HABITAT FOR HUMANITY: Snapshots of a pligrim’s travels with God


 

HABITAT FOR HUMANITY

Shapshots of a pilgrim’s travels with God


 

fools-rush-in_thumbnail2.jpgAbout two weeks ago I started having an almost daily dialogue with a woman about our respective spiritual adventures, which differed a great deal. A few days into the dialogue, she asked if I thought I was going to write a new book? I said I’d been wondering that myself, because about the time she and I first started talking I was told in my sleep that all of my books were out of print.
 
Later that same day something fell out of me, and the next day something else came, and the next day something else, and so on. As I recall, on one day two what appeared to be chapters fell out of me, but it was just one chapter on the other days. Some of the writing occurred during the daytime, some of it at night, and one chapter came in the very wee hours. Very wee.
 
I had some odd dreams very early last night, which caused me to get out my laptop and head to a place where I could get online, but nothing new waited in my email account. So I bought a Citizen and read the front page article about the upcoming “sold out” Key West Literary Seminar, which is held annually. I had some thoughts that I decided to keep to myself, and headed home and back to bed and sleep.
 
Lynn Vantriglia, the heart and soul of the Art Behind Bars program, and other people unknown to me, then came to me in dreams and I started to feel nudged toward something. I felt more nudged when I heard Lynne say “habitat for humanity.” And then I saw a classroom setting and school cafeteria like food, and I was presenting something.
 
Over breakfast I started feeling like the book was finished and that it would be called HABITAT FOR HUMANITY. As the woman and I had talked a good bit about pilgrimages, the subtitle came next: A pilgrim’s travels with God on this world. I then felt moved to create new pages for it at goodmorningkeywest.com and goodmorningfloridakeys.com, where it now resides and can be read or pursued by anyone at no cost. It’s not copyrighted and can be freely reproduced. Simply go to the menu on the homepage and look for the title and click on it.
 
Maybe I should say it’s pretty steep.
 
Sloan 

Wet Dreams, Abductions and Other Roadside Attractions – Key West

(Pan)(Mother Nature)

 

Last night my dream maker surprised me by pushing me toward publishing serially it seems, chapter by chapter, the fairly short book (and fairly short chapters) that started falling out of me about three weeks ago. The brief intro below, or maybe it’s just an author’s preface, came to me after three chapters had fallen out of me and I now felt this indeed was a new book. I tell you truly, I really don’t want to publish this book like this. In fact, I can’t say I want to publish it in anyway, for a variety of reasons. However, I learned a long time ago not to ignore the Editorial Board after it made its sentiments known to me. As I told someone yesterday, this book is really way out there. Rreally way out there. But then, so is Fantasy Fest and this is Fantasy Fest Week in Key West.
 
Sloan

 

P.S., as in flash foward. As it would turn out, each chapter’s publication was introduced by a what had become a pretty near daily post to the Today’s Cock-a-doodle-doo column of goodmorningkeywest.com and the Today’s FlaKey Drivel column of goodmorningfloridakeys.com. Identical daily posts to each column. As it would turn out, if you believe in coincidence, I don’t, the “theme” of each daily post seemed in keeping with the “theme” of the chapter published that day. Meaning, it turned out to be a sort of book within a book, or perhaps two parallel books. The daily post reflected current events, the daily chapter was mostly historical, although it was written in the moment and sometimes made reference to current happenings. In this way perhaps any hapless reader who stubles, or stumbles if that makes you feel better, over the book gets to see that the author also had some semblance of a life going on, some semblance, as the published representative chapters of his life might cause a reader to think maybe the author had no life whatsoever going on — as in, surely he must have made it all up! If only he had only made it all up, maybe he would have had some semblance of a life :-). 
 
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FOREPLAY

I’m not sure, but maybe I’m writing another book. That explains the I supposes and so forths in the first few chapter headings. I suppose this book, if that’s what it is, will continue to be autobiographical, as I seriously doubt I can improve on the last novel that upped and fell out of me, literally, in six weeks’ time, in the spring of 2001. It was autobiographical too, but some of it, for better and for worse, hadn’t happened yet, and a lot of it was put into a different suit of clothes, but underneath it all was a great deal of personal experience. Well, enough foreplay.
 

CHAPTER 1, I SUPPOSE

 

WET DREAMS, ABDUCTIONS AND OTHER ROADSIDE ATTRACTIONS

 

Years before I started writing, I felt I wanted to be a writer. I started writing my first book in 1982, as I recall. From that moment, I dreamed of making it as a writer. Or more than making it. Hitting the jackpot. So far, now age 67, it hasn’t happened. At least not in any human measure of hitting the jackpot. Perhaps in spirit ways the jackpot was hit, but that doesn’t put money in my pocket or food on the table or a roof over my head or a car in the garage.
 
Here’s my dilemma: the second poem that fell out of me, oh, maybe in 1992, prelude to skads of poems falling out of me — kerplop!
 

I happened upon a mockingbird

singing its fool head off.

I asked it how and why it sang,

But all it did was look ahead,

All it did was sing.

It never turned to see if I was watching,

Or listened for money jingling in my pockets,

Or asked if I liked its music,

Or expected a recording contract –

It was too busy singing

to pay any attention to me.

 

By that point in my life, I knew I was in the grips of what appeared to be a deep and not exactly gentle mystical experience, which seemed headed to places I didn’t particularly want to go but I didn’t see any alternative destinations nor any way to change the course heading I was on. Although I had not yet thought of my plight as one of having been shanghaied, that’s nevertheless what it already felt and seemed like. So I knew the mockingbird poem was a watershed event, a template for my life, and while I didn’t like it, it rang true and has continued to ring true until this day, 20 October 2009.
 
I live in Key West, where Ernest Hemingway, Tennessee Williams and Robert Frost, to name the most famous in our stable of many writers, past and present, hung out. I may be the only local writer who never had a book reviewed by the local press. I also may have written and published more books than any of the local writers, and, as far as I know, more books than the aforementioned heavy weights. One way to get to the bottom of that is to query the editors of our local newspapers, whom I use as my own personal dart boards. Another way would be to give the mockingbird poem even deeper consideration.
 
I once worshipped Hemingway, wanted to emulate him. But reading Carlos Baker’s biography of Hemingway, when I was in law school at the University of Alabama, and a few years later Baker’s compilation of letters Hemingway had written to other people, which they had saved, caused me not to like Hemingway very much as a person, even though I still liked his literature. As time passed, it was what Robert Frost wrote that really rang true to me: “I took the one less traveled by and that has made all the difference.”
 
As for my Muse, cruel lady you are, moving me to write maybe twenty books of different sizes, shapes, tones and depths, each one of a kind, each out of the box, each a testament to fools rushing in where even angels fear to tread, and yet you seem determined for me to end my days in the style of Vincent Van Gogh, who depended on a relative, as I do, to pay the bills that living on this world requires to be paid, unless you are homeless and live off welfare agencies, which I also have done. Having written that, I wonder if my life will end as Van Gogh’s did: self-infliction. Well, from where he now sits, he gets the last laugh, I suppose, as he watches people pay enormous sums for what, I imagine, he gladly would have accepted six months’ rent in payment.
 
I tell you truly, not all the heart heaving, not all the tears, not all the rapture I experienced during deeply inspired moments of writing, and many such moments there were, assuages or salves the depression, despair and grief of being a starving artist whose Muse sends stuff like this below through him, just to cause him to hope all the more to make a living wage by his God-given craft:
 

He feels deep beauty

in the dark pool

from which is writings flow,

She clings to him like fine silk,

Precious oil,

She feels solid, compressed,

Like . . . A black pearl

growing from inside out,

ever larger with each stroke of his pen,

Pushing her precious waters

over her banks

into his dreams and life.

 

I used to attend and participate at poetry readings. Used to. I attended two fiction writing classes back in the early 1980s, in my hometown, Birmingham, Alabama, offered by the local same writer, Fred Bonnie, a French Canadian ex pat, who’d had a book of off-beat (maybe weird is more accurate) short stories published. During the middle of the second class, Fred told me to stop attending writing classes and start writing. I dedicated my first book to him. Non-fiction, accused by its evil targets of being fiction: HOME BUYERS: Lambs to the Slaughter? The cartoons I imagined and a local artist created were, well, a picture is worth a thousand words
.
Some years and three books later, September 1990, if my ageheizmer’s recalls accurately, I was one of the invited presenters at a writers conference at Birmingham Southern College. I then lived in Boulder, Colorado, and being from out of town, way out of town actually, and having been published made me an expert. I named my presentation, “Writing As a Mystical Experience,” and gave the participants who showed up my take, based on a revelation to me, of The Old Man and the Sea being Hemingway’s unconscious suicide note; he later blew his own brains out without completing another book.
 
More specifically, I opined that the old man, the boy, the fish, the sea, the great marlin, the sharks that ate it away until nothing was left were metaphor for Hemingway’s own life of trying to prove himself as a man, to his own distant father and to himself. The boy was the young Hemingway. The Old Man, who left the boy behind, was Hemingway’s father. The great billfish was a phallic symbol. The sharks came out of the depths of Hemingway’s troubled psyche and lost feminine, the cancer that would eat away his brain that he eventually would blow out.
 
Perhaps also contributing to this perspective was my recollection of a letter in Carlos Baker’s second book, written by Hemingway to his editor, Max Perkins, I think was his name, at Scribner & Sons, I think was the publishing house. Hemingway was mightily upset, he told Perkins, about people reading symbolism into The Old Man and the Sea. The old man was an old man, the boy was a boy, the fish was a fish, the sea was the sea, Hemingway insisted — too loudly, it seemed to me, even back in the dark ages when I was studying to be a lawyer.
 
Maybe, also, I identified with the Hemingway and maybe was writing to prove myself to me and to my own father. However, I don’t think I had thought about that angle — or was it an angel? — at the writer’s conference, or even had wanted to think about it, so I doubt I mentioned that minor inconvenience at the conference. Or that my trying in myriad ways to prove myself as a man had taken precedence over being a father to my daughters and a husband to their mother, which chickens eventually came home to roost in spades.
 
What the participants really wanted to know, basically, was how I dealt with writer’s block? I said I didn’t get writer’s block. When it was time for me to write, I wrote; it consumed me, until I was done with it. When it was not time for me to write, only garbage came out of me when I tried to write. I was better off doing something else. No, I didn’t go to writers workshops? No, I didn’t get up every morning and sit at my typewriter or computer or writing pad for a set time each morning. If I wrote, it was because I had to write, and if I didn’t have to write, I might be writing in my soul but until it was ready to go onto paper or to the monitor I needed to do something else.
 
I sensed maybe they thought I was a heretic, wore horns, or was just plain crazy, although a few seemed to get my drift, sort of. But none of them seemed to take in my saying that maybe some of them weren’t writers. Maybe they were artists, or potters, or had some other way of creative expression they had not discovered. All that money and time and effort they had spent trying to learn how to be writers, I don’t suppose it was realistic for me to expect any of them to take in what I had to say.

Looking back, I think the person who really needed to hear what I said the most was me. Hemingway was a famous writer. He made a good bit of money on his novels. His writing took him to exotic places. But in the end, what did all of that get him? A double barrel shotgun under his chin, his big toe on the trigger. Same end as Van Gogh, different weapon of mass destruction.
 
Three years ago, and maybe seventeen more books later, something happened to change everything for me as a writer. A friend suggested that I get my own blog. I talked with a fellow who was publishing my daily email missives to an archive on his own website, and he said he could set me up a website. Thus came into being goodmorningkeywest.com, and the Today’s Cock-a-doodle-doo file on the homepage of that website, to which I have been posting nearly daily ever since. Unable to find a publisher or widespread audience for my writings, I was given one by God: the World Wide Web.
 
The Archives at goodmorningkeywest.com contain everything I published daily since March 2007. When goodmorningfloridakeys.com later came into being, and the Today’s FlaKey Drivel file copycatting the Today’s Cock-a-doodle-doo file at goodmorningkeywest.com, I started publishing simultaneously to both non-commercial websites. Imagine being able to get those two domain names without any hassle in this day and age of capitalism, free enterprise and online business promotion. But they both were available because God had reserved them for me.
 
Nowadays, pilgrims from faraway places, and nearby places, too, who google this or that topic online, sometimes stumble across stuff I have written, the likes of which I seriously doubt they will ever find written by anyone else. What they do with it is out of my hands. Sometimes they write to me, usually not. Can’t say I blame them, as I have a bad habit of publishing what people write to me, and sometimes I have the even badder habit of revealing their identity, home town, email address, home address, phone number, birth date, etc. Well, this is paradise, ain’t it, and even Adam and Eve knew there were no fig leaves there, nor any secrets.
 
Maybe that’s why I never received (yet) what I knew to be a reply from an extraterrestrial. They seem to prefer to conduct their affairs on this planet clandestinely. Mostly, I suppose, because they don’t want to cause a world-wide panic, which would emanate out of the religions on this world that still seem to hold to the quaint notion that this planet is the only one, in the billions of billions of billions squared and cubed planets, stars, worm holes, black holes, and so forth in the Creation, that harbors “intelligent” life. I don’t suppose I should say that my first two novels touched not very lightly on the extraterrestrial-on-earth theme, should I? I don’t suppose I should say that I know for a fact that extraterrestrial beings are on and around this planet all the time. So I won’t say it, because I don’t want to be asked to prove it and cause a world wide panic.
 
In case someone is wondering, yeah, I attended a few MUFON meetings, until I got the sense that the UFO stuff they were tracking/trying to find didn’t jive all that well with the UFO stuff that was tracking me. Maybe tracking me because maybe I give off different “vibes” than most “humans” give off. Maybe because human is merely a relative term. Maybe because humans aren’t even from this planet, but it’s been so long since they were seeded here that all of that’s been forgotten in the name of religion, if not abject ignorance.
 
Not to worry, I’m not suggesting that anyone should chase after or be chased by ETs. Far as I can tell, it’s a major, if not catastrophic diversion away from what people really need to chase after or by chased by. Pray that you never catch God, and pray even harder that God never catches you.
 
In case anyone is wondering, this missive pretty much just up and jumped out of me, like a wet dream. It came nearly as fast as I could write it down. I had no idea what the next sentence would be, much less the next paragraph. This ending popped out of me after I re-read the emission and made a few corrections of typographical, clarification or comic (not necessarily to be confused with cosmic) nature.
 
Sloan, Key West –
Where people accused of being weirdos some place else can come mingle with real weirdos

P.S. In case anyone is still wondering, ETs come to this planet to try to figure out if people descended from monkeys, or if it was monkeys that descended from people. They, the ETs, discovered that Key West is perhaps better than most places to study this important cosmic question, because there are as many people here as there are monkeys. Or is it the other way around? Actually, it’s hard to really tell, because they all look pretty much alike, but they don’t all act pretty much alike. Actually, some of them don’t act like either people or monkeys.

 

 

No Fig Leaves – Key West

no-fig-leaves.jpg(the full Monty on Duval Street but we don’t have a nude beach)

 

This being Fantasy Fest and all, I was in such a festive mood yesterday that I wrote and sent this festive little letter to the editor to Key West Citizen. Following it is the second festive chapter in HABITAT FOR HUMANITY: A pilgrim’s travels with God on this world, which I can’t say I ever expect to see reviewed in the Citizen, or anywhere.
 
—————————————
 
During an interview on radiofreekeywest.com, a life-feed local morning radio-video show, I was asked by host The Reverend Doug how I would have handled the Myra Wittenber demotion and salary cut by City Manager Jim Scholl, if I was mayor?
 
I said if I was convinced Director of Transportation Myra Wittenburg had ordered a city public works crew to do special right-of-way improvements in front of her ex-husband’s home, so her grandchildren children would not have to step in mud puddles when they got out of car to visit their grandfather, then at the next duly held city commission meeting I would would say I was not satisfied that a mere demotion (change of the name of job description) and cut in pay was sufficient discipline. I would say Wittenberg should have been fired. This sort of special treatment has to stop, and the way to do it is get rid of people who do it. Then I would ask the city commissioners if they had anything they wished to say anything about it?
 
After the interview it occurred to me that the first thing I would do would be to I would pick up the phone and call State Attorney Dennis Ward and ask him to investigate Mira Wittenberg for criminal activity. What’s the difference, really, between her  getting special treatment from the city for herself, her children and her ex-husband, and Randy Acevedo covering up for his wife, Monique? Both Mira and Randy were in positions of responsibility, positions of public trust. They both violated that public trust. Randy lost his job and was criminally prosecuted. Mira should be treated the same.
 
By copy of this email/letter to the editor, as a private citizen, I am asking Dennis Ward to launch an investigation into what Mira Wittenberg did, if he has not already done that.
 
Sloan Bashinky
626 Josephine Parker Road #102
Key West 33040
(305) 407-4285

 

CHAPTER 2, I SUPPOSE

 

NO FIG LEAVES IN PARADISE

 

Maybe around 1992, when I lived in Boulder, Colorado, I chanced (if you believe in chance — already by then I didn’t believe in it) upon Mutant Message Down Under, by Marlo Morgan. A story about her going to Australia to help lead some sort of mental health care conference, only to find herself on a rather unexpected and rigorous (slight understatement) walkabout in the outback with a tribe of aborigines living in the old way — in the wild. They viewed themselves as real people, and everyone else, including other aborigines who had adapted to modern civilization, as mutants. Morgan’s book was the tribe’s message from the real people to the mutants: you and me.
 
