of the out-flanked wrung wrought conveyance of language. Plunder[erd in the ploy] of pondered carved void.

    A hooded white robe walks towards Jacob. Suddenly a wave of release falls upon his scattered vulnerability. As the robed hand is raised, a sense of being drugged or calmed dissolves his twisting confusions as the mysterious figure speaks and sparks consciousness, Rest the mind on the breath. Like a ship rising upon the tides, let it go, you can’t control it. Stop control. Control is not freewill. Do you know that you are breathing? Breathe. Release. You are not your mind.

    The deep clandestine voice continues to resonate to Jacob: "Ride your horse along the edge of the sword, hide your self in the middle of the flames—blossoms of the fruit tree will bloom in the fire, the sun rises in the evening.

    Jadelike purity has left a secret of freedom in the lower world: Congeal the spirit in the lair of energy, and you will suddenly see white snow flying in midsummer, the sun blazing in the water at midnight.

    A long pause follows and descends with tumid anxiety of expectation. Jacob waits in speechless suspense until the speaker begins again.

    "Who are you? What are you doing here? You once believed you must have chaos in oneself to give birth to a dancing star.⁸ But you don’t remember who you are, or what you are doing here do you? And yet, you have been searching for us and have found us, yes?"

    Instantly the figure seems to vanish. What? Where did he go? Jacob cries. This is insane! Is this possible? Crystalline and perfected madness!

    Startled, he notices a liquid mirror standing next to the nearest torch. Instinctively he reaches to touch, to make contact with something tangible, to know that he still exists. But as he reaches forward he immediately finds himself in a room lined with marbled shelves containing lavished arrays of endless books. Dare he touch one? Bindings of Alien hieroglyphs gleam silver to Jacob’s eye. A stern telepathy seems to translate them as: ‘Do not touch. The uninitiated enter oblivion.’ With mounting anticipation his throbbing hand grasps an ancient volume. Picking it up he opens to discover the pages alive, pulsing with dimensional depth and motion.

    Inside appear prolific images and transfigurations. Thicket edged with invisible hedges screens veined pages ventilating unsheathed vision. He sees Bronzed ebony figures dance possessed around a raging fire. Vigorously their bodies writhe. The ecstatic pounding of rhythmic drums beat primal and furious. A shaman covered in tattooed patterns and colors wears a hawk faced mask, its grotesque sharp eyes give a signal, simultaneously enormous heaps of branches are cast upon the hungry flames. A burst of fire soars forty feet into the air. Out from the infernal spire can be seen a living entity, immolation of the fire god rears in a singeing roar.

    The page is turned. Magnificent cities in glass hewn landscapes upon some seemingly distant world. Another page—a clever young man stands riddled before a lion with a devouring woman’s face—

    Another page: A girl is seen running with a pack of deer as she begins to rise into the sky, joining the wind and rain—

    Then another: A beautiful young man is hung tormented to a tree surrounded by mists and eruptions of thunder—

    Strewn across wide meandering plains assemble legions of soldiers, their armies maneuver for battle. At the center of the conflict a chariot carries a prince driven by a boy of a strangely bluish hue—

    Unbridled laughter erupts as a jolly Sagittarian centaur swallows goblets of ripe grapes while he laughs and hoofs unrestrained ’til the tears pour down his eyes in sweet drops of blood. A patched fool capers and clowns about him in wild contortions recounting all the heroic deeds done by the bravest lads of the realm as they cheerfully met their slaughter after a pleasant picnic to commemorate the event. The Fool then explains what he did to get thrown out of the high emperor’s court, and how the queen and her daughters snuck him out of the palace in order to save him from their lord’s rage—for he did every women in the palace, including the queen, the centaur widened his eyes and laughed harder, then suddenly stopped laughing, and looked seriously at The Fool.

    The book is closed with delirious awe. Jacob surveys a particular volume which hooks his interest. Taking a glossy book of Jasper embedded with a diamond he opens to find a woman and a man. During a balmy twilight within a sleepy summer forest, two lovers longingly embrace as Jacob experiences and receives their throes of surrender and devouring passion in a Tantric coupling. Unstoppable mounting fury, falling as shooting stars in helpless bliss.

    Unsurpassing bliss that will not slow or sadly diminish, but frightfully continues to grow and blossom. The sensual keys of the deepest hearts have met in the kiss of oblivion, melting and unlocking a carnage of splendor that cries of unspeakable creation.

    Made of organic seeds of stardust, the lovers in complete Dionysian frenzy merge as one and die. Their life force expires and rises from their burning and purified flesh.

    The Illuminated pages plunge as windows with bottomless depth peering into the nethermost reaches of Galactic Space.

    Billions of stars beckon their imperial eminence from the oceanic stretches swum by galaxies Crimson, Emerald and Empurpled solar clouds of living sapphire dust. How long has time dissolved through this porthole?

    Astonished Jacob unfolds the page that reveals spiraling whirlpools of cosmic energy—colliding forms of primal elements manifesting at incredible velocity in spectacular explosions. Integrating nuclear fission/fusion surges demonically. A raging disharmony plays in an irresistible magic of pure chaos.

