The Freedom

Theater scene from the film 1984
You need to talk to me
taking notes.
It was centered on One.
Can't deal with Gibsons though.
Can we shoot first and ask questions later?

The poem you’re about to read needs to be listened to as you read it, as it’s a type of Spoken Word Poetry that has multiple speakers, presented in the form of an open dialogue, with no indication there’s been a change of speakers or even who’s speaking, a style of verse you’re likely not to have encountered before. The poet myself is only one voice among many, though the principle one, which include but is not limited to: society, historical figures, the divine, ideas and ideals, and, once at least in this poem, even the demonic. Each voice is an interjection that can disrupt the flow of meaning, even if you know it’s not the poet speaking, but hearing the different voices voiced out aids greatly in understanding the poem and besides provides some entertainment, what it seems we value more on the net if not even in the heart of the home of our imagination. Unfortunately I don’t have the resources to put a cast together to act out all the voices, what the poem asks for, to be something like a radio drama, and so it’s just the poet reading his poem and all its voices, but regardless, hearing it spoken will greatly help understanding the poem, and answering why you should make that effort is the purpose of this introduction.

My muse calls itself Reconstruction Poetry, as it has its hands on the world like a builder, right on human terms, in the treasure and trash of our stuff, so to rebuild, reshape them anew, and so it’s a very hands on poetry, quite engaged, speaking far out of the ranges of the tradition of poetry, although language play still takes a front roll seat as it’s the vehicle of meaning, the sound of the engine running. In this verse, poetic technique, as we know it, isn’t used all that much. On the surface the verse appears simple conversational English, which even uses slang, but on reading into it, it becomes apparent that word order is often weird, which makes lines not so much as ambiguous but as having more than one meaning, the central meaning not always readily apparent, and metaphor and allegory have such a strong presence you can easily get lost if you haven’t read it ‘repeat slow’, like all poetry needs to be read if it indeed is verse.

To launch a style of poetry on the net that requires so much attention is to be an unread poet, especially at this time when we use the net more to throw stones at one another than make a better world, when our attention span is the length of time it takes to get a point as quickly and painlessly as possible, no time for long winds, even fresh and alive ones, but it was composed for the medium of the net, more for tomorrow than for today however, for the reasons mentioned, but, due to its controversial nature (a pedophile’s speaking to his society), and due also to it being heard poetry, what most would call ‘hearing voices’, and you’ve never heard voices like these, it could catch fire today.

It differs from the normal meaning of that schizophrenically laden term in that it’s a consciously intended inner hearing that requires a light to heavy trance where you get behind the thinking waking mind and remain there listening in the quiet not allowing yourself to fall completely asleep or come completely awake, no small feat, which takes an enormous amount of concentration, something I’ve learned to do in the practice of the Integral Yoga over a period of 15 years or so, during which time I also developed the particular style of the poetry itself, or allowed it to take development I should say. It differs too in that it’s not only hearing but also seeing, as often lines of verse are written on some scene, either a still picture or during a short vision, spoken or sung aloud as the scene fades. I also hear an editor commenting on the verse in verse, recommending throwing out a line, or waiting for another line to come so to clothe anidea differently, telling me when to end the poem (the muse just keeps on going as long as you can stay under and listen or not fall asleep into dream), and so forth, editing done both in progress and later. I would imagine it’s major difference, though, from the common meaning of ‘hearing voices’, is it’s so amazingly constructive, isn’t telling me to do anything wrong or to tell people I’m the chosen one or that it’s the end of the world.

It’s not as controlled a listening environment as it sounds, since the editor is not always present, comes in more when the poem is finished to correct it, and lines are coming from all directions fast and sometimes furious to get recorded, which I do a few lines at a time, oftentimes only one at a time, and so I have to come up and go back under many times during a long poem, doing that frequent diving for days as in the case of a long poem like this one (like a frog going in and out of the water), and there’s both a false muse and the mind trying imitate the muse, and so it’s really a wild ride, but what makes it really hard is you have to be wise. Compared to inner vision, both TV and the net, all ‘entertainment’ mediums for that matter, are just landscapes barren of anything really real, actually adventurous, and truly rewarding. I’m sorry I can only show you a shadow of it, but it casts a long one, a Brocken bow, god-shadows.