This book had a ring of truth when I read it, even if some of the scenarios maybe had suffered some poetic license or even outfight subversion, to keep the tribe’s identity and location a secret. For God only knew what civilized people would have done to a tribe like that — Australia’s post-white-invasion history is rank with horror stories of aborigines being “civilized for their own good.”
 
The savages Morgan met were, for example, totally telepathic, and only spoke with their mouths for Morgan’s benefit, since she wasn’t telepathic when they adopted her because one of them had a soul contract with her to try to help her. Meaning, she did not go to Australia to help lead a conference in mental health. She went there to have her mental health restored, or at least experience a full Monty attempt to restore it. Read the book and see for yourself.
 
Morgan sold several hundred thousand softback copies of Mutant Message Down Under by mail/UPS out of her basement, using a copying machine to put them together, her son told me on the telephone when I called there to thank her for writing the book. Later, Harper San Francisco approached Morgan about taking over the book, reversing it by reintroducing it in hardback. One catch, she had to verify it really had happened, if it was to be published non-fiction. Well, she had sworn a soul oath not to jeopardize the tribe’s identity, so she could not prove any of it. Harper published the book as a novel, with an introduction by Morgan saying it was a novel for people who wanted to believe it was a novel, but for other people . . .
 
For most of my life I had felt like I wanted to live in Australia. Morgan’s book enhanced that desire. When, in the early fall of 1995, my life in Boulder came to a sudden, screeching end (I did plenty of screeching, and wailing, and gnashing of teeth), I took off for Nepal to trek, which was something a lot of Boulder people did, and I had gotten the bug to follow suit.
 
In Katmandu, I got the bug to go to Australia after I was done trekking, which is another tale altogether. Everyone else out there walking around was having a nature and international experience. I was having that and an experience you might not even believe were I to tell it to you, and then you were told by what you knew in your bones was God in a dream that I really did have that experience. So I won’t tell it right now, today.
 
I flew into Darwin from Singapore, and going through customs learned there was a hostel in town. It was just before dawn, and I wasn’t real thrilled about the timing of my arrival into what I would learn was a city named after Charles Darwin, whom I somewhat obliquely mentioned at the end of the first chapter of this here book. It occurred to me, on learning this historical fact, that perhaps my arrival in Darwin had something to do with evolution. However, it probably didn’t dawn on me, as I don’t remember it dawning on me, that it was my own personal evolution at stake.
 
I learned the next day at the front desk of a three-day outback tour in SUVs, and signed up. We gathered about 7 a.m. a couple of days later, me and two men guides and a mixture of men and women Australians, all about half my age, which was, my age, fifty-three, or going there. By lunch time, I realized Australians only have one speed: wide open. Well, they also sleep after they drop.
 
By dinner time the first night I was exhausted, figured we would camp near where we stopped to have a meal. I figured wrong. We had several more hours of rough, unpaved road ahead into Kakadoo, where some of the first “Crocodile Dundee” film was shot.
 
Maybe around 10 p.m., as we were pummeled by a washboard dirt road because we were going 60 m.p.h., two aborigines came out of dream time into the rear of the SUV, right in front of me. It didn’t take being Sherlock Holmes to deduce that I was the only person in the SUV who saw them. I knew who they were, but not what they were doing there.
 
It then was my custom to ask spirits that showed up before me what I had that they wanted? So I asked these two, a man and a woman, what I had that they wanted? Telepathically, I asked. Telepathically, and actually, they laughed, said, “We’re real people, what could you possibly have that we would want?!” I was mortified, wanted to crawl into a hole and pull the dirt over me.
 
Instead, I asked why they were there? They came back with, “We just came to welcome you into our tribe.” Then, they dissolved back into dream time. All the while, the kids in the SUV were carrying on conversation, cutting up, oblivious to what I had just experienced. When later I told two of them about it, after getting to know them a bit better, they were nice about it but didn’t seem exactly persuaded I wasn’t nuts.
 
We saw some beautiful places during that three days, and plenty of bleak land in between. It was still the dry season, and maybe it looked a lot better after the rains came shortly thereafter. Whatever, I felt I would not survive three days with those kids, and boy was I glad to get back to the Hostel late the third night.
 
I had planned to spend six months in Australia but I no longer felt like being there and booked a flight to New Zealand where I had also wanted to live. One night in Aukland and I was headed back to the States. That’s where the real people sent me, to try to live like them but in civilization.
 
Some of them told Morgan that they had tried to live in civilization, while others had remained in the wild. The ones who had tried it in civilization had started to lose their essence and abilities, so they went back to the wild. They sent her back to America to speak for them to the mutants. They sent me back to America to see if I actually could live in civilization the way they lived in the wild. Five years later I was homeless, living in civilization the way they lived in the wild.
 
Morgan didn’t become homeless. She made a bundle off her book, and perhaps did okay on a sequel, which I tried to read and couldn’t get into. I found myself wondering if she had missed something, the point maybe? For all I heard about her while she was in America seemed like she was living high on the hog and in very much the mutant paradigm. She got on the speaker’s and workshops tour, and I suppose made another bundle off of that.
 
As far as I know, I’m the only other white person the real people took under their wing, so to speak. And, as far as I know, I’m the only white person who actually got turned into a real person. For what happened to me after I went back to the States, specifically to Birmingham, Alabama, was very different from what Morgan reported happened to her in the outback with the real people. What happened to me was that I was systematically taken back into myself, over and over again, painfully, horribly, until everything I didn’t want to know about myself, and everything I didn’t want to know about people dear to me, my parents in particular, was revealed to me.
 
The internal ordeal was much worse than the external ordeal Morgan experienced in the bush with the real people. Worse psychically, and worse physically, because the psychic wounding was merged with my physical body, and my psyche and my physical body were wracked in tandem, as the demons from hell, literally, were systematically brought up out of me into the light of day. I was required to see all of it. Nothing remained hidden, all in keeping with a “little” poem that had come to me when I lived in Boulder:
 

There are no fig leaves in paradise,

Nor any secrets.

 

Like Morgan, I had been involved in healing work before I met the real people. Perhaps like Morgan, I had already undergone a good deal of personal healing. Perhaps I had undergone even more healing than she had undergone, for I already was on a rapid and deep healing program when I was visited by the real people. A healing program being directed by angels.
 
From reading Morgan’s book, I did not get a sense that she was on that kind of program before the met the real people. She seemed to be still operating out of her will and intellect, until the real people got a hold of her. And I saw nothing in her book, or in anything she wrote afterward, to suggest that she ever was taken into the dungeon of her own soul, and left to marinate there with all the critters that lived there.
 
Flashback to when I reached Anapurna Base Camp, elevation about 15,000 feet, in Nepal, I was exhausted. I had been very ill in Boulder for four years, and it had only just started to lift a few months before everything fell apart there, leaving my heart and soul shattered. During the trek, I felt better physically than I had felt in decades. A long-standing disturbance in my G.I. tract was abated for the most part. I knew it was the work of the angels. By now, I also knew the four years of torture was to some extent due to my carrying my wife and her son inside of me, to try to help them. To say she was not thrilled to be told that by me, after it was told to me, would be somewhat of an understatement.
 
Anyway, the base camp was fogged-in when I got there, and the fog remained for three days, as did I, because I wanted to see the sun rise on the rim of towering peaks that made the Colorado Rockies look like bumps. When the stars came out just before daybreak of the third day, I went with others up to the ridge where we could see the sun come up over Fishtail Mountain and hit the rim of peaks facing Fishtail, where it was said gods lived, and that is why nobody was allowed on that mountain, the split top of which looked like the tail of a fish or whale.
 
As the sun hit those majestic peaks, I saw the great blacksmith who had first come to me in Boulder the year before, heralding a great storm coming my way, and my being placed on his big anvil under him and pounded by his huge hammer into something very different. I heard telepathically, “The son and I are one. The son and I are one.” I had thought I was going to hear, “The Father and I are one.” Meaning the Father and me. So I was confused, and arrogant.
 
I came down off that mountain that day, and two days later, wandering around alone, I got disoriented and got off the trail. It was a misty, light rain kind of a day. I felt lost in more way than being off the trail. Isolated, I was told, “You once were Judas.” This I already knew, as did my Boulder wife and a good friend of mine in Birmingham. Then I was told, “You have a strain of Lucifer in you.” This scared the living shit out of me. Soon I was back on the trail. Shortly after reaching Birmingham, I was told in my sleep, “It’s very easy to mistake Lucifer for the Holy Spirit.” This really scared the shit out of me.
 
About fifteen months later, in the middle of a One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest experience I had stupidly brought onto myself, the Blacksmith showed up in the state mental hospital just like the real people had showed up in the SUV. Only then did it dawn on me that the Blacksmith was the Christ: “The son and I are one.” I felt so stupid, mortified. Immediately, I stopped a lot of behavior I was doing that wasn’t in keeping with Jesus’ way.
 
Then a rescue came and I was liberated from that hell hole. About two weeks later, I went into a dark night of the soul the likes of which I’d never heard anyone speak of except John of the Cross in his commentaries. The lights went out, I stopped dreaming, felt as if I had been disconnected from God. And like a part of my mind had simply died. The kind of dark night where you pray do die and plot your own demise each day. When fourteen months into it I was told in my sleep, “The reason you are having this experience is because you once were Judas,” I went to an Episcopal priest who told me Judas’ only real mistake was killing himself.
 
It started to lift two months later, when I left the woman I was with. I then was liberated from psychiatry and its poisons (pills),which took seven months of horrible physical and psychic detox . Then the real show and tell show began. The show and tell that would put me to living on the street eventually, living there like the real people lived in the bush, like Jesus had lived when he walked this world. Even as the show and tell continued. Even as it continues today. Being telepathic, the real people had no secrets among themselves. There are no fig leaves in paradise, nor any secrets. Abide in me, Jesus told his disciples, and you shall come to know the truth and the truth will make you free.
 
The real people told Morgan that Jesus was a good man who came to this world to help mutants, but they didn’t need him because they were real people. Jesus and the real people tag-teamed me, and anytime I dream or have something come up in waking time about Australia, that’s a cue I’m going down under again, down under into myself and perhaps down under into someone or someones else.
 
Once a mutant, it’s so terribly easy to revert back to it, especially living in civilization. When I was homeless, it was easier to be real, but harder to stay civilized — I saw that I slowly was going feral. Now that I have some civilized comforts again, feral is not a threat but it’s a real test each day to remain real. I need constant reminding of who I am, as opposed to who I would like to think I am.
 
For example, when I wrote this chapter yesterday, it seemed okay. I felt smooth. But my dreams last night disagreed. On waking before dawn, I got up and went back to work (writing). The first part of the chapter I left alone. The last part, starting with “As far as I know I’m the only other white person the real people took under their wing,” went through radical surgery, taking me out of it and putting God in it.
 
It appears, alas, that I need repeated visits down under, because there always seems to be something else down there that needs attention. Jesus told his disciples that what is in them will destroy them if it is left in them, but if it is brought up out of them, it will save them.
 
Outwardly, the real people look like savages. Inwardly, they look like Adam and Eve before the fall. Except unlike Adam and Eve, they have been tested by life and have become savvy and wise. They have seen and lived in the kingdom civilization doesn’t even know exists.
 
I sometimes say only in Key West can someone like me live openly and not be caught and bagged and sent to the cuckoo’s nest and the key thrown away.
 
Sloan

 

Rules – Key West

aphrodite.jpg(Aphrodite)

 

So, Fantasy Fest ends. A tribute to a city that is almost free spiritually, someone said to me over breakfast at Harpoon Harry’s this morning. A local. What is lacking, he said, are free beaches. Beaches where anyone can go, naked, with a pet, with a mother-in-law, and so forth. There are too many rules, still, he said. One of which, I said, is our city anti-nudity ordinance, which he seemed not to know about, which I said made it illegal for him to sunbathe naked in his own back yard. He said that ordinance needed getting rid of. I said it was being looked at. How the city can allow Fantasy Fest in the middle of Old Town Key West in the face of that ordinance, but people can’t get naked on the city’s beaches pretzel’s my tired old lawyer mind, and I imagine it would pretzel a judge’s mind, too.
 
One of the waitresses asked if a nude cruise liner was in town this weekend? She said she saw more naked people this Fantasy Fest than she’d ever seen. Yes, I said, a nudist cruise ship was here for two days, part of its Caribbean tour. 2,000 nudists, I heard. A friend of mine, maybe ten years my senior (I’m 67), said yesterday that he got invited on board. He didn’t seem to have experienced too much wear and tear. Another friend, a street vendor, said he spoke with a number of the cruise ship naturists. They said they would come to Key West spend time here, if we had a free beach.

 

It’s weird, truly, that we have Fantasy Fest, which would give Pan multiple organisms just to sit in a lawn chair on the sidewalk and watch it, but we have no nude beach, which would put the ever horny old goat man sound to sleep! As it is, Fantasy Fest leaves our Old Town streets covered with litter, whereas a free beach run by the Naturist would be so green that it would make even Ralph Nader blush. And it wouldn’t cost the city a penny, whereas Fantasy Fest costs the city plenty to police and clean up after. And, if the Naturists projections are anywhere near accurate, a free beach will bring a lot more revenue to Key West than Fantasy Fest, which is hands-down the biggest single economic event the city has.
 
Just my opinion, but I think Key West Citizen should come out with an editorial lampooning the city for having Fantasy Fest but not having a clothing optional beach. Gosh, think of all the advertising revenue the Citizen would lose! The churches would stop advertising their Sunday services. The Realtors would stop advertising homes for sale. The banks would stop advertising foreclosed properties. The lawyers would stop advertising ambulance chasing and divorce services. The mortuaries would stop advertising dearly departings. People would stop sending in obituary and wedding notices. No more citizens’ comments or letters to the editor. No more guest editorials. Yeah, right.

 

Well, since we’re on the topic of rules today, here’s the third chapter out of the new book I seriously doubt the Citizen or its in-house (captured) subsidiary Solares Hill will ever review. On that score, I can’t say I blame them.
 
Sloan
 

CHAPTER 3, IT SEEMS

 

RULES

 

I suppose it was when I lived in Boulder and the poems starting dropping out of me, poems that stunned not just me, that it occurred to me that maybe God is a poet, that maybe God loves suspense and surprises, that God isn’t bound by anything human. This seemed to be confirmed when this verse hatched in prose form, during the writing of what would be named A Crazy Person’s Bible:

Who invented the rule that poetry must rhyme, have pentameter, be cast into verse. Yes, please tell me who invented that really silly rule? Surely is wasn’t the maker of the first stone — otherwise there’d be no stones to break all the rules!

I viewed that poem as a sibling of the mockingbird poem reproduced early in Chapter 1. And I viewed it as being in league with a poem that came shortly after it (the rule poem) came. The poem I knew in my bones was my life course.

 

Only fools rush in

Where angels fear to tread,

But if there were no fools,

Who’d lead the angels?

 

For about ten days after that verse fell out of me, I felt something huge and wonderful feeling trying to wedge its way into me. Something from the spirit. It was a really tight fit. Out for a walk one morning, I felt the angels nearby, then I heard, “This thing coming into you is your angel twin. All human beings have an angel twin, and yours is coming into you now to live out this life with you.” After a pause, I heard, “By the way, this is your son.” I nearly collapsed to the ground. My son had died of sudden infant death syndrome at age seven weeks, during my last semester of law school.
 
From that poem’s moment, the two of us have lived in this body. I am not so aware of it as he must be. I can’t imagine the dynamics, the forces, the tides, the tuggings this arrangement must surely cause, for we are distinctively different, yet we are so merged in love that we are like fused at the hip. I cannot differentiate between what he brings to us to experience and what I bring, because our souls and karma require it. I can’t imagine trying to explain this to a psychiatrist or psychologist, or to a minister, or to just about anyone.
 
My wife in Boulder, however, had no doubt it was just as was described to me by the angels. Just as he had no doubt that she had been Mary Magdalene. Nor did I doubt that. It was shown to us both in ways we could not doubt, even if the entire world doubted it. Now you know why I was so ripped up when that relationship ended, and I headed to Nepal. We were joined at the hip; our dreams about our relationship had been compelling. Now it was all dashed, I was reeling, as if I my soul had been shot with a shotgun load of double aught buck shot.
 
We both knew we were being led into the Melchizedek training, a training modern religion and the new age variation cannot begin to comprehend. A training neither of us could begin to comprehend, although its lead winds were raising the temperature in our relationship exponentially. I called it “paradise mating” in that time, and later would return to calling it that. A man and a woman, joined together by God, being led by angels through holy fire back into Eden, a state of being, not a physical place. She was the first of five women I would have a chance at that with. She did not like the heat, nor did the women who followed. Nor did I, but I was not allowed to turn away, and today I walk in holy fire alone.
 