    Density and madness begin to magnetize in gravitational coalescence— soon to collapse within itself in glorious disintegration until a blinding light grows into absolute darkness, like a graceful vicissitude.

    Once again there is the fathomless void. The chamber itself returns to dark. Suddenly a piercing spark ignites from the book. An interstellar explosion thunders in cascading torrents. Jacob’s hands begin to shake—his mind begins to reel as it begins to travel towards the speed of light. Infinity starts to tear through the fabrics of his being. Slowly his flesh is evaporating, vaporizing into ethereal invisibility.

    Summoning all his instinctual and savage strength—he is unable to turn the page—but he must, or will soon become blasted into vaporized atomic dust.

    Ancestral lions and beasts roar within him, raging for survival. His hands bleed with fire. Screaming he turns the page—drops the book, and falls into silence.

    Chapter 0

    Glassberg Gelassenheit

    (Dr. Lov-borg’s Lost Prophecy)   

    Naturally, nothing could be more undialectic than this attitude in which the angel of history . . . does not dialectically move forward into the future, but has his face turned towards the past. "Where a chain of events appears to us, he sees one single catastrophe which keeps piling wreckage upon wreckage and hurls it in front of his feet. The angel would like to say, awaken the dead, and join together what has been smashed in pieces. (Which would presumably mean the end of history.) But a storm is blowing from Paradise and irresistibly propels him into the future to which his back is turned, while the pile of ruins before him grows skyward. What we call progress is this storm."

    Hannah Arendt quoting Walter Benjamin’s⁹:

    Theses on the Philosophy of History

    The setting: There is a glass city on the horizon. Music arises much like Pink Floyd’s Atom Heart Mother. All buildings are made of reinforced industrial tempered glass. Everything can be seen which everyone is doing. All people are essentially naked, wearing only see through latex. There is little gender differentiation between the sexes—their style of appearance is androgynous.

    The population is nourished by disciplined yogic practices and a high protein and vitamin water drink suffused with a light cocktail of Adrenochrome, Deoxy-methtl-triptomyne and Lysergic Acid.

    Scene 1. The characters Zven 77 and Heidi 77 enter their high-rise apartment. They have just been elected joint directors of there communal board. Their living room has a pool that flows into the other apartments and of which anyone can swim in and out of from room to room, or apartment to apartment. Other buildings and neighboring apartments reveal people engaging in various activities.

    A glass screen in the living room acts as a type of television, except it plays back everyone’s dreams that a universal network records off of a light headband template the citizens of Glassberg wear when they sleep. On a center table there is a clear illuminated copy of Heidegger’s Sein und Zeit, (Being and Time) which is the bible of the Glassberg society. Once Sven and Heidi enter their apartment they are seen to make violent love with one another and speak in poetry:

    Joign’ing you surprised by Joy

    Upoign’ the promise of purity

    Appeals away into tranced sown enrichmentations

    And invites me to breathe, breathe us in,

    Inhalation and sus-spiral of esoteric horizon dawning

    {E

          R

              O

                   T

                        I

                           C}

    caresses singe us in young rays

    Undressing fetish’d layers lavishment

    Raving in the sacred ritual of play

    Bathed in baptized gold shine

    Lazer like piercing of iconic mosaics flicker

    Firesparks smashed ashes

    {Scream out crystalline jeweled void

          Infinite depth width and angulary

               curvacious dimension of Cosmic Corpus}

          Picture sparks of throstled Tiamat

    [astrung] the Milky Way

    Breaking through the smoldering canopy

    Charcoal’d atmosphere

    Misty haze of a lusty fog

    Drowning altar of summer foliage

          Moss frosted forest

               dampened tropic humidity

               with dew sap evapour-ation

    hidden overhung

    Bursting charred-coils like streaming fingers of liquid

    Sun bloody Love.

    Halleiluia.

    Selah Yinvar!

          Glazing shards burn tangible thru

               stained glass windows of the

               souuuuullll

    Melting energy of polymorphus wet marble

    A Well revorbing echoes distant careenment

    down coolhoney void of Sophiac self

    Sapphic mistress enchants in sirens insanity

    our brew of fertile infusion

    Archangelious herosim

    Goddess merciful muse kneelnigh worshipful

    DevayaOcean Diva initiation

    Merlin smiles

    The charm of making

    Annell’ na Thrrak

    Uth vus bethudd

    Doth dyell’ dienvay

    Anáil nathrach, ortha bháis is beatha, do chéal déanaimh

    /a’na:l naθ’rax, u:rθ va:s be’θud, dox’je:l ‘djenve:/

    Seasoned proteins of spice infussiums of

    ribonucleic acid DNA of Helios

    Solaris

    Soup of Biogenesis swims lightning unseen

    engulfing allonealready speed of

    Light

    [Lucidity pervades] Speared shatfting heavens

    Saliva drips with distilled and fragrant

    fermentation of alchemy

    Lickorish Ambrosia

    Mango pineapple

    Ripened Peach Orchard

    Cayenne Grape

    Ginger Dill Sarsaparilla

    Hickory Cherry Basil Tomato Avocado

    Kiwi Blueberry Milk Orange Blossom

    Coconut Chocolate

    Lemon Mint Lime Apricot

    Sprung Necktar wrung from the winepress

    embracing

    Maddening of senses

    Scorched tendorizing

    Beams burnishing candle kindled skin

    Invisible Sun.