Whether you believe in the soul and God or not, you’ll ask yourself, if you indeed understand the poetry, where in the world does it come from? since, as you read it, you’ll see it’s coming from beyond my reason. You’ll have to wonder if there are not higher or more integral things in us, piloting us, than our ego. You might even ask yourself if such vision hasn’t been civilization’s pilot all along, planting the seeds that build us to be a humanity, build our humanity in us, as I’m far from the only listener to have walked on the face of this earth. There might even be 7 billion listeners on earth at this time. Can you remember all that happens during sleep? That far back, that’s how far I want to take you. I call the source of my inspiration the divine muse of poetry, but whatever you call it, you’ll call it something bigger than I.

A few words about the poem itself: it was written about 5 years ago and was posted on my personal blog “A Collaboration With the Unknown in Perspective” and has been sitting there unread for years. The muse picked it up recently and added new lines, suggested an introduction and to use it as the poem to showcase. I have many poems on the net and many yet to be posted, but I would agree with my muse that this is the one to push, for reasons of pressing social need, though it’s the most controversial. It’s divine revelation, though I don’t expect you to believe that, the eye of the soul and the divine, an inner seeing, and as such it sees the whole picture, sees what we hide, what outer observation can’t see because so much inner is involved, the emotions in one’s hand for example. It looks at the issue of pedophilia, its causes and action in the world, from the perspective of oneness, but not only pedophilia, and even if you hold oneness as the underlying reality of the world, you will most likely have trouble with this poem. It will be a litmus test of your willingness to see oneness, since it’s applied to the most morally repugnant issue of our day, and, I’ve found in my years on the net posting about this issue, few who believe in oneness can see One when looking at what they most abhor.

If you get morally offended at the poem’s outset and don’t read it, you’re committed more to morality than oneness, and that would be something you need to see about yourself: where oneness doesn’t meet. If you do have a moral reaction, keep reading in spite of it, and by the end of the poem you might find you’ve gotten bigger than you were, if you can see that growing bigger is something we all need to do, each one of us, myself included, which means here where we now sit there’s smallness lurking in us. While a moral reaction has become the order of the day, the guide of our social interactions, especially on the net, it tells us where that smallness is, though for most it tells us how to behave, since we just let moral reactions rule us, and we fire off our hatred and anger at anyone who will listen, tweet it like angry birds. I urge you to listen to this poem, overcoming your reaction, if you have one, and see how big you are.

Click on the title to hear the poem on SoundCloud.

The Freedom

Poetry,
gonna take it hard.
Have a different kind of poem.
How to use it.
She’s ready –
divine muse.

Come to the firewall.
Do performance.
Do construction.
Get to the point where I…
My God,
the guy with a complex little package.
Put a clock.
Put people know.
They got a diamond in their hand.

Who put it there?
Oh slowly,
so slowly.
Take a while to build that up.
Inner reality
made a big watch.
Hands walked in another time.
Put the headset on.
I’m listenin’.

Everybody heard the most twelve suspects of all time?
If it works.
Educating public opinion
the length of a poem.
They go ready for people.
They go in on a plan,
undercover op.

Something else has been declared war on,
and we catch the News.
You said somethin’.
It’s mostly in America,
you know what,
the pedophile sting ring.
Did God cause this?
Is that the only way to deal with this like that, Nazis and the FBI?
Granted,
a pestilence,
this blight on children.
What their nature burn.

As we get to the root causes of America,
as we come to the apocalypse of America
(this is not the principle destruction –
find the end result),
we see a rudeness has no handle.
All history long we have been doing this to our children.
Okay we put the brakes on.
There are no more pedophiles Joe?
They’re proliferatin’.
We’re inept –
a moral reaction.

Wow,
the lengths we go to get trouble.
Predatory alert,
I’ve seen it on TV.
Arrested in the middle of everybody.
Wires and things they were all listenin’ in.
He had a kid to meet.
They got ‘im shoppin’.

Now he hung himself.
It was all in the report.
Yeah, kill yourself you freak.
Looks like
that was at the top of the story,
shot a wolf.

Now what did this do in TV land?
We don’t’ know.
You haven’t lost your brother.
These guys are monsters okay?
These guys are strangers okay?

Who makes this racket?
It’s the Press,
a News team.
Shape public opinion
as they report the News.
Who’s the lion and the tiger anyway?
Can you control them
poet?
A problem’s out of reach.
I operate on that.

You just think you know everything don’t you?
Can we see a blind spot
in our public opinion?
Do you have any bigger plans?
How America limits change.
We need to review this case.
The public media does it,
and would if they whisper gun?