When I was with the first of the five, I was given this poem about this world on which we the people live:
 

Earth,

The sacred prism through which

Souls are refracted into their elemental parts,

Purified in Holy Fire,

Then one-forged and sent on their way

To not even God knows where,

Simply because they are all

Unique emanations of God,

Evolving . . .

 

I was acutely aware that I was an experiment, that I was being taken places nobody I’d ever heard of had gone. I gave up trying to fit it into anything I knew about or anything knew that someone else brought to me to consider. I gave up going to spiritual teachers, healers, psychics, because I knew they were not in the experience I was having and I had seen that when I went to those kind of people, what ended up happening was something unusual, not within my control, that offered me a new perspective and offered then one, too, if they wanted to have it. This was especially maddening when I was paying money for them to try to help me, and I came away feeling they should have paid me instead.
 
Remember, this was when I was still in Boulder, the first half of the 1990s, before I was sent to Birmingham, to begin the Melchizedek training in earnest, not having a clue that lay ahead for me. I thought I was already through the worst of it. I had no clue. No clue at all. Looking back, I can’t imagine how I expected, or hoped, that wife to stick with me. Or any of the four women who followed her to stick with me. For each of them were leaned on very hard, to give up their old ways and walk with me into the new. It was so radical, so different, they had so little preparation, there was no way they could make that magnitude of change. But for being carried through it, pushed through it, hauled through it, I could not have made it. Even today, I wonder how much more of it I can take. I think of doing myself in, despite the Judas warning I received many times before.
 
I once started writing a book that I probably was supposed to write, but it didn’t feel really in sync and I ended up destroying it. This was the summer of 2005. The way it started, I opined what it would be like going back in time, to just before this all started for me in early 1987. Back to the me then, just before it started. I would try to explain to that me what was going to happen. What would happen. That became the storyline, my explaining to that me his future. An explanation he could no more take in than a monkey could take in the Theory of Relativity. But that was the writing assignment, and I started it. Then I killed it. Then I got whomped by the angels, which really freaked me out, because I had convinced myself that my ego had dreamt up the storyline; it was not from God. What do I know? Maybe I’m writing it again, but in a different format. So maybe I should tell how it all began, in 1987.
 
I had moved from Birmingham to Santa Fe, New Mexico the year before. I had hoped to get involved in the new age community in Santa Fe, which is quite large, and somehow something would happen and things would change for the better for me. A year later, I knew the new age didn’t have any real help for me, and much of it, by now, I viewed as a distraction. I felt like I was at the end of my rope, that I had failed in every way a man could fail on this world. I knew I was out of bright ideas, and that only God could help me. In that state, I prayed one day: “Dear God, please help me. I don’t want to die like this, failed.” I paused, almost in tears, then added, “I offer my life to human service.” As if somehow I might succeed at that, and not fail. A sense of peace same over me. I went on about my day.
 
About ten days passed. In the wee hours, sleeping beside a new girlfriend, even as my divorce from my second wife, who had followed me to Santa Fe the year before, was underway, I awoke in the wee hours. Hovering above me in the darkness were two celestial beings, angels I figured. Luminous, bluish white. I heard in my mind, “This will push you to your limits but you asked for it and we are going to give it to you.” I remembered the prayer I’d made. Then, I was struck by three successive bolts of lightning. Each jolted my body. It reminded me of once being jolted by a near lightning strike on a golf course. The being dissolved from my sight, just as the two real people would later dissolve in the back of the SUV in Kakadoo almost eight years later.
 
The changes came slowly at first. I moved to Boulder, took up with a new woman. Did some deep psycho-spiritual healing/training with the Hakomi Institute in Boulder. That was how I learned to talk people through what often was very volatile healing the likes of which I doubt many mainstream mental health practitioners ever encounter. Boulder was where the heavens began to really open up to me. The good, the bad, the beautiful and the ugly. I came to view it all as parts of myself, or reflecting back to me parts of myself I had forgotten, thrown away, or didn’t even know existed. Boulder was where the poet awakened in me. Where I was given the ability to see around corners and through buildings, figuratively speaking. Boulder is where the Melchizedek training began, but I would be years coming to terms with its true nature, at least as it applied to me.
 
The training was nothing like anything I read about Melchizedek online, in new age publications, or even in religious publications. The only description of the Melchizedek discipline that resonated with me was the New Testament Letter to the Hebrews, to which I was alerted in early 1999, during a horrible trial I was going through. A man under the care of several different psychiatrists, each prescribing pills for him, none knowing of the other doctors, called me one morning to say in prayer that morning God had told him to call me and tell me to read the Letter to the Hebrews. I did it right away. Shazam! I understood what was happening to me. The weird thing was, as many Christian church services as I had attended, over 1,000 I suppose, I’d never heard this letter taught. I’d never heard the Melchizedek Order or Priesthood mentioned, even though it’s laid out plain as day in that letter. The Priesthood of Jesus, its high priest, and the flaming initiation into it. Jesus, the Blacksmith, who met me above Anapurna Base Camp in Nepal, across from Fishtail Mountain. I could run but I could not hide.
 
If you are wondering I’m a Christian, the answer is no. I’m a Melchizedek priest, ordained by the Order itself, which is not of any religion on this world but is involved in all religious. In Christendom, Jesus, Mary Magdalene and Judas were Melchizedek. Each played a special role. Judas played the wrongdoer, on purpose, to offer a contrast between himself and Jesus, whom he loved dearly. As did Magdalene love Jesus dearly, and he loved her in the fullest sense. The love story of all time, which can only be vaguely discerned by reading the Gospels of the New Testament. A full-bore attempt by heaven at paradise mating in that age, the Adam-and-Eve-return ministry lost in Christendom.
 
After that intervention, twelve Melchizedek were stationed at this planet to oversee it without heavenly oversight or input until Christ returns. Of those twelve, one chose to come into form to try to effectuate change on this world. A number of times this one came into form over the centuries that followed Jesus’ time on this world in form. I truly hope that one stays in spirit after this term on earth is completed. I truly hope it. No, I am not a Christian. I am Melchizedek, in form. So much fun, I don’t make a joyful noise to the Lord. I don’t come before the Lord in thanksgiving. I mostly curse God for making me, and I pray to be taken from this world.
 
You would, too, if you lived in my skin. If the fellow I was before I made that desperate prayer for help were to be brought forward in time and be put into my skin, he would die very quickly, perhaps before he went permanently insane, perhaps afterward. There could be no other outcome for him, because he had not been made ready, he had not been “gotten into shape” so he could be safe in my skin. By like token, if I were put into a nuclear reactor, I would perish because I had not been made ready.
 
You may think I’m making this up, so I will tell you a story of how this was demonstrated to my seventh wife. In a dream, she stood over me lying on my back on something like a massage table. This was her dream. She unzipped me from the front, unzipped my body, not my pants, and got up on the table and climbed into my body and laid down. It was intolerable and she leapt out of me. A voice then said to her, “God wanted you to know what it’s like inside of Sloan all the time.”
 
The things we volunteer for, then forget we volunteered.
 
Now I wait on dream time, to learn how much, if any, of this writing today suits The Powers That Be.
 
Sloan

 

The Dark Twin – Key West

jekyll-hyde.jpg“Calling all liberals, let’s unite for a naked, gay beach.” From today’s Citizens’ Voice, Key West Citizen.
 
Excuse me? All liberals are gay?
 
Excuse me? Gays have a monopoly right on a naked beach?
 
Excuse me? Is this comment sex discrimination?
 
Excuse me? Won’t this comment galvanize the religious right to say, “See, this nude beach thing is all a gay conspiracy to run around naked on one of our beaches!”
 
Gays use Halover Beach near Miami but they are hardly the dominant species there. Straight people started that beach, straight people I got to know earlier this year: Shirley and Richard Mason. They welcomed people of all orientations, colors and beliefs. They didn’t care if they were liberal or conservative or not anything. They just wanted people who wanted to sunbathe and swim nude to be able to do it.
 
Here’s a mindblower. Maybe some of you are too young to remember Barry Goldwater, an arch conservative Republican, probably a John Birch Society member, who once ran for president of the U.S. of A. He was so right wing that he set the Republican party back for years after he got the Republican nomination. He was straight. He was Jewish. And he was a practicing nudist.
 
My suggestion to the citizen who wrote the first above is to take this my reply up with gays in Key West who have grown out of the gay rights, gay pride and gay beach perspective. Gays who actually believe and practice the One Human Gay Family creed across the board. Maybe they will be able to help you expand your perspective.
 
Meanwhile, here’s the next chapter from the book I’ve been posting serially. I don’t recommend that you read it. It’s far, far too liberal. Far, far too liberal. But then, perhaps in it lies clues to the cause of your and a lot of people’s homosexuality, and even a cure, if desired. I don’t recommend going for the cure or not going for it. But I do recommend coming to terms with your own dark side before it prevails entirely.
 

CHAPTER 4

 

THE DARK TWIN

 

As I returned to my little apartment from Sippin’ Internet Café in Key West, after watching a couple of pretty good chess players chew on each other a couple of games, I asked God, myself, whomever, what in the fuck I was doing writing any of this? Like, was anyone even interested in any of it? Or was it just for my own edification? It was a serious question, I meant it. This isn’t the first time I’ve tried to cover the waterfront of what all I’ve experienced and learned from it, and plenty I didn’t learn undoubtedly. But I don’t see anyone else writing about this terrain, and I’ve never heard of anyone in history who wrote of it. I wonder if I’m some sort of freak. Maybe I shouldn’t wonder. Just accept it, freak.
 
So, what kept coming to me after I tentatively completed the preceding chapter, tentative depending on my dream maker’s input tonight, is the subject of the dark, or if you will, demonic twin we all have, although not all of us, perhaps not hardly any of us, care to even discuss the subject, much less admit it applies to us. But it does apply. We all have a demonic component in our soul, and nothing we say or read to the contrary changes the fact that it exists in all of us. Carlos Castenedas went into this pretty well in his book, The Eagle’s Gift, which I stumbled across in a lending library in a restaurant on the British Virgin Island Tortola in early 1996. Little did I know, in less than a year I would be engulfed in a dark night of the soul beyond comprehension, during which I would come face to face with the heart of darkness.
 
Even though The Powers That Be eventually lifted that nightmare off of me, I was left permanently terrified of a side of me that I had not even gotten to know very well yet. Over the next ten years, I would get to know that side of me much, much better. And as that was going on, I was getting a crash course in that side of other people. The course had started in the early 1990s, with poetry that revealed this dark twin in me, and with interactions with other people whose dark twin became visible to me, if not to them. I had a number of rounds of getting to know my own dark twin better, terrifying rounds, to the point that the thing I became most frightened of was myself; of losing my compass and letting that part of me step in and hoodwink me into thinking I was doing something good or holy, and nothing could have been farther from the truth.
 
This is the story of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Snow White and the Evil Stepmother, two sides of the same person, the dark side knows the whole situation, the light side is pretty much in the dark. I concluded there really is no way a person can prevail in this struggle without outside help, because the dark twin is so slick, so tricky, so convincing, that only a very wise person or angels who see the big picture can safely lead a person through this maze. Alone, uninformed, a person has almost zero chance of prevailing over the dark twin. Certainly, this outlook goes totally against the new age perspective, and it doesn’t sit too well with other religions either. Perhaps it will help if I use an example familiar to many people.
 
The Gospels say Jesus went into the wilderness and was tempted three times by the devil. First, he was hungry and the devil tempted him to turn stones into bread and feed himself. Jesus declined. Then the devil tempted Jesus to prove he was the son of God by going up on a cliff and throwing himself off of it and calling in angels to save him. He declined this, too. Then the devil told Jesus that if he fell down and worshipped him (the devil), he (Jesus) would be given dominion over all the kingdoms of this world. This, too, Jesus declined. The passage then says that the devil left Jesus, to return at a more opportune time.

What was that more opportune time? If it was reported that way, then there was to be a sequel.
 
Look at the first miracle: Jesus turned water into wine at a wedding, but very reluctantly. He only did it after his mother leaned on him to do it. Not God but his mother pushed him to do it. What’s the difference between that and turning stones into bread to eat? Is there any difference?
 
This was the argument Judas waged with Jesus throughout his ministry. Judas was convinced the miracle making would prove to be a distraction; people would fasten on the miracles and not on the teachings about how to live correctly on this world. As it turned out, Judas seems to have been at least partially vindicated, because Christendom is basically a religion of miracles and miracle seeking and a miracle salvation formula, and it only pays lip service to the teachings Jesus lived and handed out.
 
You have to know, no maybe you don’t have to know, but in any event, the devil is very pleased with how Christendom turned out, because the last thing the devil wanted was for followers of Jesus to actually live the teachings. The devil likes the miracles being retold and retold. The devil likes the simple salvation formula being sold to the masses, instead of the teachings. And the dark twin in people like this easy approach, too.
 
You have to know, no maybe you don’t have to know, but in any event, Jesus decided to use miracles because he wanted to impress as many people as possible with what God could do. He hoped the miracles would convince people to listen to him. He went into the wilderness to get over wanting to do that, but when he came out he went to making miracles.
 
This is an example of the work of the dark twin, the one in Jesus. He was fully human, the Gospels say. Fully human, he had a dark twin. Even so, he was the greatest being to walk on this planet. Despite not being perfect, he was so close to God that compared to him, the people who came into contact with him were still infants spiritually. Or worse, they were agents of evil through and through.
 
I don’t recall the real people speaking with Marlo Morgan about having a dark twin. But I can assure you that Jesus and other angels assigned to me have spoken to me about my dark twin, and about other people’s. They may speak to me about what I’m writing here. They may not want me to go into it, not because it is not being correctly presented but because I don’t have authority to present it. If that’s the case, I will be corrected, perhaps stiffly, and I will do what I’m told to do.
 
The next morning . . . I don’t know if I heard anything about this last night, or not. I know I didn’t like writing it, and I know I was disappointed to wake up today and still be on this planet. I don’t see any way from the Gospel reports that Jesus woke up looking forward to the day during his ministry. In fact, I wager he couldn’t wait for it all to end. Couldn’t wait.
 
Later same day . . . I suppose while I’m on Jesus, I should mention my six wife’s and my “vacation” on the Indian Ocean island nation Mauritius, in May 2000. Out of nowhere it occurred to me that there was an evil greater than Lucifer, which was profoundly disturbing to me. My wife had no church background and was not as affected by stuff like this.
 
As I continued to wrestle with this startling news, Archangel Michael came to her, she said, and told her that if Sloan can conceive of an evil great than Lucifer, then it exists. Maybe a day after that Jesus’ mother came to my wife and told her, she said, that she had molested Jesus in his youth. Jesus also then came and did not deny it.
 
I was enraged, because I figured the holding this in secret had wreaked havoc in the collective soul of Christendom, just as my wife’s amnesia, until she met me and Jesus and Michael revealed it to her, of having been her fathers sexual partner from age 3 to age 18, when something made her leave her parents’ home and never go back there, had wreaked havoc in her psyche. Just as my own mother messing with me when I was still in the crib had really screwed me up. The healing for me was horrible, as was it horrible for my wife.
 
On the heels of being told this by Mary, and that incest was common in that day, my wife experienced an explosion of white hot open boils between her thighs, which took about ten days to run its course, and even then we needed to and did make love, despite her hesitation, to complete the healing of those nasty sores.
 
It was maybe two years later that I realized that Jesus had finally told Joseph about it, and the poor man’s heart gave out and he collapsed in Jesus’ arms and died. Thus was the mysterious disappearance of Joseph in the Gospels resolved.
 
Thus also revealed was reason for the pejorative way Jesus spoke of and to his mother throughout the Gospels, and why Jesus told people to hate their parents, and why he said woe be unto anyone who harmed a single hair on the head of a child, and why, from the cross, he gave to his mother John as a son, to give her another chance.
 
As for dying on the cross, if Jesus was dead when Nicodemus and Joseph of Arimathea pulled him down from the cross only hours after he had been crucified, why did they salve his body with one-hundred-weight of aloes and myrrh, which had to cost them a pretty penny and was not something normally done with Jewish dead. Normally, they simply were wrapped in cloth, which also was done to Jesus.
 
Aloe is the most powerful wound healer known to nature and myrrh raises white cell count dramatically to fight infection. The linnen serrved as a sterile bandage. It is as the believers in the Shroud of Turin say: a living being caused that image to form on the Shroud.
 
In the tomb, Jesus had what today would be called an near-death experience, from which he was sent back to continue in this life. After recuperating and spending some time with his disciples and his wife, Magdalene, he left them and headed east. He asked her to go with him, but she did not want leave her culture.
 
Alas, she left her culture anyway, after Christians were declared criminals by Rome and were given the option of renouncing Jesus or being crucified. Magdalene fled to what now is southern France, taking with her the girl child she and Jesus had conceived, all of which was recognized by the Cathars, a religious sect that sprung up around Magdalene and flourished several centuries until nations allied with the Vatican sent in their armies to hunt down and kill the Cathars and burn their churches and libraries.
 
That child’s bloodline became known in some circles as the Holy Grail. Some of European history’s well know or influential or creative people were Grail descendents. Today nano traces of that child’s blood courses through the veins of millions of people, each of whom feels like a stranger in a strange land.
 