    Luminous sweetened flesh marination

    quickened and enknowledged fulgaration

    Refined maturation in the furnaced

    congealment of the altar forge.

    Exploration of unveiling the temple maps

    Signs and sounds to reveal Whereweare

                           and are going clang the Gong

    And coming becoming commingling coming

    pendulous vibrato of :

    Erotic

                Erotic

                                 Erotic

                      Erotic

                                                      Erotic

    Cascading

           Creation and discovery of our world.

    I open my mouth and hear you speak

    I orbit the fission inside me

    And you are thrown into convulsive

    Pulses of flaming icy tremors

    My bones brittled in mangled sinews and you balm my

    Tangled tissues with touch

    And realign my spinning skywardening compass

    trying to recapture myself out of the

    Chamberous circularung magnets of

    Dynamic shadows

    Overtowering buried time in vast museum hallways—

    Cold corridors misplaced scattered.

    Elonging to Evolve.

    To be who we are beyond—inevitable flow

    inheritance of everything

    into Superior generations.

    Ubergluck Ubereinstimmung

    To grow electric currents of meridians channels passageways

    sensual telepathy

    Confluxed in tenuous nexus.

    Hermaphroditic blending of impossiblepossibilities

    Sharing an as yet new banquet of unknown delightbirthing

    reaching Nirvanic ecstasis

    out of ourselves intoeatchother

    Bound binding bounding bind of inebriated fiberous integration

    No boundaries No time

    Kinkalicious rhapsodic friction

    Mantric incantaions:

    Sung with love hung with mad heart’s perspiration of dear affection

    The poetry of Fuck

    Slow whisperings

    Tongue lingering resonance

    Provoct’uous Evocations of—

    Clasped Loveshackles.

    Choric unison of Aummmmmmm.

    Honey flower nectar exchanges in veins of transmutation

    Mortar and pestle Metamorphosis of—

    Alchemy of Fuckshway Chi-Shen

    Embrace thru the spectral Lunasphere of the Unconscious

    Sacred tapestries desired draperies alive

    Vineular enrollulation celebrating our communion.

    Gushing inner fountain springing with vitallious surge

    The doorway of the mysterious feminine

    For-alla-Lorn

    Languished lone like gossamer, as if with only a hint of existing

    But untapped consumes with summonous

    Unflowering inexhaustibly

    immeasurialushness.

    Hemorrhaging efflorescence blossoming.

    Love’s body unlocks fields of ener’geneticsis geometricated confingerings to ignite chains like astringofChakras rising ruby after pearl after emerald into jasper ascending complete in the crowned lotus of diamond rainbow sapphire.

    Heidi. Fin giffong~Yar’ellhas Yar’dallion nu-guara.

    Zven. Vil~dra drakis villion zayvoy-yalala. Droogie-yas Vas Vas’yar Fin-ong.

    Heidi. Ock~zura Eok-shredel muir~kara zillionah.

    Zven. Vandjelliahs jel’id osic mikendra.

    Heidi. Shillandra mozwa-hoo lala, Ziff~char lazhara plazhyenia.

    Zven. Janillius griffandorath zan landeria.

    Heidi. The breathing night sighs through evening leaves, while undraped lovers sink under white shades of watery sails; for the heart’s clock knocks closer to crave Death’s Mocking waste—hastening the grace to come.

    Zven. And so the mind absorbs your rarified air, as all decay and bacteria dissolve, and the dragon in your womb snores stretching scaly over hot emerald rubies. Our consciousness infuses into a raptured diamond as our breaths breathe your intoxicating essence. The ice-castled branches color the wind with chiming icicles. The Primary Imagination ignites a blue flame.

    Heidi. You hold all this, yes! Yes! Yes! You hold this hovering in your soul’s resounding resiliency alive. You bring into being the beauty of the solstice garmented pure and uncorrupt with all the effusions of your heart. Void manifests itself closest to the wintered earth, and the stars sing in sharp distinct glistenings. Crystalline night disintegrates the untangled sky and spirits may traverse astral halls with ease.

    Sven. This atmospheric clarity, this divine quality, this exhalation last released when you die—breathe it now, the more to exhale and rise then, breathe it now for thou art that.

    Breathe it now beyond color and the pace of motion. Inhale the momentless emptiness in a stillness of grace. Aglow in the iridescent radiance of your frost fired smiles—Your bliss embittered face.

    Heidi. But there is a tidal wave that gathers from across the Far East, torment and terror to crash upon our feast. It rises darkling to destroy all this,

    But the glass of Winter freezes it into a mountainous wall for us today to preserve our joy, overhanging the horizon in towering expanses and cavernous shards, its velocitous momentum cringes encased in hope until thinking breaks it and it cracks and crashes. We live now under its claws, the discontented winter whose shadows creep stealthily.