Should we exterminate them,
what, who molest children?
Is this on News service tomorrow?
It’s got a way with guns,
all you can answer.
You load bullets that way.
It’s your last bullet.

The art has the empty chair.
What can we do magnet?
Excellent, I hope.
Art would magnify it,
pull people away from their dramas
by showing connections,
identity bonds,
between you and who you hurt.

That’s bigger than sin.
Well that’s too old.
Ever amplify it?
Push the button down.
I don’t smoke.
This is a cultural misunderstanding.
Where does pedophilia come from?
How many babies are born?
Can you light that cigarette?
It would be washing and cleaning and things like that.

Your child,
you rub that child’s fingers upon his board.
It’s like casual contact
with some finger on it.
How many mothers have that for pie,
daddy’s drinking beer?
Fish this one out of the water.
We look for pedophiles for sure.

Measure cultural mechanism.
Rob babies,
give ‘em some emphasis there
they don’t know what to do with.
Let’s grow up and explore this thing.
Now I was here and she was there.
Hello little boy.
Great crap game huh?

I’m showin’ you your shorts.
Now take the pedophile
and hang ‘im.
I can’t look.
That’s what we need him for,
not to look at blindness.

When you hear a special report,
cultural wide,
we’d question the homophobe.
That’s a concept to get across
true or not.

Cute kid,
and you feel another ocean.
You don’t know there’s fish in it.
It’s not something you drag up.
Dangerous sex offender,
he’ll wear it,
and we find a role for him.
No one wants to see their teddy bears
Get a lot of their lap.

One second,
bendin’ rules
tryin’ to get a point across.
I’ll rush in on things.
You won’t see this till tomorrow morning.
They certainly smeared ‘im.
I certainly told myself…
What did you tell yourself?
His brain’s on our fingers.
See, I’ve opened your eyes.

Now I want you back there now,
on the forays of revolution
Mr. Poet.
Think about it.
Probably lined the page.
Martin let’s go get older.
Well I just don’t want to be here,
between Jerusalem and Palestine.
It’s difficult
To see your place in life.

Before you come up here
Donny,
it’ll be your soul speaks.
I don’t know.
You need to make up your mind:
where are you at?
Look at each other.
Worry about the food later.
She’d like to heal this in humanity.
She had devote him give it to him,
what poetry sees further,
something muse.

I would feel very exposed.
Is this the pedophile saying this or his society?
Imagine on a workday.
Spitfire,
they come in those airplanes.
Are you service?
The other role come out,
an empty one.

Where would a pedophile lead us?
Up would be
his only way out:
don’t abuse kids.
If you had money
would you give it to him
for immigration?
That monster,
what’s he worth?
Oh a little story about society
it hides in its purse.

A scapegoat’s got your bag at heart.
Can we say large projection?
And so blind.
Dynamic,
what would free him.
Can it come to your house?

Supposed to fire.
You just get some pistol out.
React,
and we see some things about you,
your fears.
Is this all that’s bothering you,
What he would do?

Add to it
you have it
where intimacy and you meet your kids.
Are you holding something flush?
Is that your bright staple,
or would it wound around awhile?

Let’s go here:
what are you afraid of puttin’ on?
Did your child draw up the boundaries?
You exercise them every day.
There intimacy meets.
How are you protected?
It’s not an equation you see on paper,
but when a person does that
it weakens everyone.

Can you not put News here?
What would it do?
Help us all to behave.
One moment
as to why that is.

Screwin’ up everything,
are you a blind bard?
That’s history.
Believe it or not I help.
I got it replaced on the other side.
Until you kiss me you don’t start the television.

Why would he send it?
He did it.
He knows the One inside.
He can see the doctor.
Plug him for it?
How about you,
Would you scrap it?

Now what does this vision do for us?
Over the line,
got some things to think about.
Let me be intimacy,
and that hurts no one.
We were gonna add
a little survival dinner,
but not there.

Are you mistrustin’ my alliance?
I’m identified with you.
That’s just long on paper.
I grant you see One.
What a delivery stable.
Can’t get that look.
Look right here:
some pedophile has shown the way.

How many times have you seen God act this way,
used the humble and the accused?
How many times seen divine process work?
Are you starvin’ in this world?
We got a lot to lay down,
and it’s reachin’ for ya.

We’re all in fact Brahman.
Interior is first.
Have a market with it.
I’ve gotten along in dreams.
It just pushes me.
Don’t listen,
to take aim further away.