If the Dark Twin had its way, none of this would ever have gotten out. None of it. I let out some of it, but the part about Jesus not dying on the cross and the Cathars and the Holy Grail other people let out.
 
The Koran says Jesus did not die on the cross but it was made to look that way. I report this not to prove the argument that Jesus did not die on the cross, but to point out that all Moslems know the Koran says Jesus did not die on the cross. They take the Koran as the gospel, and that means they view Christendom as a religion whose core belief is false.
 
Moslems also know God told Abraham in Genesis that his son Ishmael’s seed would become a great nation that would cause trouble for his son Isaac’s seed, which also would become a great nation. From Ishmael descended Mohammed. From Issac descended Isaac, David and Jesus. From Islam’s perspective, it is carrying out God’s prophesy by causing Judaism and Christendom trouble.
 
The Jews wanted a messiah who would deliver them from their enemies, particularly the Romans in Jesus’ day. Well, after Christianity became the state religion of the Roman empire, the persecution of Christians and Jews by that government ceased. Jesus delivered the goods.
 
I could tell a thousand stories just as shocking as these, albeit not all would be so “global.” Who, pray, would care to read any of it? Who, pray, would believe any of it? Who, pray, would be benefited by any of it? Yet if it is not told, it churns and shreds the collective soul, while people go about business unawares of the reality in which they actually live. If it is told, perhaps one person will learn of it and be helped.
 
One poem came through me when I was with the wife who was told about Mary molesting Jesus and the evil greater than Lucifer, which was the incest’s concealment by the Priesthood Melchizedek, which is supposed to work for the Holy Spirit.
 

All fig leaves burn

All ugly seen

All pain loved

All truth beauty

All time now

All people one


That poem came to me a few days after I first starting living on the street, on Maui. All work and no pay or play fucking sucks. It fucking sucks.
 
Sloan

 

Different Strokes – Key West

captain-adventure.jpg(the usual suspect)

From today’s Citizens’ Voice (Key West Citizen): Why are there objections to a nude beach where only a small area would be used for that purpose, when during Fantasy Fest our island is full of nude and semi-nude people? The size of the crowd at the parade tells me no one objects to that.”
 
And this: “Sorry you had to again endure the sight of fat, old, naked tourists during Fantasy Fest. Many of those fat, old, naked people are longtime Key West residents and even some true Conchs who are friends of mine. There were also some great-looking, young, slim, naked people who were tourists and locals. Sleep through the week next year.”
 
Received a variety of replies to yesterday’s ”The Dark Twin” post, which played off this comment in Citizens’ Voice: “Calling all liberals, let’s unite for a naked, gay beach.” My replies are in italics, followed by the next installment of the book the fourth replier took serious issue with my sharing, although he — we’ve been correspondents for years – doesn’t seem to take serious issue with the content. Ironically, not all that long ago he tried to talk me into leaving this small pond’s politics and running for the Oval Orifice on the Green or Independent ticket. Sloan
 
——————————————————-

While all liberals are not gay, gays are more likely to be liberal than conservative.
 
A conservative.
 
Wasn’t Mark Foley a conservative? What was St. Paul – liberal or conservative? Every woman around him knew he was gay.
 
——————————————————-

Sloan:
 
In a survey I conducted several years ago at two beaches, Playalinda and Haulover Beach, two of the questions asked were the following:

Do  you consider yourself a Liberal or a Conservative?
 
Response: Over 60% considered themselves Conservative.
 
Are you a Republican or a Democrat?
 
Response:  Over 60% responded Republican.
 
Richard Mason

[Co-founder of Haulover Beach - Miami’s naturist/free beach]

—————————————

“Calling all liberals…” was undoubtedly contributed by an opponent of nude beaches.  Hardly anyone, regardless of political leaning, identifies himself as a “liberal” today.  Decades of  demeaning  sneers by right-wing ranters succeeded in degrading that once-honorable label to a synonym of weak, cowardly, queer, and naive.  Nor would a bona-fide nudist  choose the peculiar combination of  ”naked” and “gay” as adjectives to describe a clothing-optional beach.  
 
You may be right, however, the angels signed off on what I published today, before it went out. Sadly, I have run accross gays here that are capbable of sending in something like what was in Citizens’ Voice today. Racism, bigotry, seems to know no bounds. Maybe I’ll use your take tomorrow. We’ll see what the Editorial Board sez.
 
The vicious hypocrite Roy Cohn comes to mind as the archetype of someone who would be capable of sending it……although he’d have been cleverer.
 
I don’t think I know Roy Cohn, but I know people capable of sending it. I also know a lot of people who call themselves liberals and are proud of it. They don’t give a shit what Republicans say about liberals, in fact they like for Republicans to talk bad about them, take it as a compliment. But then, when some liberals came to the head of our local Democratic Party chapter, Bill Estes, upset about the prospects of a nude beach in Key West, Bill got mightly upset when I said his unnamed constituents were not liberals but were conservatives –worse, they were religious right or Puritans; that being a liberal and being against a nude beach was an oxymoron.
 
Be that as it may, if your take on the writer in Citizens’ Voice is correct, if he ior she is a religious righter/Puritan, then I’d sure as hell hate to live with the karma that cute little Citizens’ caper might bring home to that chicken roost. Karma that might not be associated with the cute little remark, or with karma at all. Karma that might seem hysertically funny (cosmic) to someone like me, but I’d never say it, if I wuz smart, because that would create even worse karma for myself. Gloating is an automatic karma magnet, as is writing in a Citizens’ comment pretending to be someone else. “As you sow, so shall you reap,” is how Jesus said it in the Gospels.

Sloan, Roy Cohn was counsel to the McCarthy Committee in the 50s, a crony of J.Edgar and Cardinal Spellman, and —the ultimate irony— an early victim of AIDS.
 
——————————–
Sloan two points come to mind after reading today’s post.

First in your opening paragraphs you mention liberals and conservatives and make a great argument that one should never paint with a wide brush when talking about any specific group.  Another idea I feel is important is the relativity of the terms liberal and conservative.  Using an example, someone who may be considered quite conservative here in Key West would be a screaming liberal in most of the South.  The point being, local culture and custom can have a huge affect on how people view things.

Second, in Chapter 4 you make mention of Jesus and how Judas warned that miracles would be a distraction and take away from the real message.  I must point out that Thomas Jefferson’s edited version of the bible basically deletes all the mystical references and what is left is the philosophy of Jesus Christ.  We have discussed this before and I am curious because what you posted today seems to be more in line with my take on things last time the subject came up.

Note:  Jefferson contends he did not “take out anything” but rather separated the original text from the additions which had been made over millennia.


I agree, conservative and liberal are relative terms.
 
I had no problem with Jefferson leaving the miracles out of his version. I wish the Gospels had left out the miracles.  However, I had a BIG Problem with Jefferson leaving out the reports of Jesus’ interactions with the Spirit and the Devil. As I think I said about this before, it made Jefferson’s presentation secular, and secular Jesus was not, even though he certainly lived in and had to deal with it.
 
Something came to me yesterday that I felt moved to share with you and ….., concerning the view that Jesus was trained by yogis in India before he began his ministry in Palestine. In yoga is what is known as siddhis — what appear to be supernatural powers that some, perhaps many yogis develop as they evolve in their spiritual discipline. Advanced yogis, real masters, view siddhis as distractions and their use as juvenile, and they do their best to discourage their students use of those “hat tricks.”
 
Meaning, if Jesus actually had gone to India to be trained, and if he actually had encountered and studied under an advanced yogi or advanced yogis, they would have done their darndest to get him to not use siddhis — make miracles — when he returned to Palestine. They would have taught him to teach people how to live correctly on earth.
 
So while I have been told by my Editorial Board and agree that Jesus did not go to India (or nearby) before his ministry in Palestine, that he used siddhis during his ministry seems also to say he did not go to India beforehand. He did go there afterward, and perhaps he met advanced yogis and they swapped tales and expanded each others’ perspectives. For surely Jesus had had experiences they had not had, and vice versa.
 
 
———————————–
 
Sloan! What have you done?! You don’t see that “regular” people will see this as a revelation about YOU and that they will either dismiss you as  a crackpot looking for attention or worse, fear you as someone that’s unstable… a potential son of Sam!
 
I don’t see any point in publishing something like this… no upside…  not even a guideline to maneuver the mental/spiritual maze you are inviting people to travail in the name of sanity or wholeness…  Sad!
 
Ces’t la vie, la guerre, l’amour. Maybe you should put your objections/questions to the angels who put me up to it, after I told them pretty much the same thing you told me. Like I give a shit what people think of me, as long as they don’t come at me in white coats again. This lastest book should have the desired effect of making sure I never make another serious run for office, no? It put me squarely back into the line of work I was in, trained to be in. That it seems bizzarre, which surely it is to this world’s perspective, might have more to say about this world than it has to say about me. Oddly, yesterday someone down here told me to check out elcollie.com, which I did. Darn, she passed over in 2002. Darn, maybe she was someone I could have run a few rivers with, talked to without having to explain anything or get any dismay back. Oh, well. Somewhere in the new book, toward the end, as I recall, I wrote maybe it is a sort of Last Will and Testament. That’s what El Collie’s writings turned out to be. I should be so lucky as to be given an exit. Tell you this, Sancho. If what has been getting applied to me, if what was applied to El Collie, is applied to you or anyone you know, or more interestingly, to the entire species, what she and I lived and and then wrote for posterity will be survival manuals for human habitation on this world. Don Q
 
It is sooo sad that we, humans, cannot truly share what we experience with others except by language, symbolism, mythology!  We are so lonely, all of us, and yet we fear to let people in, to open up… lest we be judged!
 
Here we stand a child
of wonderment turned
inside out…
 
a homemade scarecrow
a mask of clay
a joke

 
Sancho
 
Well, I share no matter what,
Because I’m not a homemade scarecrow,
not a mask of clay,
not a joke.

I’m me,
Turned inside out by God,
And upside down too –
Trying to be someone else is fucking suicide.
 
Don Q
 

 

CHAPTER 5

 

GURUS

Jesus taught his disciples about three and one-third years, according to the Gospels. Then he left them to fend for themselves with the Holy Spirit. They were still monkeys when left them. Children arguing and bickering and posturing among themselves. Outwardly, they had learned nothing. Inwardly, deep seeds had been planted in each of them. Seeds the Holy Spirit nurtured, sprouted and developed after Pentecost, taking them into spiritual adulthood, spiritual adepthood. If Jesus had stuck around, they would have clung to him and never made this leap. If he had stuck around, they would have weighted him down, been like heavy anchors around his neck, and held him back from doing what he next needed to do.
 
If you want a role model for a human guru, this is about as good as it gets — Jesus. Me, I never had one — a human guru. I was seized directly by the Spirit, God, angels of the Lord, whatever, and hauled kicking and screaming to places I never would have agreed to go if I’d had any say so.
 
Let me give an example, which I shared with a woman today, who is still trying to make up her mind if she wants to be like the hapless chickpea in Rumi’s poem by that name, or if she still wants to be in charge of her own spiritual development. Maybe she’s lucky, she still has the choice. Or maybe that’s unlucky. I suppose that’s something to be determined after leaving this world and looking back at opportunities gained and lost.
 
Anyway, in the summer of 1990 a fellow who’d heard more than a few of my wild tales from the spirit asked if I’d ever heard of St. John of the Cross? Nope. I should read about him, this fellow said. I was living in Boulder then, and in keeping with my learning to follow the leads provided by the Spirit I headed maybe later that day or the next day down to Pearl Street Mall to the local bookstore. In the religious section upstairs I found a single copy of St. John of the Cross: Alchemist of the Soul, by Antonio T. de Nicholas.
 
Native of Spain, also the country of San Juan de la Cruz as this saint is called there, Antonio was or had been a poetry professor at a New England college. The book’s Introduction was written by a fellow with an Arabic name, and after I had read his words I figured he had to be a Sufi. Meaning, Antonio had to be pretty deep himself.
 
The book contained all of Juan’s spectacular soul poetry, which had made him the all-time poet laureate of Spain. It also contained a good bit of discussion by Antonio of the poems and Juan’s life, as a cloistered Carmelite monk, who was viewed by his fellow Carmelites as a heretic because he dared to go directly to God, rather than through the Church as God’s representative.
 
For his audacity, Juan was persecuted and sometimes locked up, and eventually he died basically of starvation from the inadequate diet he was fed by his captors. Just before he passed over in the company of close friends, he uttered, “Oh what beautiful daisies!” The room where they were filled with the sweet aroma of flowers. His fingers, toes and perhaps his ears and nose were removed and handed out as keepsakes to those close to him, according to the custom of that time. These keepsakes never decomposed. He had become pure spirit in flesh, pure gold.
 
After some time had passed, centuries as I recall, it was determined by the Vatican that, essentially, a saint had been murdered and Juan was canonized and made a saint. Before that, of course, he wasn’t a saint, because the Church had not declared it so.
 
That’s suppose to be a joke, as if the Church determines who are saints and who are not. As if the Church determines who goes to heaven and who doesn’t. Juan proved the Church had nothing to do with any of that, and that’s what got him in the predicament described above.
 
For me, though, the most important part of Antonio’s book was Juan’s commentaries about his spiritual process, which he said he didn’t want to write because he wasn’t convinced it would do anyone any good, but a Mother Superior wanted him to write it down, so he wrote it down.
 
He described a dark night of the soul, which was rigorous but doable and would last a while, and after it was over the person who had experienced it was very different, close to a state of grace. For some people this was the end of the spiritual process and they lived out their days in this new heightened state of being.
 
For others, though, Juan said a second dark night eventually would descend, and woe be unto the poor schmuck that happened to. Especially the poor schmuck who wasn’t in a protected environment being looked after by people who knew what was happening to the poor schmuck. During this dark night all but the most determined perished. It was infinitely more difficult than the first dark night.
 
Survivors of this one, Juan said, were fused with God and lived out the rest of their days that way. There was no way they could explain what it was like for them to be fused with God to people who had not had the experience, and it was not necessary to explain it those who had had the experience. Juan’s poetry tracked the entire process.
 
Juan advised that spirit phenomenon would come, and to ignore them all because any or all of them could be Lucifer in disguise, and who could figure that out? Best to leave it all alone. Best to keep turning back into the darkness, keep being whittled down to the bones, then to the molecules, then to the atoms, until there was nothing left: nada, nada, nada. Then, for those who persevered through the second dark night, a Singularity was reached in the darkness, sounded sort of like going into a black hole, and the fusion with God occurred.
 
Antonio wrote that Juan and others knew some sort of ritual that they used to intentionally provoke this only-fools-rush-in adventure. However, when I read the book the first time, I did not remember that part of Antonio’s book. I remembered the rest of the above, though, and I wanted nothing to do with any of it. Nothing.
 
Six months later, in my sleep, I was told in plain English, “With respect to St. John of the Cross, you haven’t seen anything yet!” Then, I was covered in slime, pure Evil. I was gagging, choking, trying to escape. Then I awoke, still gagging, choking, trying to escape. I was terrified. And, strangely, I was arrogant. For what a prophesy to be given! Even so, I lived on pins and needles for the next few months, as my life seemed to taking a turn upward. Then, almost over night a dark night fell that would rip me up for four years. I often thought of suicide. I finally gave up that it would pass. Then, finally it did pass.
 
Oddly, this was then my poetry began and when the heavens opened to me: the good, the bad, the beautiful and the ugly. A big catalyst was my receiving a ritual in revelation, that enabled me to summon the spirit realms to me for stuff I was facing. I had not yet re-read Antonio’s book, and did not realize this basically was the same ritual he described Juan had used.
 
Unlike Juan, I was nudged not to turn away but to turn toward all phenomenon. To accept it all, completelyl contrary to Juan’s approach. And I was with a woman and was not celibate, also contrary to Juan’s approach. And I was in the world, having experiences with various kinds of people, also contrary to Juan’s approach.
 
When it ended, I felt better internally, even as the spiritual load increased exponentially due to very difficult outside experiences. I suppose I was in post traumatic shock over the loss of that marriage, among other things (like most of my money). Certainly I was not in the near state of grace Juan said people experienced after living through the first dark night. And in two years, now with another woman, of new age-Christian mix, I was in the second dark night. It made the first one seem like a tea party.
 
But I already told about it in an earlier chapter, and will say no more here, other than I lost contact with the spirit realms and felt as if I’d lost half of my mind to a stroke and I plotted my suicide daily and I didn’t know it was the second dark night until it was lifting and the angels told me, and that the hadn’t told me sooner because they felt I would kill myself if I had known. That was when I did my residency in psychiatry, by the way.
 
Alas, it was not finished. An entirely different kind of dark night came, along with another woman, this one a dyed-in-the-wool fundamental Christian, which took me into the heart of darkness of Christendom. When that dark night passed, another kind came, along with another woman, basically a white aborigine with no religious history, who would accompany me to Maritius and elsewhere.