    Zven. And yet O you ethereal heavens—the sky will break, will shatter, will shake—not yet, not today, for today is all we have left to touch infinity, in winter when eternal life is free; to walk those caves of ice, making the world iridescent with your presence—leaving a nothingness in your absence—A nothingness when you depart.

    They lie in a long selfless embrace

    (Valaris and Volorisa enter swimming into the room. Ethereal and futuristic utopian music akin to the group YES is distantly heard in the background.)

    Zven. Vanyar vindamoynen spokahshna. Shalandyo Hooyarlind-dara. Vaso-Vaskoshnu Q cerelendra Rhanderia Volopunlara varyavindana vayavindanoo.

    Heidi. Ixalion los mathingeyevah sedra zhadara koon-zhing voyo-valas viya-valis-valisah.

    Valaris. Greetings and congratulations, The Zarathustra is most pleased. (The ruler of Glassberg is called a Zarathustra and is a genetically engineered, or evolved, Hermaphrodite.)

    Volorisa. Yes, we heard and came over to celebrate, initiate some festivities and watch some dream vision; you wouldn’t believe what we dreamed about last night. You have to see it.

    Jackhovingen enters the room.

    Jackhovingen. Do you remember how we all got here?

    Valaris and Volorisa. What?

    Jackhovingen. Torn in turns, a graceful chaos breeds the dance, of the unasked for—the unasked chance of being thrown into the world. Like dice that decides where I land, and all the players who figure in the howling stages of sun, storm and moon—wherein there is a revelation through a fog, another curtain to be unveiled. From thence ever issues the center of a hollow vortex surrounded in swarms of musical spirals, but I cannot hear nor see so well, so I climb a hill digging in the heights, and descend sliding in an avalanche that lands on star-strewn sand, there where my heart is rendered fluxed in a liminal purgatory—mangled until unended. And I send my blistered bliss to the edge of a chasm, looking into the heat of a hurtful burning that casts and hurtles me ever-thrusting forwards, towards new births. Born in thick black forests, I learn to release from the empty density of distraction, and become the clear purpose. For I am the clearing who unmasks the masquerading circus, to be as I am, not as They declare.

    Do you remember how we all got here?

    Heidi turns to Zven as they give one another a cold thoughtful glance.

    Valaris. What a ridiculous question to ask Jackho.

    Jackhovingen. I don’t remember.

    Heidi. Nobody remembers. I can’t imagine what the great Zarathustra would do to you if this were found out, if it isn’t known already. You know we’re not supposed to ask or think about such things. If you discover the Primal Taboo you’ll go mad as concentric circles of the eccentric holotropic trajectory propels momentum into unlimited holistic metaphor reflected, and we and the great Zarathustra will have to eat your brain, heh heh heh, or we will all go insane, with your mental infection polluting the entire collective.

    Jackhovingen. But I had a dream the other night. I don’t know what will happen. This is the edge of the impossible, and there is no other place I would rather be. Along the shoreline where all opposites and contradictions collide and coalesce in paradox, the melting zero point. Anything can be created in this space, but impossible in isolation.

    It is here that I first see her; she is swimming along the shore and beckons for me to join her in the rhythms of the ocean. At that moment, nothing else exists. The past dissolves, and there is this invitation to the dream becomerealbecomesurrealbecomedream within the surrounding nothingness.

    Infinity now, a hole in the curving fabrics of time, a slender subtlety she has thrust slightly asunder in a slicing ripple—splashed demonically sweet washed rushing through my mind. But the waves are rolling in crashing undertows. Dare I join and follow her? The risk is unfathomable to cross the disintegrating sands, for I could lose myself, never to return in the surge of quickening being. Maybe she will lead me out to the forlorn distance to leave me there and not allow me to follow her to her secret world in Atlantean grottoes of submarine. But I have a hidden world too that intrigues her of which I wish to share in mutual initiation. Her flashing cool eyes reflect and seem to welcome this, and what can I do but begin to reveal the opened offerings of my long protected soul now rendered vulnerable though empowered.

    But I have to come to her; she’ll die along the dry burnt reaches of the beach. I have to follow her, she will lead for she is the vision and the gleam, the essence of inspiration, and test how far I will venture, having to leave everything behind to do it. Even myself, which is being deconstructed, destroyed, and recreated in her presence. I say Yes, destroy me and create me.

    It is not her beauty that allures and captivates, for it wasn’t beauty that I saw upon seeing her but a presence, a heaviness of something so much more real than the deceitful veneer of aesthetic attraction, making her truly and all the more beautiful.

    But her experience makes her question whether it is the lower tangibles of swift appearance that draws me for the mere indulgence of a geisha’s easy and entertaining surrender. My stomach grows sick, my blood pale.