Who’s he understand?
No I don’t wanna hear about it.
The reason by India:
population pressures.
They’re not gurus.

Oh we would be around
your most precious holding bucket.
Our yoga interior answer
deepens the way up.
We’ve acted like frogs,
and if you kiss us we turn muse.
Why does it have to be so moon when it comes out?
Wash your underarms.
Near reveal to us.

That was kinda fast.
Going?
What you have to get through first:
some unlimited attention.
They don’t have one.

I knew there was a way
to see You again.
I’ve been claiming that You are a little boy.

Yes,
it’s just about enthroned.
Operation additional control measure,
fifth’s parlor,
I found it on the way home.
It’s over because
it costs too much.

He played with his weeks.
On his altar
he put an image:
every person that day he’d find.
Even animals have a right to regard.
A tree would not sink from hope.

This is One activity plan.
You don’t want with appetite.
You’re there
as a friend.
To wash in,
we gather direction that way.

What’s wrong with this?
You dislike ‘er.
The bad thing about it,
everybody’s strangers,
hate just grabs the page.

That’s not smart protocol.
You fear the invasion,
the betrayal, the leap,
you have this friend idea.

Daddy, what I do?
Now I told ya,
well it’s almost nighttime.
You can’t trust anyone.
You read in the paper…
You know what today?
I guard in many numbers with police.

I have to tell you too
we’re off with your doctor.
I have a new posture:
if you get burned,
you get back on.

He said that?
Superman talks.
Think about
to announce:
it’s not a violation
you have the proper treatment.

Indentified more in the body
than meant for the trouble.
Yeah if you’re sittin’ there
quite lost in the body,
you think
it’s you.
Pedophiles
handle some body part,
I can’t believe it,
the suffering all life long.
They’ve been killed we carry on.

The child might not see it that way.
Do you know what he did to you?
That child learns.
See the violation mark?
It carries around like a bag of worms.

None of this would happen
safe we looked at the body.
It’s not you.
You’re wearin’
an organic machine.

I don’t get it.
In the attitude
don’t sit there and be violated.
Man you just
take our support from us.
I’m giving you One.
Not a person or a thing stands anywhere else.
Support at its most real.
Identify,
and maybe you don’t have to feel so violated.

He knows it,
knows for sure.
His mom
would sound a lot of Pittsburg at night.
Tell this to the nurse
and get out that touch.
Do I continue suffering?
I choose.
How much mother and father removable from the scene,
or whoever it was got in there on ya.

What do we fly here,
the woe of our misfortune?
Is that our life downed by that?
Maybe life is bigger than her scenes.
Would an actor know that?

Maybe that hand on you was a push,
that violation a goad.
Perhaps the secret will in things
operated on a plan.
How many people say evolution here?
Contented I think not.
See the drawbridge?

What are you doing?
What are you watching you fierce wolves?
I’ll look around the Internet.
Can you handle the vision?
Goddamn that’s just society cuffs.

So many opinions what can change?
In every opinion
an underlying speak out.
Tell me there isn’t.
Is everybody mad?
Punish those responsible!
Can we get a better basis for intolerance
Than pretending to be tolerant?

Everything’s so hyped up.
Offended,
is anybody not?
There, I read your e-mail:
blacks and fried chicken,
you racist bastard.
Mohammad,
Christ,
not one word
questioning his ability to translate angels.
It’s death by paper.

Now let’s shove this down people’s throats:
everybody has to marry the homosexual;
no one hold the pedophile’s hand
or even let ‘im speak.
Your Internet local connection,
do you hear these voices speak?

Now I’m the radio.
We got worms.
Everyone’s alarmed,
and you think it’s what he did
or she said.
But you’re holdin’ the gun.
Reaction fires and aims.
Mark our first foray into world-space,
and we just knock each other around.

There’s somethin’ over there.
I can get it across.
Let’s take some time,
be more fair as we grow up.

Tape this up on your world view:
see everybody?
That’s me.
I’m just alone in details.
They’re alright:
man,
I like everyone;
if I’m hurtin’ anyone
change detail.
There’s One on that regard.

When it’s advancing that loud you stop it.
Dream make for us.
This wolf might kill us.
Dreamin’ so let’s hide it.
What’s this?
Who broke the towel?

I don’t wait to come over.
You’re not going to be kind to me.
Predatory wolves,
shoot ‘im and hang ‘im on the fence.
Now square off a minute.
I’m so much in your stomach.