Then came another kind of dark night, which had me living on the street and soon to meet yet another woman, the one I would love the most of seven wives, even though she was continually bolting and running away and staying gone a long time. That brought on other kinds of dark nights, where I came face to face with my own dark twin. And it brought on my PhDs in Paradise Mating and Women’s Studies, which I’m sure would have freak out Juan, who never got anywhere close to lying with a woman as far as I know. Each of my wives opened up a different part of me, which might otherwise never have opened. In that sense, perhaps long term marriage isn’t categorically a good thing?
 
Flashing back to the first dark night, I was able to get a letter to Antonio via is publisher, thanking him for writing his book. He sent back, through his publisher, a new book of his own poetry, which is where I learned about him being a poetry professor.

After that dark night ended and I had left Boulder and done the Nepal and Darwin Australia thing, I was able to obtain from Antonio’s publisher his mailing address. I sent him some of my own poetry, with a personal message to him about the daughter he had lost, which paralleled the loss of my son. Both of us had been moved to write elegies.
 
He called me. We had a nice talk. He said I had it and “they would try to take it away from me.” It had something to do, he said, with a long time ago in India, but I didn’t understand any of that. About a year later, the second dark night fell. Oh yes, did “they try to take it away from me.” The psychiatrists, the ministers, family members, friends, wives, and even my own drive to do myself in.
 
What’s this got to do with gurus? It has everything to do with it. God is my guru. Angels of the Lord lead the classrooms. Classrooms in which all assignments are related to life on this world, dovetailing with life in the spirit realms. I live in both places at the same time, all the time.
 
Is it peaceful? Is this nirvana? Not usually, but sometimes I’m in bliss. Mostly, though, it’s just a lot of fucking hard work. Be careful what you ask for. You just might get it, even if you had no clue what you really had asked for. “Dear God, please help me. I don’t want to die like this, failed.” Pause. “I offer my life to human service.”
 
The chick pea woman asked me today why did I think all of this was happening to me? I said I didn’t have a clue. After a while, it came to me to tell her that I need to have the full human experience on this world and in spirit, to get it done. And I need to have the full human and spirit experience to try to help others who might be put in front of me to try to help.

I’ve seen many like her. They say they want a spiritual life, but I’ve learned that they don’t know what they are really saying. They don’t know what they’re really asking for. And perhaps if this book gets published, maybe someone will find it and read it, and that will help them in the way Antonio’s book helped prepare me for the dark nights. I can’t imagine what would have become of me if I hadn’t known about dark nights. I can’t imagine.

Try to imagine what it’s like for me to be around people who hold themselves out as spiritual healers/teachers. Especially those who do it for money or sex or something else of this world. I take them into the nuclear reactor right away. And then we say our goodbyes.
 
As you should by now have figured out, I don’t have a following.

Sloan

 

 

Soundman From Hell – Key West

devilwoman.gifSome frolicking on the conch farm yesterday.
 
First an email exchange with the former Chairman of the Southeasternmost Delaware Republican Party, aka a snowbird:
 
Thank God you didn’t include my name. I believe my analysis is right and yes you can always find exceptions to the rule. What seems safe is that most of the gays out of the closes are liberal and that conservative gays are more likely to stay in the closet than liberals. I believe my first broad statement is correct. Anyone can find an exception to anything.
 
God had nothing to do with it, Sultan. I didn’t use your name when I quoted you in yesterday’s ”Different Strokes” post because I didn’t want you to have to explainn to your conservative RepubliKLAN friends that you are a friend of mine and get you blackballed from their cult. I know how important it is to you to be a RepubliKLAN – it’s sort of like being a DEMONcrat isn’t it? I mean, you have to sign up and pay dues and worship, don’t you? Rasputin.  

Then, an email exchange with Ricard Mason, co-founder of Haulover Breach (Miami’s clothing optional beach). Richard is a Korean War veteran, which means he’s ancient. He’s also had his life threatened by church people he spoke with about the positives of naturism, especially clothing optional beaches. Wonder what Jesus thought of that?
 
Sloan,
 
When I was a young college student in Boston in the early 1950s, the word  used to describe a person that was thoughtful and reflective on an issue, and one that examined the facts, and sifted through the ascertations; and that person was called   ”liberal minded.”
Since shortened to the word Liberal.  Then the Conservative Sound Machine attacked those that used the thought process as being Lefties, Socialists, Commies and so on. We can’t have a people thinking about issues. They have to accept a proscribed position and fight.For those with a minority following, who’s premise is based on protecting the status quo, they have to have an enemy, so that they can declare war, which leads to generating support through “fear.” However, during this period, they have driven all the liberal minded conservatives who were moderate on most issues, either underground or out of the conservative movement. The rebranding of the word conservation has caused the  word to mean something totally different than the definition preached by Goldwater.

Richard


Hi, Richard.

 

As I recall, Goldwater was so hard-right that he declined to criticize the John Birch Society. Or maybe it was Joseph McCarthy. Or maybe it was both. I remember when he was running for president that Goldwater said something along the lines of extremism in defense of liberty is no vice, to counter criticism that he was an extremist. Googling just now, I learned that he voted against the censure of Joseph McCarthy and against the Civil Right’s legislation, the latter of which caused him to be branded in league with the KKK and won him a number of southern states in his race against Lyndon Johnson who won the presidency by a landslide. Goldwater voted for the U.S. to stop giving money to the UN after it admitted Red China. He gets much credit online for being a Libertarian, and for long years of service in Congress and in the Army Air Corps during WW II, rising eventually to the rank of Major General, and for being instrumental in the creation of the Air Force Academy. He also was known as a proactive conservationist. When/where I grew up, Birmingham, Alabama, he was viewed as a radical extremist, a John Birch type, if not actually a member. And, yes, I learned from you a few months ago that he was a nudist.
 
I well remember my parents’ shock when I told them I was backing John F. Kennedy for president. I may have been the only student in the prep school I attended who backed Kennedy. I think Bill Clinton was a good president, except for his blunder with Monica Lewinsky. I think Jimmy Carter should have served another term, better after taking a few years off. I didn’t care for Reagan, but I respected him for being predictable. I concluded the Bushes were part of the Illuminati, which is a Nation unto itself. I am extremely under-impressed with Barack Obama and now with the Nobel Committee. I doubt I will ever use the nude beach, if Key West gets one, but I’m extremely in favor of having one here, for a variety of reasons. Different strokes for different folks.

 

Sloan

 

Then, some Facebook chatter with someone who looks sort of like the devil, or maybe it was just his Fantasy Fest costume.

soundman-from-hell.jpgSoundman from Hell

PG 13 it is ! Children under 13 years old are not permitted access to Facebook. In addition, parents of children 13 years and older should consider whether their child should be supervised during the child’s use of the Facebook site

Hi Gary! A friend of mine said: Be permiscuious (sp)? in your lifetime, because, if you aren’t, when you go to Heaven, God will ask you if you had a great sex-life in your lifetime, and if you say ‘no,’ God will say, ‘you can’t come into Heaven – go to hell!’
 

Pretty is as pretty does,
Soundman, how’s hell?
Been there a few times,
Actually more than a few,
Maybe it didn’t have nuttin’ to do with seven wives,
Maybe they all get to go to heaven
for having had to put up with me,
Maybe I won’t be penalized for not having enough sex,
But then, I ain’t had any in
five years (almost)
‘cept in my dreams.
Maybe God doesn’t send people to hell
but back to earth for another spell –
Maybe ’bout the same sometimes,
Not necessarily other times.
Iffen’s you wants to get some shapshots
of this here pilgrim’s travels with God
through heaven and hell and in between,
HABITAT FOR HUMANITY file
goodmorningkeywest.com –
Not recommended for children,
Probably not for adults either.

Sloan

Oh, David (Mr. Almost a Mayor)
You are a Trip!

Soundman

 

David?

David who slew the giant
with a sligshot made from
a cod piece and bungee cords
at Fantasy Fest?

Almost a mayor is
way, way too fucking close
for comfort –
I came in so dead last
nobody even came in second –
Without a runoff,
I landslide won!

My question you did not answer:
“How’s hell, Soundman?”
Or should I have asked,
“How in the hell is hell?”

Me, I’m trying be a good little boy,
Christmas’s coming,
Don’t want no switches and ashes
in my stockings –
A woman who thinks I’m cute and wonderful
will do,
I hope it’s mutual
and this isn’t another of those
“Be careful what you ask for” deals.

In this moment my hero
Wiley C. Coyote comes to my mind’s eye –
The poor creature,
All that thinking and scheming
and all he got for it was getting obliterated
time and time again.

Maybe this wall should be open to pre-13s,
Maybe it’s too deep, er, too late
for older people,
to do them, er, us any good
.

Sloan

 

“SLOAN – LOL

Oh Sloan,
(Mr. Almost a Mayor)

As you know it’s crazy in hell, just completed our Fantasy Fest Parade Float With ANGUS and won Best Band!
I’m a little frazzled – but still an ASPIRING Urban Terrorist!

And……..
You are a Trip !”

Therefore, consider this next chapter in HABITAT FOR HUMANITY: Snapshots of a pilgrim’s travels with God.


 

CHAPTER 6

 INDIA

 

From Mauritius, Cathy and I went to India. We had originally purchased airline tickets in Capetown, South Africa, that would give us four days in Maritius and one month in India. Arriving Durban, South Africa on the Baz Bus, we decided to go to an Indian restaurant to commemorate our approaching trip to India, landing in Mumbai, formerly Bombay. When our food arrived, Cathy took one bite, got violently sick and raced to the bathroom and threw up. We left the restaurant and she had to stop and throw up again before we reached the backpacker’s where we were staying. This caused us to change our itinerary to one month in Mauritius and four days in India.
 
On arriving at the Mumbai airport and clearing customs, we caught a cab into the city. I told the driver we’d like to stay on the waterfront in a modest hotel, if possible. On the drive in we passed some pretty depressing scenes. I thought I had seen poverty in the shanty towns outside of Capetown, but this was much more severe. Cathy said all she saw in the air were serpents. She had that kind of spirit vision, which matched her spirit hearing. I said I bet those weren’t the kind of nice snakes children see in the Saturday morning cartoons. She said, no, they were not those kind of snakes.
 
Not too long after Cathy and I met, she went through cataclysmic healing of the incest with her father, mentioned in an earlier chapter. Not long after that, she had a dream in which her Indian yogi from before I knew her, Kirpal Singh was his name, I recall, sitting in the lotus position in the air above her head, sucking her energy up out of her into him. When she told me the dream, I said that needed to stop. I said I was going to ask Jesus and Archangel Michael to deal with it, and for her to report to me what was happening. This is how we worked in the spirit together, she said okay.
 
When she said Jesus and Michael were there, I asked if Kirpal Singh also was there? Yes. I told him what he was doing wasn’t right. He was stealing from Cathy and avoiding doing what he needed to be doing instead. He needed to leave. Cathy gasped, for she had been very fond of Kirpal, and, from what she had told me about him, he had seemed like a pretty good yogi to spend time around, contrary to some real horror stories I’d run into with quite a few people who’d spend time in India or with gurus from there residing in the States. It was like these people were possessed, and it tended to become my assignment to try to dispossess them, which seldom went well.
 
I told Cathy this divorce from Kirpal was necessary, she needed the energy he was stealing from her and he had stuff to do that this was preventing him from doing. She nodded agreement. I asked Jesus and Michael to take Kirpal wherever he then needed to be, and Cathy reported him leaving with them.
 
I have never had an easy time dealing with spirit stuff out of India. It makes me sick, I feel poisoned. Sometimes I get attacked in spirit ways. Once I nearly got killed, it seemed. I felt poisoned the entire four days in Mumbai, and was really glad to be out of there. As was Cathy really glad.
 
I could name Indian gurus with international reputations, whose sanyasans (students) I’ve had intense dealings with, but I see no point in it. Some of these gurus were more benign than others. Some were truly malevolent, but to convince their sanyasans of it was impossible. Suffice to say, if you try to come to God through a guru, you get the guru in you, for better or for worse. If you try to come to God directly, you get God in you, for better or for worse.
 
I well remember, with some wry amusement, a woman I met in 2004, who’d chased gurus, Indian and other kinds, for much of her adult life. I told her that Americans who did that, who, like her, had been born into Christendom and had abandoned it, were looking for a Jesus to replace the Jesus who hadn’t worked for them. She laughed, said it was true! Then, she was off for a weekend with her current guru.
 
Now, maybe I should say that I don’t have anything personal against India. If you are born there and want to get involved with a guru, then that is in keeping with your soul’s decision to be Indian. But if you were born in America, for example, and for further example you were born into a Catholic, Protestant, Mormon or Jewish family, and you later give up on that and take up with an Indian guru, for example, what you have done, really, is put a band-aid over what didn’t work out to begin with. Except this band-aid, as Cathy learned in spades, as I’ve seen many people experience without learning much in most cases, is a bit toxic. Or a lot toxic.
 
The first step, therefore, is to remove the band-aid. The next step is to go back into the root religion of birth, not into its form but into its essence, and experience the essence. From that foundation you can go into the unlimited, into that which has no form, at least not form by human standards. The spirit form, if form means something to you, is identified in the “Earth is the sacred prism” poem in an earlier chapter. Another way to look at this is there is always a bigger realm into which you can go from where you are, a bigger paradigm, a bigger state of being. Always something is bigger than where you are, and if you go into it, there is always something bigger than that container, and there is always something bigger than that container, and so on.
 
The angels understand this, operate in that understanding. They are trying to teach that understanding to human beings. They also are trying to teach the way they live to human beings, which is very much like the real people described in Mutant Message Down Under live: led/nudged by the spirit. Archangel Michael told Cathy and me that they, the angels, don’t know what they are going to be asked to do next, until it arrives in their awareness; then they do it, without question. This is how I was trained over many years to live. It is how Cathy was trained to live after she and I met through an unexpected turn of events.
 
Back to India and my disposition toward it, which may be quite different than you may have surmised from reading this chapter, so far. In the fall of 2002, my last wife, number seven, Patricia, came to me in a dream and said, “Sloan, you married Kali!” I awoke with a start, terrified. Kali is the Hindu Goddess of destruction and rebirth. Not even Shiva messes with Kali. If she beckons, Shiva comes. If she says jump, Shiva asks how high? Since that dream, I have experienced Kali a number of times in dreams, and in other ways I’ve felt her presence. She is not mean to me but she is exacting. She is not the wicked monster many paint her as being. She is, actually, the Hindu equivalent of the Christian Holy Spirit, of Judaism’s Shekinah — the spirit of God, which, along with Wisdom, is assigned the female gender in Judaism.
 
Many people go to India hoping to experience an awakening of what is called the kundalini, also known as the serpent energy and Shakti. This is an indigenous suprahuman (not supernatural) attribute, but as civilization and its ways of raising and educating children evolved, the kundalini stopped naturally rising/awakening in people. So yogis began trying to awaken and raise it in other ways. There are reliable reports of spontaneous kundalini awakenings, full blown, that put the “victim” in extreme peril. A fellow named Gopi Krishna wrote about this happening to him in his book, Kundalini. He went to reputed advanced yogis, and got no help. So he researched it and learned some techniques and worked it out on his own.
 
I read a book by an American contemplative Christian, Christian Spirituality and the Kundalini Experience, I think it was called, written by the “victim,” accompanied by an Introduction from his wife, about his own spontaneous kundalini arousal, which he, too, had to research and learn techniques of coping with it. He did not seek it out, he did not go to India, it just happened. He concluded it was a suprahuman, not a spiritual event.
 
I read a book by an Indian last name Krishnamurti, not J. Krishnamurti, who built up a large following in America and perhaps in India. This fellow searched high and low for spiritual truth/enlightenment in India, including gaining an audience with the aforesaid J. Krishnamurti, whom he decided was only pretending to have tasted the sugar, although maybe he had seen it.
 
After that, this other Krishnamurti went to England to live, and there he experienced a spontaneous and very quick total awakening of the kundalini, which, as he described it, was unlike any kundalini awakening I’d ever read or heard of. He wrote a book about it and people started coming to see him. He told them he could not help them because what had happened to him was unique and it wasn’t likely to happen to them, and he didn’t know how to tell them to get it to happen to them. Later, he wrote a second book, saying many of the same things, which puzzled me, because he already had said in the first book that he couldn’t deliver what had happened to him to other people.
 
The angels assigned to me have been raising the kundalini in me since shortly after they got on my case in early 1987. I didn’t go to India to get it going. I didn’t even ask for it. I used to do hatha yoga, but it didn’t awaken the kundalini in me. Years later, I read that hatha yoga came about after people observed the weird contortions people went into, who were experiencing spontaneous kundalini arousal. Hatha yoga postures copycatted those contortions, hoping to create a kundalini arousal. Every now and then it succeeded, but not usually.
 
Maybe in closing this chapter, I should share a spontaneous vision that came to me in June 1995, just before the first dark night lifted, the dark night in Boulder, Colorado.
 
A sleeping man dreams he sees from behind a young yogi sitting in meditation in the lotus position. Before the young yogi appear two cobras, raised up, hoods flaired. One cobra is pure white, the other pure black. The pure white cobra says to the young yogi, “We came to you once before, because you were innocent, and you knew we brought a gift and you believed you had to chose one of us and you chose me.” The pure black cobra then says, “We come before you again because you now are wise.” The young yogi, now very advanced in years, weeps, chooses them both. The sleeping man, now an old man, awakens, crying.