    She senses she could be anything she wants to be with me, and most importantly herself. I can see her, and in seeing her, the entire world is transformed, and is not the same world I once knew. Her mystery and inspiration could make me into anything, and in the intermingling of our worlds we can create a world of our own. When I least suspect it, she will grab me with her passion and say, This is who I am. In that instant I will see the her that is beyond the her that I thought I knew.

    She pierces me with her eyes, and her eyes ask, Who am I? Why am I here? What do I want from her? Why did we meet? This is what she asks herself. God? What do I want? Yes, there is a happiness that is pure and childlike in her charming brightness that I hear in her sweet sweet melodious tones and inflections. In her jumping up and down in girlish ecstasy and her swerving tail as it flaps and splashes out of water. Then I could laugh until I fall apart and have to be put back together again.

    And then there is a depth of joy that is painful, because in feeling it you feel the pain of life itself in naked existence. You feel the shocking evaluation of all life breathed in an awakened essence.

    Here the submerged wisdom of the mature woman emerges as her elvin children, selves of her many rays of faces, dance around her—the primal queen who peers out of this incredible creature of herself. She poses the riddle of the sphinx over the bottomless abyss of life. And I see it all, and wish to reflect and communicate it all back to her. Dare I see, dare I feel something, or know something of herself she is yet to discover or remember? Dare my soul-eyes be so blessed? Dare I be so initiated? Is this why she calls me to her? Can I offer the richness of myself? Does my significance and meaning truly come to fruition in her comprehending and intuitive presence?

    We see, and our souls can’t hide from each other. How does she know who I am? How does she discover me and read the pages of myself where others have not? I could never be the same. My former self is a skin she slides away. There is yet a metamorphosis to be revealed.

    The caressing brush of her cheek and the silver green scales that glide across me infuse a smile in my heart. The coldness of her hands inflames a warmth communicated to all levels of flesh and spirit, and the flesh is shocked and stops its perpetual motion. Something sparks that begins to burn me, as if transformed in a ritual caldron. I want to climb mountains, but a subtle embrace slows me down, and a cool mountain stream descends from my third eye into my emptied self of nothingness where only the awakening charkas are real. She touches me in her witchery and plunges us into . . . but it’s all in the silver halls of my imagination and she swims smiling about me and derides me with her scornful eyes. She mocks me, and then bites me with her poison. It drives me mad as I start to drown. Then I began to see something so unfathomably incredible . . . but then I awoke.

    Valaris and Volorisa. Wooooowwww! (They look at one another in blonde infatuation) Anyway, lets go to the orgy.

    Unadenken enters.

    Unadenken. VingenO’jack! Where have you been? I’ve been looking all over for you! You’re supposed to be worshiping me.

    Jackhovingen. But I’m tired of worshiping you. I’ve had enough of this.

    Unadenken cracks a whip.

    Unadenken. But you have to!

    Jackhovingen. Don’t you all get it? What is the I of everyday experience? The I of everyday experience is my Being, it possesses the ontological characteristics of being my own, of my ownmost potentiality of possibility. But defining the I is not something set or given as pre-established. Who and what the I of everyday experience is—is ‘contextualized’ through its interactions with the world and the summation of its experiences. The ‘I’ of everyday beingness becomes the Who to the They of other people. In such instances, initially my ‘I’ is not always the Who that is perceived, judged and projected among the ‘they.’

    When I encounter the ‘they’ of the others, the ‘I’ I project or throw forwards to the others through my beingness becomes sucked into the overpowering being of a group that outnumbers my ‘I’. In this context, my ‘I’ that is thrust forwards becomes in question for myself, in that, how is my ‘I’ perceived by the others of the ‘They’? The encompassing magnetic absorption of the the collective ‘They-self.’ While my ‘I’ is initiated as unknown into the ‘They’ it becomes the ‘who’ for the others, who is as yet unknown to the ‘they,’ and to be defined by the ‘They.’ Hence, my ‘I’ is in question on both ends.

    Once Being is psychically vacuumed into an in between condition of being in question as undefined, unknown, and to be judged and directed by itself and the ‘They,’ it loses itself and is placed in the danger of becoming lost as Being is ‘caught-up’ in the inflation and energy of a group that magnetizes a sense and requirement of ‘belongingness,’ losing one’s identity but stuck in ego consciousness, as Being is daunted by the superiority of the ‘they.’ Being faces the possibility of having its ‘I’ in a submissive role, or stolen by the collectivity of the much-too-many who may also seek to reduce the uniqueness of the ‘I’ into the ‘averageness’ and mediocrity of the ‘public.’

    When Being gets thrown into the ‘othering’ mass of the ‘they,’ it must rediscover itself in the process of not being covered over, or losing its ‘soul.’ When the ‘I’ encounters the ‘They,’ it undergoes a psychological battle to maintain itself in heedful circumspection to be authentic and genuine to the integrity of itself, not be labeled, defined, or controlled by the ‘They.’ If being remains authentic among a ‘They’ of authenticity, then, the individual can experience a positive expansion of Being as Being-in-the-world. The real world, not an imagined world, or neurotic world, or a subverted world under the archetypal imposition of the ‘They.’ Though once present and liberated, the self could create as many worlds as it likes without being lost in the illusion.