Are you sure that’s what you’ve got:
Donny you snake-wolf?
Are you so sure I blind you?
An unethical point I’ve made?
I look and you follow me do so.
Engage me
bring to doctor.
Finished.

It’s not an easy situation:
One in your inbox Donny.
There isn’t a way to do it.
There just isn’t.
Thanks but be careful when he gets in there.

Kept askin’:
hi mate,
somethin’ good for ya after school?
Something’s down that floatin’.
Don’t be so hesitant to mentioned enlightened.
That’s where Donny’s goin’.
He sees there’s a change of consciousness ahead.
He listens to everybody
rise here.

Some future trickles slow.
You think this is all
silence and that just no-self show?
It’s just our first boat.
What would master existence and leave you in it?
A certain Individual you are
superfriend.

Anyway,
I get up out of my mess
mastered by my own impulse to rise
into the fullness of what I can be.
You’ve never felt it?
You smile.
There’s more isn’t there?

Choose liberalism.
He put his daughter.
There’s a light out.
Are we usin’ the money?

Even if we put on,
put on those uniforms
– you know I’ve been watchin’–,
they’re not gonna
honor us no way,
give us any kind of prize.
They’re not gonna
be more kind to us.
Tom’s father used to say
they’re just wasting their time.
That make ‘em
what would open freeways?

Where we were back then.
Give us the money now.
Not an excuse
to let conservatism happen.
Now a wolf
is not gonna be so visible.

We should see this.
Try these on,
some predator names.
Give you a link to us?
Slow I think.
People’ll buy anything
if it’s wrapped up in the official package.

Don’t cross out.
I’ll put you down
for a larger stereo.
How many times went through it?
We are not dumb people.
If you are afraid you are.

Listen to this:
media hypes fear.
Want to tell you
South African.
That should get ‘em.
You mean this is a plan?
What day it’s gonna be
the totalitarian government?

Only in the policy of war
or to mediate a disaster
would it be.
That’s not the form
control is used.
It’s just a radical involvement
to get you to accept policies.
Go lay down.
What are you supposed to look for?
Where is the fear?
Some policy
might be behind it.
Runs it’s available
to get to.

You know what that means:
there’s a propaganda of ministry.
We got a few goin’:
a think tank,
a state and a local government,
a business headquarters.

It would tell you something sensitive:
restaurants,
you can eat Man.
We would not organize a conspiracy.
Government takes too long.
You get a flavor
when you’re watchin’ the News.

Halved of it, come down.
Don’t worry,
all your children
stay over there.
One thing about America:
grow kids.

Would national policy be in my conversation?
He kept in it in his coffee a lot.
Visit them in school,
and we can see the Internet.
Don’t you help ‘em.
This is the first time I’ve ever seen it:
Americans tellin’ on each other.

It was in the paper.
You have to report.
Don’t have to.
I know a girl that act like that.
Isn’t that piracy?
Get ‘er stupid name,
click it in.

It’s not easy
To know what to do.
You’ve got to listen
To a partner with Sun.

Those terrorists,
right here at this moment?
Oh doctors.
We winched two people from the Caribbean today.
We got half of them out.
Of course the beauty would have to see one another.

Invite yourself to their house.
Hand that down please.
I am a friend.
No way,
I just treat you like our lives treat us.
Yeah,
it hurts doesn’t it?

It’s wonderful that all listen to music.
You get some of the ideas that
art puts out.
You know you had comin’.
Look at what you’ve done to art.
Be valuable.
You’ve put it in concentration camps,
got it out of the public eye,
you, laziness and snobbism.
Not everything
instant.

How much concentration to read a poem.
How much time involved.
You don’t have to take that off.
News media does that.
What are you laughin’ about?
The News media,
they know what they’re doin’.
They get intah everything.
They want to be where you put your attention.
Good one.
Repeat me:
in store…

Anyway,
liberal ideas
usually come from inside.
You say.
They don’t come that far.
Wrong peacock
you’re lookin’ at.
I’m not a Capitol Hill.

Art shows us
the inner.
That mystery shines in us,
gives us keys to change.
Art polishes that,
and I’m here inner.

Donny and I
absorb change.
We got a handle on it.
I’m standin’ just outside.
We put this strength in your hand:
to change for the better.

Yep, you need
to be liberal right here,
in that specialty,
letting change happen.

It’s a creative growth.
You might see Nature behind it
and something guide ‘er.
Standin’ there scratchin’ your head?
We’ve evolved.
The status quo arrange that?
Conservative,
I’m standin’ right here.