Sloan

 

 

Flats Fishing – Key West

flats-fishing.jpgYesterday brought a past-life regression from out of the blue: a cordial email from the oldest brother of my first wife, the mother off my three children. He said he had fond memories of his and my relationship and was going to be in Florida in the next two months and hoped we could get together. I replied with similar sentiments, and said where I was living and I hoped we could get together.
 
The day before yesterday, something had come up in a conversation with a Key West friend about a religious cutl called The Way that had caused me to say my first wife’s oldest sister had ended up joining the Way, and after that she wasn’t the same person. She was a robot. But it was only on waking this morning that I saw that conversation as a lead into the email yesterday from my former brother-in-law, Jim.
 
Likewise, it was only this morning that I recognized yet another lead that came about yesterday, when I told a friend here that I was headed over to the library to see if I could find Tom McGuane’s Ninety-Two in the Shade, which this friend had several times recommended because I had told her that once I had wanted to be a flats guide in the Keys. I started the book last night, a really different writing style and off-beat wit. Then I got drowsy and fell asleep into tumultuous dreams that made no sense at all until I was preparing breakfast and remembered something about Jim that should have been impossible to not think of right away when I received his email yesterday, but I didn’t think of it until this morning.
 
His sister, my wife’s, name is Dianne. Severral weeks after our first child came, a son named after me, we made the rounds with him to friends and family, so they could meet the new addition to our family. One of the rounds took us to Memphis, where Dianne was from. She was the oldest child and all of the family but Jim were there. He was in Texas in basic training with the Air Force.
 
From Memphis we headed down to south Alabama, to see some law school friends who had graduated the year before. From there, we headed home, back to Tuscaloosa, where I was about to enter my last semester in law school. Throughout the trip Dianne had felt very protective of the baby, and still we had not decided what to call him, other than “the baby.” As we approached Tuscaloosa, we had an earnest, heart-felt talk about stopping the travel until he was older. I felt great relief.
 
Shortly after that, we arrived home. I started unpacking, while Dianne went inside with the baby. As I came in with suit cases, the phone rang. It was her brother Jim, calling from their parents’ home in Memphis. He told her he was home on leave, prelude to heading to Bangkok, where he would be a mechanic servicing B-52 bombers. Dianne told him she was coming to Memphis that day, to see him off. They said goodbye.
 
I said, ”What about the deal we just made about not traveling with the baby?”
 
“The deal’s off!!!” she yelled. “I’m going to see my brother off to war!!!”
 
When I objected, she went ballistic. Now she was screaming at me, veins were bulging on her neck, her eyes seemed to be popping out of her head. All the while, she held the baby. Terror seized me, I shut up, told her I would take her to the airport. She packed quickly, and not long after that I saw her and the baby onto a Southern Airways puddle jumper headed out of Tuscaloosa through Tupelo, Mississippi to Memphis.
 
Two morning’s later, a law school buddy came by my later and told me the baby had died. Dianne had called him to get him to come tell me and be with me. He said she had said she was worried that I might do something if I was alone when I heard of it.
 
If you don’t think I never stopped thinking that it might not have happened if she had stayed home as we had agreed to do, you would be very mistaken.
 
If you don’t think that it eventually occurred to me that if I had been the baby and had been subjected to something as violent as what happened after my parents fought over me in that violent way, that I would have checked myself right out of there, thenn you would be very mistaken.
 
If you don’t think that it eventually occurred to me that maybe if I had just kept my big mouth shut and put them back in the car and driven all three of us to Memphis, then it would not have happened, then you would be sadly mistaken.
 
If you don’t think the soul of a child can choose to terminate its life on this world in what doctors then called crib death but today call sudden infant death syndrom, then you would be very mistaken.
 
If you don’t think my bother-in-law Jim’s soul was shattered to hell and back over the death of his nephew in his family’s home, just before he went off to war, then you would be sadly mistaken. Jim had serious troubles the rest of his life, while I knew him.
 
If you don’t think his younger sister, who ended up becoming a flower child for a while, in reaction to Vietnam, then became a member of The Way, in an effort to atone for her flower child days and to put some sense of order into her life, was not shattered by her nephew’s death in her home, then you would be sadly mistaken.
 
If you do not think their parents and their youngest sister were not shattered, you would be sadly mistaken. They all were shattered, as was Dianne – she probably the most.
 
If you do not think the sudden G.I. tract illness that onset overnight about  2 and 1/2 years after my son died had nothing to do with his dying of what doctors by then called sudden infant death syndrome, then you are sadly mistaken.
 
If you do not think Jim writing to me yesterday from out of the blue, like suddenly, had anything to do with all of this, then you are sadly mistaken.
 
I found myself talking to God yesterday about what I was really going to be asked to do about all of this? Was Jim going to be used to try to heal the estrangement between Dianne and our two daughters and me? Perhaps. But did he even know about that, or that I had not heard from my daughters for nine years and I still had not been told why? Was he up to something like that?
 
This morning I wondered if he was up to my telling him that I was told in various ways I could not ignore early this year that his sister, my wife, had killed our son, and that her terror that I was going to find out about that was a big reason for the estrangement. Her terror was justified, because she knew I had found out about a number of family skeletons through my dreams and corroborating dreams of my good friends.
 
As for my wanting to be a flats guide, I really wanted to do it, but the G.I. trouble was so dominant that I knew in my bones that I wouldn’t be able to pull it off. I was too uncomfortable physically to have the patience and good humor being a flats guide demands. I was too driven. I was too tormented. So I never became a flats guide, at least not in the sense of the dream I’d had about it. Maybe I became a flats guide in aother way, though.
 
For sure, I know that I need to complete the “karma” and “soul contracts” I have with Dianne and our daughters, and with her brothers and sisters, if I don’t want to take it with me when I leave this world. If I take it with me, then I have to deal with it sometime. If I finish it here, in this life, then I can do something else after I leave. If I finish everything here, in this life, then I can do something entirely different after I leave.
 
Here’s the next installment in HABITAT FOR HUMANITY: Snapshots of a pilgrim’s travels with God.
 
 

CHAPTER 7

 

PAST LIVES

 

There came a time in Christendom when wise men (maybe so-called) of the Church gathered to discuss reincarnation, which was part of the belief system of many in Christendom in that day, and not part of the belief system of others. These wise men (maybe so-called) were concerned that people who believed in reincarnation would use that as an excuse not to put their nose to the grindstone Jesus had left behind, because they could do it in a later life. These wise men (maybe so-called) also were concerned that people who believed in reincarnation would use it as an excuse not to join the Church, which was promoting itself as the representative of Christ on earth, because they could do it in a later life. So, these wise men (maybe so-called) declared for the Church that reincarnation was heresy. This occurred at one of the Church’s Councils, perhaps it was Nicaea or one of the Constantinople Councils, a few hundred years after Jesus walked on earth. New Testament historians can tell you which Council, if you feel it’s important to have that information.

 

The dilemma Christendom faced back then, and still faces, is the Gospels themselves refute the position the Church took on reincarnation, at least twice. One refutation was when the disciples asked Jesus if Elijah had returned, and he told them yes but he was not recognized, and they knew he spoke to them of John the Baptist. The second time came when Jesus healed a blind man and afterward the disciples asked who had sinned, the man or his parents that he was born blind? How could the man have sinned before he was born, if not in a previous life? Jesus did not dispute the basis of their question, but said the man was born blind for this moment that he would be made to see and thus manifest the glory of God. Perhaps a third time came when Jesus said before David and Abraham, he was. But who he was, well, I guess that’s for Bible historians to squabble over, if they wish.
 
With past lives comes the discussion of karma, I suppose. The Old Testament says Elijah killed people God didn’t approve being killed, so his life as John the Baptist and getting beheaded at the behest of a spoiled ruler’s daughter could be viewed as settlement of that karma. Maybe I shouldn’t even mention that Elijah being lifted off this world in a chariot of fire, by-passing physical death, sure looks to me in that passage like a description of a modern space ship blasting off from earth. So maybe he didn’t die, but hovered in the space ship a few centuries before returning to earth (via his mother) as John the Baptist? Gets confusing, doesn’t it?
 
Imagine what it was like for my third wife, or maybe what it was like for her soul would be a better perspective, to know she had been Mary Magdalene and she was married to a man who had been Judas. You think that might have set up some unexplainable dynamics in our relationship?
 
Imagine what it was like in the soul for my next wife (#4) to know she had been Sister Claire, Francis of Assisi’s soul sister in Christ, to be married to a man she knew had been Judas.
 
Imagine what it was like in the soul for my next wife (#5), a devout fundamental Christian, in whose soul resided all of the female archetypes, to know she was married to a man who had been Judas.
 
Imagine what it was like for my last (#7 wife) to be an emanation out of the same spirit that took soul form as Jesus (she never admitted to this), to be married to a man she knew had been Judas.
 
Imagine what it was like for my sixth wife to be an emanation out of the same spirit that took soul form as “Eve,” to be married to a man she knew had been Judas.
 
Yogis, Hindus, Buddhists, Taoists, etc., wouldn’t have too much trouble with these questions theoretically, even though they might doubt the factual accuracy of the past lives. They know past lives play through into this life. As do many new age people.
I know of other lives I have lived, but I see no point in naming those incarnations and stirring up even more disbelief, confusion, irritation, criticism, astonishment, or whatever. I simply mention the past lives above to demonstrate a dynamic Christendom, Judaism, Islam (maybe excluding some Sufis) and Latter Day Saints (Mormons) don’t even recognize.
 
Here’s what I learned about beliefs: That’s what they are, beliefs. They may or may not have anything to do with reality. For example, Christendom believes Jesus died on the cross. This is not so. He was alive when he was taken down from the cross, then had a near-death experience in the tomb.
 
Here are examples of what karma can produce.
 
Wife number 3, who had been Magdalene, after we split up turned her back entirely on her Melchizedek lineage and became Tibetan Buddhist.
 
Wife number 4, who had been Claire, after she and I split up, turned her back on anything mystical and became a capitalist.
 
Wife number 5, who had all the female archetypes but remained determined to be a fundamental Christian, was told by God, she said, after God had told her, she said, that she “was not the one,” that Adam had to anchor into God for both Adam and Eve, and let God discipline Eve.” This was a message for me, from God, she said she had been told by God.
 
Early in our relationship, when it became apparent to her that we might be going somewhere together, she told me that God had told her that a man was being brought to her would put God first and her second. I told her I was that man. She didn’t seem too sure about that, because I wasn’t a Christian.
 
When I asked if it worked both ways, would she put God first and me second?, she said she’d never thought about it that way before.
 
My question probably was misguided, for what happened was she spent a lot of time and energy trying to bend me to her view of what a man who walked with God should do and be like, and God spent a great deal of time and energy making sure that I did not give into her, which I often wanted to do. I kept telling her that God would bust us up, if she kept at it. She didn’t believe me, and when it happened she was devastated and not just a little afraid.
 
Wife #6, the reincarnation of Eve, not too deep into our relationship was told by Melchizedek, as I recall her saying was the voice, that all women on this world are in a rabid war with God and that war is the cause of all wars on this world, including all man-made wars. I told her the subtext for that, which the angels did not correct, was the female is so put down on this world that any woman is reluctant in her soul to be here, thus the rabid war with God.
 
Wife #6 was told shortly after that, she said, that although some people might not like hearing it (me perhaps?), but men were God’s chosen vessels for truth on this world, and through truth, men come to love. Whereas, women are God’s chosen vessels for love on this world, and through love women come to truth.
 
Then, she was told to write all of that up and send it to all of her women friends, which she did and all but one of them told her adios.
 
As stated earlier, wife #7 was an incarnation out of the same spirit that had incarnated as Jesus. I was overwhelmed by my feelings for her, even as she went back and forth over her feelings for me.
 
Two months before we first met, I dreamt of her, of trying to bond with her even though she was “indifferent.” Yet, I was the only man she ever loved, and the only man who ever loved her. I couldn’t help myself and I doubt she could help herself either. In her soul, it seemed what she really wanted was to be a nun, perhaps because she was raised believing Jesus was celibate.
 
Many people today go to psychics, past-life regression practitioners, hypnotists, gurus and so forth to try to learn about their past lives. I don’t advise this. If you need to know about a past life, that life will be revealed to you in a way or in ways that you can use it profitably, if you are on your toes. Otherwise, don’t worry about past lives and just try your best to deal with what life puts on your plate ongoing. For there is the grist for the mill of spiritual development, growth, expansion. There is no way to develop fully in a monastery or ashram, or by being celibate. Yes, great development can occur in those disciplines, but not full development. And what is not developed is left for a later life to attempt to complete.
 
Contrary to the precepts of western religions, when we leave this body in which we live, we take everything with us but the body and our physical possession. We are still us, but in spirit. Sooner or later we get a review of our previous life from our perspective and from the perspective of others. A review we feel as well as see and hear. Then we continue our journey in spirit, or back on this world, or some place else, dependent on what we now need to move forward.
 
This is why it indeed is important to do our very best to deal with what life serves us in a holy way, instead of an ego way. For the holy way is alchemical, it causes soul change, while the ego way is static, it prevents soul change. Most people, I used to be one, predominantly, if not altogether, use the ego approach to dealing with what life serves up. The only way I know to break this habit is to be broken of it by a guru, or by the Spirit. You know how I feel about the two choices: for me, the Spirit is infinite, the guru is finite. Which do you want leading you?
 
For you who might be wondering, I was shown nothing (so far) about any prior history with my first wife and our daughters, or with my second wife. I was shown that my first wife’s and my son who died actually was my angel twin, when “he” infused and merged into me in April 2004. More about “him” I don’t think I’ve been shown, or if I was shown it, I didn’t recognize or understand it (yet).
 
Sloan
 
Postcript: It occurred to me from time to time that my having once been Judas, who betrayed Jesus (according to the Gospels), perhaps resulted in the death of my own only begotten son in this life.

 

 

Differentation – Key West

moral-booster.jpgA reply in italics to yesterday’s “Flats Fishing” post, followed by my much longer reply, followed by the next installment in HABITAT FOR HUMANITY. Followed by a lampoon.
 
How do you keep the unconcious images of all those ex-wives separate and distinct? Having had “only” 3 wives, I sometimes find them blending in dreamtime.
 
I don’t do anything, the wives come when they want to, seven very different women. Two of them, #5 and $7, came to me ongoing in waking time when I was with them, singing songs to me, not the same songs. The songs gave me a good read on where I was with them, they with me, and where I was with the Spirit. Every now and then I still hear #7’s main song, which actually began sounding to me when I was with #5, but #7 told me, when I whistled it to her not knowing any of the words, that it was the very first song her piano teacher had taught her, and she sang it to me: “Close to you” – ”On the day that you were born the angels got together and made a dream come true,” is how I recall the main line went.
 
The book I’m replaying chapter at a time now, the title thieved from Habitat For Humanity, was instigated in part by my younger daughter; in a dream, Alice said a couple of times, “I’m hungry.” After receiving a few other and different nudges to regurgitate some of my bizarre experiences, I remembered that the last bizarre piece of this kind of writing I was told to send to her, for her to share with her older sister, if she wished. I had the younger’s mailing address at her place of work, which I’d gotten online, but not the older’s. Their home addresses/phones were unlisted. I told Alice in the cover letter that she had come to me recently in a dream and told me she would never leave me. Can’t imagine what that’s like for her, being a medical doctor and all. Last time I had a serious talk with her, when I was in the second dark night, the one that nearly killed me, she seemed to think everything bizarre was within the province of psychiatry. I kept telling her, after she decided to do a residency in ophthalmology, that the eyes are the window to the soul.
 
In early 2000, before wife #6, Cathy, and I dropped off the world, my older daughter Nelle told me that Alice and her husband David were having troubles. I knew what the troubles were and wrote to them both, fingering Nelle as the snitch. I said once Alice had asked me if I had any advice for her, and I had told her to never let anything come between her and her marriage. Even if she had to kill it, never let it come between her and her marriage. I knew the problem was Alice was putting all of her time and energy into medical school, and I knew part of the reason for it was her going to medical school was the high point in her mother’s life. David also was in medical school, the same medical school, and he had time for it and for Alice. But this I did not say in the letter, which really was written to Alice. I added that I myself had been guilty of putting things ahead of my family and it had not turned out well, and there would be consequences if they broke up. I heard nothing back.
 
I’ve written and published what then happened. For entirely different reasons, I changed my name to Sloan Young, renounced my inheritance. Wife #6 and I started what became a trip around the world, which began in Costa Rica where I’d often thought I wanted to live. About two weeks into our stay in Dominical, a tiny remote surfing town on the southwest coast, Cathy and I were walking down the rough dirt road next to the beach and I was hailed by a man standing in the middle of the road. Hailed by my first name. It was David. Turned out he was in Costa Rica at a clinic in the middle of the country, doing some sort of preparation for his internship that coming fall. He was down there alone. It was Costa Rica’s July 4th type weekend and he had rented a motor cycle and headed west, ending up where Cathy and I were hanging out. Nobody in Alabama, or in the family, even knew I was out of the country.
 