    Being with others is primordial to the foundational context of being in the world, as Being is born into a dependency upon others for survival, until it learns to care for itself. This ‘taking care’ is a heedful ‘concern’ that involves being responsible for things at hand, or a concern for beings in the world. When ‘Concern’ leaps-in-for-others, it takes over their cares or concerns, it disburdens them by leaping in to take over their problems for them, as in Glassberg, where everything is done for us.

    As Being lives and participates in the world among others, its self becomes dispersed among the ‘they’ of the others. Being is ever threatened to lose itself in the power of being outnumbered as a minority among a collectivity that seeks to judge and make Being accord to the belongingness of the ‘They.’ Being must grasp itself and maintain its I-ness, its is-ness, and ‘mineness’ by not allowing it to be simply vacuumed into the demands of the ‘They’ as it denigrates or degenerates its authenticity to fit in.

    At first, when Being encounters the ‘They’ its ‘I’ is not the ‘I’ of itself, but is caught up and identified in the fashion of the ‘They.’ Being is given back to itself according to the reflective modality of the ‘They.’ For being to rediscover itself among the aura of the ‘They’ it must break through or uncover the inauthenticity that is being thrust upon it by the surrounding others—

    [Suddenly all the lights in the city turn off. There is pitch-blackness. Incredibly loud speakers go off for an interminably

    long time. People start screaming and acting violently. Loud music is also blasted that resembles Stravinsky’s discordant Rite of Spring. Lazer lights of spectral colors begin to fluctuate and circle. Painfully bright colors of dominantly green, orange and purple illuminate and startle the raging citizens. The lights and noise eventually subside as search lights pan throughout the city.

    Jackhovingen runs out of the room.]

    The next scene is daybreak. Jack had been stealthily hiding with great difficulty from building to building. He comes to the gates of the city.

    Guard. Where are you going?

    Jackhovingen. I’m leaving!

    Guard. You can’t leave!

    Jackhovingen. I am.

    Guard. The Zarathustra forbids this. You will have to face it and suffer the consequences.

    Jackhovingen. I’ve never seen the Zarathustra.

    Jackhovingen thrusts the guard aside and steps outside the gate. He runs from the city. He finds a field through the woods. Exhausted and surprised, he then picks an apple from a tree. As he starts to eat it he is amazed to see an audience watching him. This includes a board of specialists and psychologists who explain how the patient has discovered his selfness and has escaped the Insane Asylum . . .

    Chapter 1

    Awake

    Ravaged Time has Spent Her, and Receives the decayed and age’d flesh fall tired beneath me. The Reaper hath torn and worn her traveled skins from below. Once again I am what I was before I was born—(and more). Plunge a diver into crystal black waters—submerged in cold comfort embryo.

    Long carried many treasures across the chasm beyond the valley— wrought many a weight with me from the life that was yesterday.

    But Lethe soothes such sorrows, and silvered sunshadows swallow in replenishing sleep—and forgetfulness—and slumber a timeless age.

    Sleep, sleep, sleep. Sleep bliss wrapped in emptiness, the limitless breath unburdened of the narrow self.

    At the bottom of the well a wish hallowed in cool recesses. Unexpected soft caresses of a wave laps the quiet mind and the dreams slowly return.

    Emerging embers splendor display:

    Colors, patterns, designs.

    Archetypes welcome to their temples, then the disintegrated flames of memories; and I melt from one fantasy into another, one world into the next.

    Dreams turn and tumble lost, the adventure grows terrible.

    A heart begins to pump and surge with fright. I cannot breathe, where is the air!—I gasp and swallow—where is the light?

    The lungs will explode, the brain will pop—A voice begins to tear and screams without sound.

    Ripping fury throws me forwards, I burst to the surface, splashing violent and breathe for the first time; thrash and thrive awake dripping with fresh consciousness. Refreshed I release my grip and settle in silence.

    The silence is all and heralds a softening whisper searching . . . As distant music draws and rises from afar. Johann Sebastian Bach, Ravi Shankara, and Amadeus Mozart play simultaneously in spectrums of non-Euclidean symmetry.

    And I follow down the dark marbled halls those beckoning and endless rising notes—

    And I follow . . .

    .

          .

              .

                   .

                       .

                            .

                                .

                                    .

                                        .

                                             .

                                                  .

                                                         .

                                                                  .

                                                                           .

                                                                                       .

                                                                                                 .

    Jacob awoke near the side foyer entrance by the altar of a darkened cathedral. A frosted breeze washed over his perspired face. His skin cringed and tingled as its tightness loosened and his wandering spirit sunk and submerged back from its lengthy escape into the metaphorical synchronicities of the astral plane; collapsing back to the material body—unshackled from the tenuous grip of illness.

    The cool effortless breeze, refrigerated by arched marble and grottoed stone, exudes a penumbral aura, residual resonance of lingering and channeled Manna—as if the ocean were gently lapping upon the rocky gloss of pavement, across the lucid grist of the marble floor, and blanketing its smooth coldness in soothing sheets of holy water, as a forest of Gothic trees sigh in gathering moist clusters, encloistered in phosphorescence.