Art
will move you.
Now if you could see
why we’re wasting
so much time.
Oh I don’t care.
I’m okay.
I don’t need you the attic.
An ogre
have dinner with us.

Still,
even if it wasn’t
a survival emergency,
take a long change.
Maybe you’re here for that reason.

Law enforcement officers
are the greatest defenders
of the status quo.
Hi kid,
don’t you dare
break any laws.

It’s already starting to break down.
The system’s breaking down
justice said.
That’s how it’s always been.
Would we break laws
to change the system?

Everybody’s supposed to hold it.
We don’t want anarchy breathin’ down our necks.
Alright I’ll arrange you.
I’m seein’ intah the future.
I think we’d look for art
to give change its growth,
policy its format,
take any law down
not good up on that.

That’s an individual there
recordin’ growth.
He got enough room to do that?
When he comes home
we’ll ask ‘im.
Sister yes we’ll have to change language
give you credit too.

Don’t get down on your step-brother.
Art’s just fell into a hole.
It’s not the lawmakers you lobby for change.
It’s the editors.
They’ve just fallen asleep.
Art to them would write about itself
in a way inbred.
It would not speak out of its word.
They’re fond of music.
They won’t grapple with the hook.
Now you know I see you.
Who said that?
This is fresh art.

Come ‘ere,
the end of a varmint
that projects the end of a varmint.
This is performance art.
I’m gonna put them all over the street.
Here you have the video.
Project it out there.
I didn’t buy anything.
Do you have any idea
why?
வணக்கம்.
That’s your cultural edge,
a stop bath
meet the Press.

Can we counter a bomb?
Hopefully
We can explode,
show you a peaceful way
to counter terrorism,
to bring the public revolution.
If it does explode,
though I’m sure it’ll be a contained blast
(we’ll have the bomb experts on it right away),
you will see the power of words.

Why strap a bomb to your chest and kill the neighborhood?
Why send your tanks to that country?
Write a poem from where the One sees us.
That’ll shake everybody up,
and you’ve brought change right.

What does it mean to bring us a full home?
Daddy cleans and he whistles.
Oh he’s talked the TV now listen kids.
You know one way’s a bad wagon.
Yeah, I needed to fill his shorts,
or graft my review into his underwear.
I have more for you kiddo,
everything you always wanted about attention,
and there it just hits the spot.
I’m gonna call you to your bank card.
Stand here eager on yourself.

Unreal a boy gives his father that ultra-politique.
When they’re in that swoon,
when base is being gone over,
what a boy could hide there.
Daddy do it daddy.
He grows up with hungry clothed.
It’ll be his reason to see evolution
he don’t just sit there with it.

There you are.
Into the sea you’ve been hollered down,
into the sea that touches your toes,
where that hurt.
This is the trail in the sea-ward.
Every father has an account with us,
however remote,
moving in the intimacies of a man.
It’s not out of the direction of his love.
It just spoils there.
Might not ever even think about it.
Might never try anything,
but a man’s nature be around his children.

No, not all are drunk,
but there is a liquor cabinet.
If he’d open his dreams he might see it.
The father that does cross lines
more often than not it’s the casual touch,
little tight pressures he holds his son.
Squeeze daddy.

This is just an occasional glance.
That’s where he tests city limits,
shows that he is the owner
of the boy’s whereabouts.
It’s his flesh.
It’s just a little squeeze
where that little boy grows,
and he finds men attractive.

When this grows up in him
he’s the opposite
from pedophile feelings.
This was not to churn his shorts.
More romance here than touch.
He wasn’t put in that strange place,
something to make him investigate further on.
His daddy is the love of his life
that time,
and he’s comfortable there.
Grows up lovin’ men.

Homosexual we’ve reported.
This is generated love.
He likes its squeeze.
Follow your counts.
Get rid of a fall.
You don’t believe it,
how wrapped up he is.
His life that regard.

Now a boy wouldn’t remember
his father’s affection.
Way too young
to bring memories back.
It’s a rollin’ stone.
Maybe he likes it
being gay,
but he knows
that life has not given him
his natural fulfillment.

The first boy
don’t fair well.
He remembers the pounding serf,
was I enough to understand
they wasn’t supposed to do that.
Y’all keep your mouth shut about this.
Visit…
Oh here we go.
What does he visit?
Dad does the talking boy.