David said he was leaving Alice, and why — same reason I had concluded.  He said he saw what I was trying to do when I wrote to them both, but Alice got mad over it. He told a few stories that left me knowing it was hopeless to suggest reconciliation. He was being blamed by everyone on both sides, I said and he agreed. I asked if he believed in God yet? He looked puzzled. So I asked what were the odds, in his estimation, of him coming to Costa Rica and finding there the one person on this world who could given him absolution for leaving his wife? He said the odds probably were pretty low. I said the odds were one-hundred percent, that’s always the odds when God is working a situation. He didn’t get it. I told him to do it quickly, so there would be no lingering drawn-out saga. He thanked me, we hugged goodbye. He was like a son to me. I figured I’d never see him again.
 
I wrote to Alice and her mother and stepfather about what had happened in Costa Rica. It was just another work assignment, just like changing my name and  renouncing my inheritance, just like writing the letter to Alice and David, just like writing and publishing Habitat For Humanity, which is so far out that the definition of far out might need to be rewritten. Just like every darn thing I write and publish publicly and non-publicly. Just like a lot of things I do that I don’t tell anyone beyond the person or people involved. It was only a couple of years ago that it dawned on me that David made up his mind to leave Alice after he saw her reaction to my letter. He gave up.
 
I don’t see this kind of work being done by anyone I ever met who got linked up with a guru, Eastern or Western. I don’t see this kind of work being done by Christians. Or by Jews. Or by Moslems. Or by anyone. It  is beyond anything imaginable until it is experienced. And then it becomes your life. You are it, it is you. There is no separation. It is as Jesus said in the Gospels: the way is steep and the gate is narrow and few enter therein; many are called but few are chosen. He told his disciples they didn’t do this work to get thanks or praise; they did it because it was their duty.
 
This is what my wives starting with #3 ran into. They ran into it because it had me by the scruff of the neck and it started grabbing them too. There was no overriding it. The only way they could escape it was to leave me. Yet, going back to the beginning of this perhaps seemingly overly-long and circuitous reply to your short email, each of the seven wives are allied with me in spirit; it is nothing there like it is between them and me on this world. Ditto with me and my daughters, with me and my father and mother and siblings, and with me and friends I have lost because it became too rough for them to be with me in my experience. But in spirit, they are still with me.
 
Alice completed her residency in ophthalmology and then did a residency in eye surgery. That’s like getting three M.D.s. I’m glad she’s with me in spirit from now on. As much “eye surgery” as I’ve already had, it’s still very easy to not see correctly on this upside down world. I need all the help seeing that I can get.
 
Sloan
 
 

CHAPTER 8

 

ASSIGNMENTS

 

Eventually I came to understand that my life on this world was a series of work assignments, spirit work, and that each assignment was designed to change me and prepare me for the next assignment. I came understand that within assignments are sub assignments, and within sub assignments are sub sub assignments, and so forth. And I came to understand that no assignment, large or small, can be skipped over or by-passed, for each assignment lays the foundation for the next step along the way. Meaning, if I miss a step, I am given a chance to repeat it, if not in the same context, then in a similar enough context, so that I have the essence of the experience.
 
For example, I was prevented from raising my son, but I got to try to help raise my third wife’s son from age 5-12. This wasn’t easy for me, because I felt physically bad most of the time; I was being introduced to and taken through shaman training. He suffered attention deficit syndrome and hyperactivity. His father was driven to make a career as a psychologist psychotherapist. His mother was a child therapist and psychotherapist, and an evolving Sandplay practitioner (google separately, Sandplay and Dora Kalff, who was my wife’s Sandyplay teacher and a dear friend of mine too). My wife was driven to have another child, even though the one she already had was ripped up inside as a result of stuff that had happened between her and his father before I came along. She was not satisfied with him and was quite reluctant to look at her own role in his difficulties, but not so reluctant to lay off on me my inadequacies as a stepfather. All the while I often felt I was the only ally her son had. In the end, she used my relationship with him as an excuse to split us up, just as her own stuff was coming up in spades. By her stuff, I mean the parts of her that were broken, which had heavily contributed to what broke her son.
 
As I wrote in an earlier chapter, the four-year dark night I experienced during this marriage was trigged by my taking both my wife and stepson into me, to try to help them in shaman ways as part of my own shaman training. I knew not that this was underway. Only when she pushed me out, using her son’s and my relationship as the excuse, that, and she never had another child, was it shown to me that I had been carrying them both inside of me; and that is what had made the dark night so rough. Although she was somewhat versed in shaman and spiritual healing and training, she got quite upset when I told her what had been told to me about my carrying her and her son inside of me unawares, to try to help them both. That I had not done too badly, though, seemed to have been shown to me in dreams of the boy after his mother and I went apart. Dreams that came occasionally, in which the boy and I were always close and loving. Not one bad dream about the boy did I have afterward, nor did I have any bad dreams about him when I was trying to be his stepfather. When I screw something up, I’m shown it in dream time.
 
As I look back, my core assignment with that wife was to hold firm with her, not give into her wants and demands, unless approved by the Spirit, which approval was seldom given. For me, the benefit was to strengthen my will and help me heal my own internal female. For her, it was to turn her back toward herself, so she could be healed in her internal female, which had been seriously injured in her early teens by the father of her best friend making repeated attempts to feel her up, which she kept to herself instead of going for help. I kept telling her that she needed to talk to her old girlfriend about it, because that would initiate a healing process for her and for her girlfriend, who surely had suffered the same treatment from her own father. But she wouldn’t do it, kept saying it wouldn’t be fair to her girlfriend. That was her assignment, which, if she had done it, would have caused more healing for her than all the Sandplay and other therapy she had done as a client combined. But she did not do it, and later she became a Buddhist. I was not criticized in dreamtime afterward for my role in our relationship, and many times she came to me in dreams with help for me, sometimes welcome, sometimes not.
 
I could use hundreds of stories to demonstrate this assignment business. Perhaps a couple more will suffice, to give a flavor of the whole, and to contrast this approach with other approaches, which I personally don’t think are worth much, because they don’t seem to prepare people for this kind of work, nor do they seem to cause much change.
 
A few years after I left my third wife behind, I and a couple of my men friends started dreaming about an older brother I had, about whom I knew nothing. My father’s first son, a mixed-blood child, whose mother was the teenage daughter of the black servants in the home of my father’s father and mother. My father loved this young woman very much, and their son too. But his father and their society could not tolerate a mixed-blood relationship, nor a teenage marriage, so my grandfather paid the young mother and her parents, for her to leave the state with the boy and never return. For years payments were made by my grandfather, until my father assumed the payments. My mother never knew any of this, nor did anyone else in the family, except my father’s older brother, who told me he did not wish to get involved when I went to him to get confirmation in a human way, which was the confirmation — the tone in which he said he didn’t want to get involved.
 
For a year and a half I sat on this information, wondering what I was to do with it. In late 1999, I was “told” to write to my father about it, how I had learned about it (leaving out his brother), and expressing an interest in meeting my older half brother. I said I wasn’t upset about it and if he did not reply, I would take that as his confirmation that I did have this older half brother. I wrote instead of going to see him, because he had not wanted to see me for some time, nor did I want to see him. But occasionally I would write to him, and sometimes he would reply. I received no reply to that letter, except a Christmas gift of corporate stock he traditionally gave to all of his children each year did not arrive. I was not surprised and moved on with my life. However, a few weeks later, out of the blue, I was “told” to write to him and say that he had rejected me, so I could no longer carry his last name or inherit anything from him. I included a certified copy of the court order dropping my last name, Bashinsky, and making me Sloan Young. I had been born Sloan Young Bashinsky, Jr. Also included was a notarized renouncement of my inheritance. Pretty tough assignment, huh?
 
My wife at that time, #6, the one who later went to Maritius with me, heard the same thing for me that I was hearing. And she, too, went though much the same thing with her own family of origin. Then, we got rid of everything but what we could stuff into my old Chevorlet, and headed “westerly,” which was the direction she kept hearing we should go. An hour and a half later, the engine overheated and all of the anti-freeze/coolant boiled out, which this car had done a few times before. We each packed one suitcase and I grabbed my laptop and we kept going, hitching rides. The next day, the laptop went out and I gave it away. We had about $3,000 on us and five credit cards, four of which were hers, one was mine. A week layover in Baton Rouge, during which I nearly died, and then I was hearing “Costa Rica,” which I had long wanted to see. Off we went to that country, and thus began a round the world trip, financed by credit cards, until the issuers quit honoring them. By then, we had reached Hawaii, and were resting over on Molochai, preparing to fly over to Maui. We ran out of money four weeks later, and six months later we separated and I was sent to Key West, where I would move into politics and run five times for local office, an entirely different assignment. I already detested politics, and I came to detest it much more.
 
On Maui began several years of being homeless, yet another work assignment, about which I could do nothing but live with it and what it brought to me, until my father died and I inherited the bundle wife #3 had expected me to inherit ten years earlier. When I went to my bank, to pay back the credit card debt, I learned they had sold the debt to another institution. When I went to that institution, they could find no record of the debt. I didn’t know how to reach my 6th wife, or even if she was alive. So I made no effort to pay off her credit card debt. Also, I’d had a dream in which she told me we were even and would travel separately until we met again.
 
It was following my name change and the renouncement of my inheritance that my daughters quit communicating with me. They have not communicated with me since, except in dream time, where it is pretty good between us. Same with my father, in dream time. But for dream time, I might go nuts over the crap I have endured in human relationships. More than crap, having my heart ripped to shreds. All of which, believe it or not, is a work assignment, teaching me unconditional love; love that passes all human understanding, so to speak. Love that allows me to do things so tough, so difficult, without malice, that people who hear about it can’t believe I actually did it; or if they believe I did it, they think it was terrible, or insane. Surely God had nothing to do with it. Surely.
 
By and by, I was told to legally take my original name back, and to unrenounce the renouncement of my inheritance, all of which I did. Whatever had been in play before, whatever that had been trying to achieve either was achieved or was done good enough, or was obsolete, and it was time for me to resume as Sloan Young Bashinky, Jr. This was not an easy assignment. I liked Sloan Young. I liked the name better. I liked the man better. A man who was fearless, who did whatever he was told to do without flinching. A man who didn’t want to inherit money from a father who would not received his son. I sometimes wonder if Sloan Young is my angel twin, who died in infancy, then came back and merged into me when I was with wife #3 and her son. Neither of them had any doubt the return and merger had happened. One of the parts of that assignment was for me to introduce that boy to something very different that his father and mother could not give to him because of their very strong mainstream leanings. More than anything they both wanted him to go to college, as they had done, but it was crystal clear to me that he did not have the aptitude for that, he was on a different drumbeat. What happened there, I don’t know, because his mother shielded him from me after we went apart, even as she blamed me for the very hard time he had over my departure. Go figure.
 
Maybe two years before she ran me off, she and the boy took a trip to England, where she would do advanced training with Nessie Bayley, an elderly English woman child therapist we had met, who became a dear friend of mine, as well. I felt like part of me had left with them, and it wasn’t a good feeling. It wasn’t even easy to breathe. Three weeks into it, out of nowhere it came to me to offer to my wife on her return the power to determine what, if any, of my own assets I would walk away with if she and I ever parted ways. This had been a big concern for her, as I was fully supporting her and her son. Whatever she made at her therapy practice went back into the practice and into her further training. This trip she was on had been paid for in that way, along with some help from me. I fully supported her training and was the initial cause of it resuming, for she had let it go when we met. Anyway, when this notion to give her the power of division came to me, I started asking if it was coming from God, and if not, to let me know. I never heard anything against it, and when she returned two weeks later I told her what I had decided and how it had come about. We cried together.
 
When she finally asked me to leave, I told her to make the property division. She took 85 percent for herself, left me 15 percent. Her share was $900,000. She had property of her own, farm she’d inherited from her mother, which I had made possible by paying the estate taxes and lawyer. She knew I was unable to make a living. She thought my father was dying and I would inherit another bundle soon. I thought that might happen, too. But it didn’t happen. She knew it didn’t happen. Eventually, she knew I was homeless and she didn’t help out. She has an international reputation as a Sandplay therapist. She is a Buddhist. I would hate to think what her karma is. I frequently wonder how she lives with herself, how she justifies it? Yet for me, it was just another work assignment. An assignment in learning that there is only one thing I can trust, and that one thing is God. I have yet to meet one person I trust to go the distance with me, to not turn on me when the going gets really rough. I still have friends who have not turned on me, but they have not been tested in ways I know are possible. In ways my last five wives certainly know are possible, having experienced those tests when they were with me.
 
What’s the point in all of this? The point is to accelerate my spiritual pace, my spiritual depth. Each assignment, and each sub assignment, and each sub sub assignment, and so on is used to further refine me, further purify me, further enlarge me, further increase my spirit velocity. There is no way to get this accelerated result by praying, meditating, fasting, being celibate, living in a monastery, attending church regularly, traipsing around after a guru, going to psychics, astrologers, shamans, healers, ETs, or by diet or exercise, or by reading and study. All of that can have some effect, certainly, and it can prepare for a warp jump out of all of it, if the pilgrim ever realizes that it’s all mere preparation for something unimaginable, something boundless. I went through that seeking phase until I realized none of the roadside attractions this world had to offer were going to help me. I’m convinced that total desperation and despair, such as I experienced, are critical to surrendering to this very accelerated program I’m trying to describe here. If there is any hope that anything else will help, then this program will not succeed, unless the pilgrim is conscripted into it and then slowly and systematically, or quickly and brutally, stripped of all hope that that any other method is going to help.
 
Alas, and I often tell the angels this, I doubt more than a very few people would survive what is being done to me. And if I’m an example of the best this experiment has to offer, then the angels need to go back to the drawing board. Many attempts have been made by heaven to help humanity, I told the angels in the spring of 2004, while I was living in a tent in Key West, after they asked me in my sleep what I thought of the species? Although a few individuals were helped over the ages, the species itself was not helped. Perhaps better, I said, to simply remove humanity from this planet, and put it somewhere that it will have a chance of moving forward. For here, on this world, it has lost its creativity and is spiritually cloning itself and is dying. Since then, I have repeated that answer dozens of times. I see nothing to cause me to think this species is being turned around. Nothing. And, to be blunt, I was told in my sleep in the spring of 2006 that the species did not reach escape velocity, that this had happened before but I could still do it and I would be given experiences that were designed to increase my own pace. My workload then ratcheted upward significantly.
 
The thought just occurred to me that this book, if that is what it is, is something like a Last Will and Testament. If it is, maybe that means I won’t be around much longer. I can’t say that thought upsets me. Living with this regimen scares me, dying seems like escape velocity.
 
Are we having fun yet?
 
Sloan
 
Postscript: My promoting a nude beach for Key West when I ran for mayor this year (2009) was loads of fun, and it was a spiritual assignment. No joke. No joke, the Devil doesn’t want Key West to have a nude beach. No joke, God wants Key West to have a nude beach. A public nude beach, where anybody can go who wants to go there. If you don’t want to go there, then don’t fucking go there. If you don’t want small children going there, then don’t take them there. If you don’t like naked bodies, tough shit – don’t blame it on God. Otherwise, when you die you will be sent to a nude beach for a few lifetimes.
 
As for today’s (6 November 2009) Key West Citizen’s editorial lampoon of the local opposition to a clothing optional beach . . . After parading the debauchery of and economic delivery from the jaws of defeat salvation Fantasy Fest provides to Key West’s economy, the editorial makes no mention of the motherlode of doubloons a clothing optional beach would surrender to our business and city coffers. Instead, the editoral, after claiming neutrality on the issue, ends by jokingly comparing Key West having a nude beach to getting rid of Key West’s nuisance wild chickens, without which the island would be overrun with scorpions, centipedes, roaches, snakes, rats, etc., and the local pest control companies would all know for a fact that they had died and gone to heaven. What could be more important than turning Key West into an economic boom town, the bounty from  which could SOLVE the threat of bankruptcy and even going homeless now faced by so many Key West citizens?
 
Sloan

 

Are We Having Fun Yet? – Key West

aphrodite.jpg
So, it looks like I’m to tell again how the nude beach frenzy hatched in Key West. It started last April (2009), as I recall, at the end of spring break. Holly, one of the Baristas at Sippin’ Internet Cafe on Eaton Street just around the corner from St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, loudly complained about the bikini contest that she had wandered into the day before on Duval Street, which is the center of the action in Key West. In fact, it is the action here. Feeling somewhat provoked and also a tad devilish, and prodded further by a street vendor, I told Holly she should have entered the bikini contest herself, even as the notion began to foment in my fertile mind that we needed a nude beach. The notion already had been seeded at a Higgs Beach Committee meeting the month before, when some Naturists showed up to start proselytizing Key West having a clothing optional beach, or as they called it, a naturist or free beach.
 