    The numinous haunting of stained glass windows overlook Jacob like luminescent portals, radiating the mournful glow of sultry remorse in the ashen dusk.

    Dim remembrances recede into the astral tide as the restored ego censors the shocking totality of full recollection. Only spectral shells remain upon the brain’s shores. Fragments and episodes hang shimmering and elusive just out of grasp.

    Jake meditates to fish back the crumbling passageways, but his throat is dry, it’s hard to swallow. He covers himself in a feathery quilt lying on his exhausted body.

    The cold stone encasement of the church stores vasty silence. A thud of a heavy thick wooden door reverbs through the thickness of the weighty solitude—like a splashing echo rippling across a compression of mountain air. Steps tap soft but sturdy that tread towards an approach.

    A large figure settles down and offers Jake a steamy cup. Here. You need some nourishing soup to revitalize your emaciated limbs. Go ahead, drink it. That’s alright, you don’t have to say anything man. You passed out at my door when you came over the other night. Doc looked after you. I thought the healing spirit of this place, like a refreshing well of a boundless spring, would benefit the fire of that fever you came down with. You’re temperature was almost 104! Groggy and disoriented, Jake was expecting a monk, but it was his friend The Earthman. He was the caretaker of the cathedral and lived next door.

    Why don’t you come across the street? I’ll stoke up some dinner.

    With a dawning sense of relief Jake gathered his returning semblance of self, garnished his steps, and went.

    Chapter 2

    Green Tea

    Paterson Lies in the valley under the Passaic Falls . . .

                Eternally asleep

    his dreams walk about the city where he persists

    Incognito. Butterflies settle on his stone ear.

    Immortal he neither moves nor rouses and is seldom

    seen, though he breathes and the subtleties of his

                machinations

    drawing their substance from the noise of the pouring

                river

    animate a thousand automatons. Who because they

    neither know their sources nor the sills of their

    disappointments walk outside their bodies aimlessly . . .

    Locked and forgot in their desires-unroused.

    Paterson

    William Carlos Williams¹⁰

    Raked and sponged Jacob wandered the streets weakly to gather strength in air and movement. To feel and be the body again as splintered recollections of the self still diverge in spacy abrasion.

    Unconsciously Jacob founders into the orange purple glow of Dunkin’ Donuts at Madison Ave. in Paterson off Route 80. It used to be the Madison Diner hang out, where recently, a couple of street punks thought they were so tough they got into a shootout with the Police and were chased into the diner bathroom and killed. Where you gangstas now?

    Jacob thinks: What the hell am I doing here?

    Out of the blank urban Midnight, in walks the odd entrance of curious expectations, as a Big Ziggy in a bright yellow t-shirt, sweat shorts and thick black rimmed glasses, strolls over. Whoa! It’s Saskatchewan Sidney. What a character. Somewhat moved between a mixture of unease and intrigue Jacobs’ just waiting for him to say something. There’s an uncanny air of anticipation. Wait—here it comes. With a long deep and happy Pee-wee Herman drawl of friendly invocation the beaming man-child heartily exclaims: Wheerrrrrrre’s JAY? And he smiles a solid frozen smile of bright-eyed innocence for a welcome response. Meanwhile, Choudry Chatterji and Javu Javi Udjasana behind the counter clearly disclose that Jay’s not there.

    Smiling like a huge four-year old Blue Meanie in a glowing yellow T-shirt, Ziggy Sidney, whoever this poor happy bastard is, responds in true Yoda fashion, Jay not herrrre?

    No man, Jay’s not here, Javu-Javi Udjasana repeats.

    Giant yellow shirted Saskatchewan Sidney, undaunted, repeats his curious queries and exclaims in brand new glad enthusiasms: Wherrrrrrre’s Jay? Still smilin’.’

    Jay’s not here man, emphasizes Choudry.

    Jacob says to himself: This is Killin’ me. I’ve got to talk to this guy. I don’t know what to say. Normally I wouldn’t be at a loss but it’s late and I’ve just woke up out of a freakin coma—to this? What’s happening here? There’s also a serious scowled cop behind me, and that tends to cramp my creative banter. He’s gonna want his donuts.

    So Jays ’kinda of a crazy guy, huh? Says I.

    Noooooo, he’s just an Indian who owns three Dunkin Donuts, says Ziggy Sid with jolly alacrity.

    An entourage of street thugs burst in and monotonously chant Yo to one another.

    There’s a scary Go-Go bar across the street where Yellow boy may have innocently just absconded. Don’t go there. (They must love him. "Wherrrrre’s Candy?")

    As a matter of fact, a couple tawdry women, apparently go-go dancers, stroll in snapping bubble gum wearing pink and purple high heeled pumps and slutty cleavage. They’re welcomed to a barrage of hoots and hollers whose language and I.Q. equivalency matches four year olds brought up on not Sesame Street, but rather MTV and Redd Foxx records. One of the girls has a Chiuahua whom she royally chats with while snuggling between her breasts. Yellow Sidney begins to blush.