That’s interesting.
He makes me feel at home
with the arrangement in the hat.
I could go in any direction.
Maybe there’s a woman on my arm,
but I can give a man more than a kiss
and take a child into the basement.
I could, but why bother?

Our policy is your papers.
Gain a step.
Your sexual orientation arrive in the breeze?
By the way the professor was kidnapped.
Stare at your business.
I am sorry,
these are the lines that appear.

Well I was gonna take you home,
but it’s made me mad.
We’ll see what the door is.
That’s what I would do.
Now they’re shipping it off.
He didn’t recommend it.
Seven of us like that.
It’s warm and squashy.
This is your sexual identity as it’s being determined by them,
all your mothers and fathers
when you were a teddy bear.

Most people turn five.
Is that what it is?
Hands up.
You don’t remember.
All of them
(that’s true)
that would do it
with some little kid
got so much more than a tight squeeze
in their waddling years.

You would know
mommy and daddy.
One of you opened up that land.
See how it grows.

Let ‘im plug.
Draw back.
That’s the way.
You have evidence spokesperson,
and you only have intelligence monitor.
That’s all you’re gonna get.
You gave
even more.

Hey,
well alright,
givin’ it,
so much attention to sex,
some cultural peanut.
Can a teddy bear grasp that?

It would
be about getting laid
being a man.
Boys you have to understand,
what you got
is so exposed,
and their attention just goes there.
It’s like all aglow.

All boys
in my gramophone.
Pardon the little lever
not bringing girls along,
but we gather.

I’ve brought you to thah
floor place,
the wet ‘et end.
I’ve given you a vision of mud.
What’s going on in your head,
I’m going crazy?

There look at it,
a library full of knowledge.
The box is strong.
Hard to open it.
Oh the police have videos.
You can find it on the Internet
you hear about all the time,
but I’m giving you art’s vantage point,
not some liquorish of lust.

We’ve looked at this through the art lens,
and we see more than just the act.
Nature’s been uncovered.
I’ve brought something out of her
deeper than her photograph.
We’ve shown lines behind.
Every peck we practice art here.
It reveals.
We could use the revelation.

Are you all ticked off?
It might be you sittin’ there reason for their being in their homes.
We’ve got to look at this.
Dishes,
we wash dishes.
This is a cleaning rainbow.
What root of it?
The powers better
at the universe,
the ones that turn on lights.

Say we ignore them.
They are just to come back later.
That’s orange actor.
Dropped him while you were off to sea.
He’s got a big of muse.
No easy way out.
Bigger things we handle better the bigger we are,
and that’s an art show.

Art,
the Chinese,
the Pawnee Indian Southeastern Association.
Sam I am.
I have to be bigger than my paper.
Sacmont is a word and I am going to do sacmont.
About hands,
hope to win the war.

You were really skewered.
Tell that to your activist window.
You don’t know the carpet.
An opportunity
to see things firsthand,
a reference point
so we can safely arrive.

It goes through the airmail.
I’m going on the paperclip.
Unbelievable
the amount of hatred
people have sent in our direction.

Good morning ace,
we have you scheduled for a speaker.
I think we should stay
out of politics.
A child can say anything.
I have to be liberated from this.
One did that.

What’d ya do when you were little?
Dodged bullets on the ramparts.
We walked by here a couple of times.
Some kids sure don’t leave me alone.
You have to be very careful.
You met Toady Beach?
No, I don’t know the area.
A kid’s lives aren’t over.
Any man can be a hitter.
Let’s not hear that they’re all men,
because they’re not.

I can’t stand
that look on the table.
Start over again
so close to your world
and handle upside-down cakes.
My poor wisdom bleeds.
It wasn’t exactly hell on ice.
I was friends with ‘im.
It had a sound to it.
It looked joyish hum.
As a stranger though it tolled.

He got more expensive.
Fell into the seep holes.
I lay down for him,
and that becomes our game.
He got good at it.
I get electricity waves.
Gives so much pleasurable explode.
Hey, where did I go?

And he needed awhile.
They’re into hurtin’ you in bonds of love.
Time lane they’re spinnin’.
Now I tried to take it off.
Let it and smiled.
Nothin’ where I want,
where ultimately I want to be touched about.

You wanna hear the rag?
I was all one partner.
I got ‘im into it.
Looks he gave me destroyed me.
It had promise.
Just exposed myself.

How a boy carry on.
This is a lot of boys.
You don’t look.
We’re carried around in silence.
What’s the trouble between our legs?
And they put so much on it to cover it up.
How many times I’m corrected.
Like it’s some ray gun
ugly to see.
It’s so feel to ourself.