By and by, I received notice of Hometown PAC!’s first Call To Candidates, which would be held at Salute Ristorante at Higgs Beach in early May, as I recall. Somewhere in all of this ferment I met a young woman whose spiritual engery nearly caused me to go into cardiac arrest; she was nicely put together, as well. We started having talks about stuff I don’t talk much about with many people, and I became convinced that she was about as pure an emanation of the Divine Female, Eve if you wish, as I likely was ever going to come across. She was very much in favor of nude beaches and living au naturale, and she had some young friends, it turned out, who were like-minded.
 
I told my young friend that I wondered if, because she was so interested in Key West having a ”legal” nude beach, if she would just show up topless at Hometown PAC!s shindig at Salute and dance for a nude beach? She said she’d have to think about that; it wasn’t the same, she said, as going skinny dipping. I said I’d speak with the Chairman of Hometown! PAC, who was a good friend of mine, and also with the owners of Salute, also good friends. She said okay. Alas, the Chairman of Hometown PAC said he didn’t think it would be fair to the other potential candidates, if I had a lovely damsel come out there and dance naked, or nearly so, for a nude beach. The fellow who owned Salute with his wife said he it might be too risqué for his business. So I gave up the idea and told my young friend what had happened. Shortly after that she left town and headed for the Bahamas.
 
The night before the shindig at Salute, she showed up at Sippin, said she’d been back in town a few days. We talked about a bunch of stuff, but nothing about Hometown PAC’s Call To Candidates. When the do happened at Salute the next evening, I told about all of this as part of introducing what would become the most well-known part of my campaign platform — I was running for mayor. I said maybe Hometown! PAC’s Chairman and the owner of Sippin’ had done me a favor, as maybe I didn’t have enough digitalis to survive what I had suggested to them. I was the next to last speaker, having followed the incumbent mayor, Morgan McPherson. The last speaker was a novice in politics, Craig Cates, the then announced third mayor candidate.
 
A minute into Craig’s debut into politics, I saw my friend and one of her girlfriends arrive on their bicycles near the public bathrooms a short distance away. Then I saw Aphrodite pull off her tank top, which caused me to lose my breath and squeal to Craig and anybody else: ”Look!!!” Craig turned around and didn’t see anything and continued his debut ”speech.” Next thing, my friend and her now equally topless girlfriend were easing by the side of Salute in plain few on their bicycles. My friend stopped her bicycle, preened some, then hollered, “Nude breaches for Key West?” Momentarily stopped the show, until she slowly pedaled away toward the sunset, followed by her girlfriend.
Of course, I got blamed for it right away, even though I’d had nothing to do with it. My friend, now I was thinking maybe she was Aphrodite, came back about a half hour later, with her top on, and plenty of people, and not just men, wanted to meet her. She later told me that something had seized her and made her come to Salute. She didn’t know it was the day of Hometown!s shindig. But when she got there and saw the people, she said to herself that must be what Sloan had talked to her about. Next, she was seized to yank off her top. It was then that I learned of her and her friends going in the buff at Rest Beach.
 
This was when Aphrodite told me that she and her girlfriends had recently started riding around Key West at night naked on their bicycles. Then they, and some of their young men friends started going over to Rest Beach next to 1800 Atlantic Avenue and stripping down all the way and sunning and swimming in the shallow water there. People came out onto the west-facing balconies of 1800 Atlantic, saw the kids and waved, then went inside and came back out with cameras and took their pictures, I suppose to share with their dearly deprived friends back home.
The rest was history, including the soul drawing of Aphrodite I was moved to make, which begins this post today.

Later, I wrote that it was the Holy Spirit that grabbed Aphrodite and her girlfriend and made them do what they did at Slaute. Even as people continued to blame me, or perhaps even the devil, for putting them up to it. I had never spoken with the second damsel about it, although I knew her well. She is a popular singer in Key West during the season, and I had met her the year before, after she first made the scene here and started astounding people with her singing at Willie T’s. Leah is her name. Aphrodite’s human name is Aimee. I wish she was older and I was younger. As is, there isn’t enough digitalis to protect me. As is, she thinks I’m old enough to be her father. Actually, I’m a bit older than that;
my youngest daughter, Alice, is ten years older than Aphrodite.
 
Oh well, are we starting to have fun yet? Here’s the next and last chapter of HABITAT FOR HUMANITY.

CHAPTER 9 

FUN

 

All work and no play makes God a dumb boy, right?

 

You see, that’s the problem. Christendom, Judaism, Islam, all have God wearing male gentiles, er, genitals. Where do you ever read in the Bible of some king or warrior going off and slewing women and taking their foreskins? Well, some parts of Islam seem inclined in that direction — female circumcision. As if human beings know better than God what kind of equipment works best on women, and what kind doesn’t. Pretty arrogant, huh? Modifying the very human body God created. Would you call that arrogance? I wouldn’t. I’d call it insanity.
 
Well, I’m not going to poke Islam too much. If this book is ever published, hope I’m dead by then, but if not, no telling what Inman or Ayatollah will issue a death sentence aimed at me, make me the sole target of a jihad. What a cute little boy invention, jihad. Reminds me so much of its Christendom brother, crusade. Let’s go out and get them godless Saracens, and while we’re at it let’s sack all of their libraries and burn all of their books. No worries, in two generations they will have forgotten all about it and will only be worried about screwing each other out of their camels, while we, America, led by our fearless leaders rid the world of Evil.
 
Although that might not be quite as big a deal as ridding the world of God, it’s still a pretty big deal, ridding the world of Evil. So big a deal, in fact, that whoever came up with that idea should have been taken to the state mental, locked up, and the key not thrown away but melted down into molten nothing and then thrown away, just to make sure that if anyone ever found it and somehow figured out what it once was, there would be no way to use it and let the lunatic out again. One has to wonder how the lunatic ever got let out the first time? Did God will it, to play some kind of joke on America? The rest of the world didn’t fall for it, obviously. But plenty of God-fearing Americans fell for it when the lunatic stood before a national television camera and said the person in history he most identified with philosophically was Jesus.
 
Bet that sure was news to Jesus, who had been saying for years that he never knew the lunatic. Bet it also was news to Jesus to see the US of A change the Pledge of Allegiance around the time the lunatic was reaching puberty, to say the US of A was “under God.” As if saying you are under God makes you any different than you were before you said it. As if America even had God’s permission to make that change to the Pledge of Allegiance, which went though a number of changes after it came into being following the War Between the States, one man’s effort to bring the then existing states back together. Not once, though, did he use God’s name in the Pledge, though. Not once.
 
The irony is, the US of A really is under God, but it is not the one nation under God. It is in the company of all nations, all of which are under God, in the sense that God presides over everything, even nations that don’t even acknowledge God’s existence. As if what nations or people acknowledge has any effect on God. As if people can make God in their own image, although they sure have spent a lot of time and effort trying to do just that. Talk about insanity, there you go: a human being trying to define or describe God, something not even an archangel can do. But no matter, human beings are smarter than archangels. Smarter even than God, judging by the way they think and behave.
 
No darn wonder the real people are leaving this world to the mutants. Who in right mind would want to live in what has become a world-wide insane asylum? But then who, in right mind, would argue that Adam and Eve were the first two people, when it says very clearly in that story that they had two boys, Cain and Abel, and after Cain killed Abel because God liked Abel’s meat products better than Cain’s vegetables, he went off to the Land of Nod to find himself a wife. Of course, if you are a real smart Bible person, you know the simple answer to that dilemma; you know Adam and Eve had other children not mentioned yet in that tale, and some of them were girls, and they moved to the Land of Nod with some of their brothers not mentioned in that tale yet either, and started having at it. And, well, yes, Cain went to Nod and found one of his sisters, or one of his sister’s little girls, and married her.
 
Thus began the insanity, brothers were fucking their sisters, sisters were fucking their brothers, that’s how it was done back in those days. I know this because a Bible literalist told me this is how it was back then, leaving out the fuck word. I had to give him credit; he had spotted the flaw in the literal ointment in God’s perfect scheme: if Adam and Eve were the only two people, in the beginning, how did Cain find any people in the Land of Nod? Pretty creative, don’t you thing? The literalist coming up with the notion that God knew nothing about genetics and saw to it that Cain had went and fucked his own sister, or his sister’s daughter. Sure straightened me out, because I had it figured that either there were other people the Adam and Eve story didn’t tell about, or there weren’t other people but it maybe was monkeys or apes, or maybe even wild sheep, that Cain went over there to Nod and had himself one, or maybe two or three. And thus maybe began men having harems and women being, well, livestock?
 
What I came to think really happened was it got boring as shit in heaven, boring as shit. So the angels got together, maybe God put them up to it, maybe not, and created this world and made some people and put them here just to watch what all they would to with this place and with each other. Sort of like going to the theater, or maybe a movie. But there was no prior script, it was being all made up as it went along. That way the angels, and if God was involved, or even interested, which might be one of those big time ASS-U-MEs, it was interesting to the audience because nobody watching knew what in the hell was next going to happen. I mean, how do you predict what crazy people are going to next? Well, how do you?
 
Maybe if I keep this up, I’ll get the Salman Rushdie award and the Vatican or the Southern Baptist Convention will clandestinely hire the KKK to tie me to a cross and burn it and me in some Mullah’s front yard in downtown Mecca. Not meaning to pick on Islam, but how in hell could Mohammed have known God, when not even Archangels know God?
 
Presents quite a dilemma, don’t it? Not even Jesus, the Son of God in the Gospels, said he knew God. What he said was he knew what God had revealed to him, which might not have been a whole hell of a lot. In fact, it might have been a hell of a lot less than that, in the big scheme that God is, which not even Archangels can fathom. They told me so, Michael, Gabriel and Raphael, probably to get me down a ways off my high horse before I fell off and landed on my head and busted it wide open and my brains spilled out and ran on the ground and were slopped up by a herd of passing pigs headed to the nearest cliff to jump off into the sea.
 
Jews didn’t like pigs in Jesus’ time any better than Moslems came to like pigs after Mohammed banned swine to the outer darkness. That’s why Jesus put the prodigal son, who was himself once upon a time, into a pig parlor, slopping pigs and eating their food, until he woke up one day and decided he’d be better off, if it could be worked out, sweeping out the stables on his father’s cattle ranch. So home he headed, hoping against hope, and sure enough, his father was delighted to see he had come to his senses and threw a big barbeque (beef barbeque) for him. Alas, that really pissed off his older faithful brother who had never left home, or learned anything much to speak of, and by the end of the story he was really mad and his prodigal brother was really happy. Makes you wonder, don’t if, whether all that staying home and being true and good is really worth it, don’t it?
 
Of course, another way to look at this story, if you have the ability to see double or even triple, is to view the prodigal as Lucifer and the older brother as Jesus, or maybe an archangel, and it was Lucifer who finally woke up and went home and got the big party thrown for him, and you figure out who was all upset about it, if you want to go there. Hard for lots of religious types to imagine God loves Lucifer as much as God loves any other angel, or person, but that’s how it is, because that’s how God is. Me, I’ve still got quite a ways to go before I can love like that. How about you? If you are having trouble answering that question, maybe you can identify which of the two brothers you would rather be at the end of that tale? Me, I’d rather be the prodigal, because I don’t want to end off all pissed off, maybe permanently, because I never left home and had some fun. Not that I’m having much fun these days, but occasionally a moment like this one comes along and I jump on it with both feet J.
 
Maybe I’ll write about Barack Obama next. But then, maybe I should leave that up to the pastor — Jeremiah Wright — God assigned to try to straighten Obama out before he became the Anti-Christ. That’s right, George W. Bush once was put in front of me, back when he was still Governor of Texas, moving toward gaining the Republican nomination. As I look back, it seems the point of the exercise was to show me the futility of my aspiration (my own ignorance and arrogance) to get through to someone already taken over unawares by Lucifer. Perhaps also in play was my initial entry into politics unawares, and my seeing just how gullible and blind Americans truly are, maybe because they want to be gullible and blind.
 
Sloan
 
P.S. During the night an unfolding series of dreams, it always seems to have to be a complicated code, a riddle that I, the idiot, have to try to decipher, left me with the fairly strong impression that this here book is finished and is to be published to goodmorningkeywest.com and goodmorningfloridakeys.com. Makes sense. I don’t know what else I could write that would matter (if I wrote it all, it would take maybe 3,000 pages), and 9 is the number for completion in my line of work (this is Chapter 9). I didn’t even want to write the book in the first place, but I’ve learned that what I want seldom has to do with what God wants. I suspect there are some typo and other glitches I didn’t catch, and I hope that didn’t cause you too much grief — there’s plenty enough grief in this tale already.
 
Cheers!
 
P.S. For those who read this far and still are shaking their heads and thinking to themselves, “Surely he made it all up, or at least most of it . . . surely he misunderstands God . . . surely God wants it to be easy for us and for us to get what we want in life,” connsider Rumi’s poem about his own travels with God. Then pack your bags and head to Key West, and get naked! I mean, aren’t we all naked before God? Well, aren’t we? Wouldn’t we all still be naked, without any complaining from God, if Adam and Eve hadn’t taken it upon themselves to get into the fig leaf business? Well, wouldn’t we?
 

The Chickpea

 
A chickpea in a pot leaps from the flame,
out from the boiling water,
Crying, “Why do you set fire to me?
You chose me, bought me, brought me home for this?”
The cook hits it with her spoon into the pot.
“No! Boil nicely, don’t jump away from the one who makes the fire.
I don’t boil you out of hatred.
Through boiling you may grow flavorful, nourishing,
and united with vital human spirit.
I don’t inflict this suffering out of spite.
Once green and fresh, you drank rain in the garden;
you drank for the sake of this fire.
Bronze bucket, Venice, by Muslim craftsmen, 16th century. Click for larger image.

God’s mercy precedes His wrath;
by God’s mercy the sick ones suffer.
It has always been so; this is how God creates all that exists.
Without pleasure, no creatures would come into being.
Without creatures,
what could the burning love of the Friend consume?
Such sorrow may come that you might wish
to be free of this life.
yet the Grace of God will overtake His wrath,
once you are washed clean in the river of suffering.
Chickpea, you fed in the springtime;
now pain has become your guest.
Entertain him well, that he may return home grateful,
and speak of your generosity to the King.
Instead of your vision of good fortune,
the One Who Bestows Favor may come to you;
then all true blessings may be drawn to you.
Just as Abraham commanded his son:
‘Lay your head before my knife
I see in a dream that I must sacrifice you,’
lay your head before God’s knife,
that He may cut your throat like that of Ishmael.
He may cut off your head,
but only the one that is immune to death.
Such submission is the fulfillment of God’s purpose
— seek this submission.

Medicinal plants, Iraq, late 14th century. Click for complete painting.

Chickpea, continue to boil in suffering,
so that no self may remain in you.
Though once you laughed in the garden of earth,
you now are the rose of the garden of spirit,
you now are the eye of spirit.
Once you are torn from the garden of water and earth,
you may become food, and thereby enter the living world.
Become nourishment, strength and thought!
Once you were sap; now become a lion in the jungle!
You were born from God’s attributes;
return eagerly to them.
You came from the cloud and the sun and sky,
then scattered and ascended to heaven.
You came as rain and heat;
you will return into the Divine attributes.
You were part of the sun and the cloud and the stars.
You became soul and action and speech and thoughts.
Our victory after the checkmate of death
gives truth to the words,
‘Verily, in being slain there is life.’
Action, speech and sincerity become food for angels;
they climb this ladder to heaven.
A morsel of food becomes food for humanity,
rises from its inanimate state and obtains a soul.
The caravan of spirit travels constantly between earth and heaven.
Join it gladly and freely,
not bitterly and full of hatred, like a thief.
I speak bitter words to you so you may be washed clean of bitterness.
The frozen grape thaws in the cold water
and leaves its coldness and hardness behind.
When you endure bitterness,
your heart will fill with blood like the grape,
and you will be freed from all bitterness.
A dog not kept for hunting wears no collar;
the raw and unboiled are nothing but insipid.”

The chickpea speaks, “If this is so, then help me to boil!
By this boiling you elevate me.
Hit me with the spoon; delight me!
Like the elephant, strike me and brand my head,
that I may not dream of the gardens of Hindustan.
Let me gladly submit to this boiling
that I may be embraced by the Beloved.
Men and women, imagining themselves free,
grow insolent and hostile, like the dreaming elephant.
When the elephant dreams of Hindustan,
he disobeys the driver and becomes vicious.”
Detail from Persian painting, 654/1256. Click for complete painting.

The cook says, “I was once like you, part of the earth.
I drank the fire of self-discipline, fasting and prayer,
and became worthy and acceptable to God.
I boiled long in the world of time, and long in the pot of this body.
From these boilings I grew capable of strengthening the senses;
I became animal spirit, and then became your teacher.
While inanimate, I said to myself,
‘You are running about in agitation
so that you might be filled with knowledge
and the qualities of spirit.’
Now that I have become animal spirit,
let me boil again and pass beyond that state.”

Pray unceasingly to God that you might not be misled by these words,
and that you might arrive at your journey’s end.
For many have been misled by the Qur’an;
by clinging to the rope of words, many have fallen into the well.
The rope is faultless, O perverse ones —
it is you who lack desire to reach the top.

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