    Nevertheless: there’s a slight slow nervous jerk of Zig’s rotund shoulder and wait! pause—pause—With renewed beaming resiliency, "Wherrrrre’s Jay?"

    Holy Shit!!! Where is Jay? wonders Jake, "His real name is probably Vijay Vijaya! Vijay Vijaya Singh must be at one of the other three D and Ds. Maybe a shift each in karma rolling 24-hour America.

    Hey Jay, time to make the doughnuts.

    *     *     *

    Hey Kid, hey mister, buddy, buddy, hello? What do you want? snaps Javu Javi Udjasana. Jake pops out of his momentary lapse and mutters, Why did I come in here? I seriously need to move to another part of the country, or the state. Jake abruptly spins round, almost knocks the cop over, and escapes the Dunkin Donuts.

    *     *     *

    Green Tea. Returning to the Earthman’s abode, Jake is about to experience his first Green Tea ceremony, awaiting its distilling brew to course through his blood like ambrosia. The real thing, no super-marketed substitute. Freshly picked only a month prior in high healing hills of Tai-Wan, where a thousand year old tree towers watchful and enormous above their laughing and enthralled leaves.

    Green Tea. Initiated in the Sacred Ritual room of the Earth Man. Dionysus the Earth Man. Dionysus, like you thought you were talking to Dennis Hopper who hopped out of some mad moist jungle to greet you with happy halloos, on his way to ring bells for his church and Father Gerard of St. Stephens. Saintly Gerard by most estimations.

    Dionysus, Dennis for short, christened Dennis the Earthman for his legendary skills at transforming haggard stretches of land into farmable richness, sometimes, just to move earth around. Tall, big boned soft and sharp Italian features, noble nose, shaved head and vigorous, a strong Capricorn, a gentle giant. Dionysios, both lawyer and agriculturalist, Tom Jefferson would be proud of you, erupts Jake, double-take glances at the Earthman—smiles, and reconsiders, Welllll—maybe. Dionysus laughs. He gets it. Looks into Jake’s eyes and laughs the laugh of a child Jupiter in nervous calm Paul Bunyan convulsions.

    "That’s the guitarrrr-man, Dionysios roars. Play that guitarrr mannn! I love it!" When Jake used to perform, Dionysus would irresistibly rise up, as he does when moved by music, and start grooving with a summoned energy spirit dancing around about him; then he would walk up to him during a gig and start zapping his guitar with magic fingers, as if to cast a spell into blood and electricity, and then, starts hitting the strings with his fingers. At which point Jake looks up, as later told, with a look of, ‘You’re not actually doing that are you? What are you out of your mind?’ Yeah.

    Tonight we’re in the company of Doc, Tomazh Tomzack, and Alexey Voladya, and Jake Kharinsky in the middle.

    Speaking in a solemn blessed ‘seriossity’ over a homey dinner of Salmon, Escarole, pasta with Pesto, and Shop-Rite Grape Juice, Dionysus says, in Dennis Hopper’s far out man tone pulsing vibe with soft worded tenderness: Well, you know, the Good Lord gathers us together when he sees fit, to celebrate, and share these gifts, in a meal where we can remember the miracle of the loaves and the fishes handed down to the generations. Once again I look at Dionysus, and something about me causes some secret box to erupt inside him and he’ll run around the room and loudly burst simultaneously in bright uncontrollable huge hee-hee-hees and full bellied volcanic haws, unable to contain the boundless explosions of mirth gathered from a lifetime of good harvesting.

    Maybe Tom Jefferson would be proud; it’s up to him, here in the town whose industry was funded by Alexander Hamilton.

    *     *     *

    Jacob:

    Before we begin, I’m given a box of Foo-Joy Lung-Ching Dragonwell, Famed Imperial Green Tea of the West Lake. I’ve been searching for this for years. It’s been a long interval. This is the inexpensive boxed variety, but it’s imported from China, and Doc tells us this is the best of its kind. After all my tasteful memories of its lingering and fine aesthetics ring true, backed up by a devout connoisseur. Not the good stuff we’ll be consuming for the ceremony, but good stuff.

    The Good Earth brand of Tea has a strong sweetness infused with lemon grass. A unique flavor and quality above most brands, and owe it hours of gladly drank goodness for many years. Yet with the return of Lung-Ching Dragonwell, it occurs to me that a full circle of seven strange steps to heaven has passed an octave, rejoining in ritual connection the beginning of our way with Tea.

    Alluringly addicted and initiated by her sumptuous smooth reclining tranquility, a wakeful and slender transparency to elaborate and stir our spirit’s pallet. The steamy, almost chocolaty aroma knocks me out with its healing elixir zeal and vitality. The Dragon’s heated breath, having dined on vaporized jewels garnishing a banquet of silver.

    The Way of Tea began when I started cultivating a Kombucha mushroom healing culture, a natural Penicillin life prolonging remedy known throughout Asia. A good Chinese

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