I can’t get anything tighter.
Yet you block this away.
There’s so much guilt and shame put there,
and this man love with that,
and he was a pressure cooker.
No I can’t build on him.
I get robbed.

There it is.
Look I’m showing you a lot of the table.
I get adult and forget.
I’ve been abused.
Is that all there is to it?

Something else:
a window open
(you watch it –
that’s the Law),
a love triangle.
When people join my faith they take over,
give themselves over to union.

Oh we’ll start.
Somethin’ there One sings.
It’s a little pocket of it.
You’re not interested in singing,
but the heartbeats on me there
like the end of the world.

They’ll give it to me wide.
You sit there and explain to me my feelings.
I’m not gonna disagree with you.
It is weird,
and I know this has done me wrong,
but what was that
commission?
Did we broach upon a power of play
used One?

You’ll understand when you’re older there’s a body now.
Yes, I’d add things
you needed to know,
union reels.

And you’ve heard it,
the big mess.
To say he makes the mess and that’s all there is to it,
not even close.
You’ve gotta change.

Society don’t handle right.
From day one you get the big stick.
I mean how many knows how to treat properly the cash box?
It’s so loud in there.

Look at these,
they’re sour fruits.
Can you hear me society,
can you hear me?
Givin’ the ball justice.
I’ve told you its court.
A weapon was made.
It’s to help you see dirt.

Dignity stand up.
We are soldiers on the line.
I’m not talkin’ politics.
I’ve gotten intah human terms.

Have you ever thought we’d look at them?
Is that a rule to avoid?
You’ve sunk headlong into this like you have one.
Blind reactions policy your decisions.

Now you at outcast lot and see what they flower.
I didn’t get under your gun.
I looked for change.
No outer remedy helped.
You know, you avoid the inner.
Everything you make points us away from it.

I sat down like the Buddha and demanded change.
I opened the inner doors.
Dire necessity lead me to it.
I had no wings for messiah,
friends ourselves of outer space.
(Joe,
is anybody living there or something?)
I don’t get paranoid.
One laxative:
yeah I read of all this waste;
I needed change.
How deep you have to go inside yourself
to get on that movement.

Rebecca,
what’s the problem with this here?
You can’t measure change outside of doors.
They have to let you in,
other people.

When they say
stay out of the reach of children,
they take from you the wheel barrel,
something to carry
change in.
Not a popular vision.
So anyway,
here, get it fixed.

You know what art means?
Got a looney movie,
Vampires Stalking Earth.
Some half-vampire comes along.
He’s managed to step out of darkness.
He’s stopped feeding.
Our knowledge to our liberated son.
I think that was the Light speaking.
Humanity needs ‘im
to cross blood.
His type for the antidote.
Do I see the engine kill ‘im?
You know how ignorant they are in the movie.
We see the man’s worth.

Come on see how big you are.
How small I am I avoid the essential details.
Kill all of these damn flies.
Why do you presume to know so much?
Triangle,
know all that you do is a secret triangle
where the One meets
you and the other party.
Even with an object this intimacy is found.
One builds that up.

Now what do you do with that?
You have to strike your own kind of balance.
It’s an identity bond really.
Come to that regard.
Who is a thing to you?
Who do you abuse?
You love yourself you love it all.

Frank,
I’d call that girl.
Anywhere where unity doesn’t meet,
call that to our attention.
What immediate cure?
We’re in the ways with each other a long time
before the One becomes apparent,
inwardly seen and outwardly acted.

You have my vision.
It’s not a little cost.
It’s not a little vision.
America are you hope here?
Travel down the road some.
Give this vision time to feel
what’s in store for you and carry need.

The United States of America
just can’t see itself.
A young filibuster,
you visit warlords,
and you’ve scribbled out some thoughts.
The private retrieves them,
and the penman retains them.
You’ve board a door:
a child’s link with sin.

Let’s look,
if you feel like it,
right here.
Porn does not make you image real.
It stretches things too far.
What’s you’re movin’ by art
is everyone’s have to see
to know the problem.

I’m the one on details,
what’s going on in the house of soul.
Does Nature essence this,
or is it in fact blind?

Five minutes
we’ve square rooted on a problem.
That’s visited,
the solution.
I don’t know,
I’d love to Bob but,
I’ll get back to ya.
Really believes the attack that Tibet is sending dogs.

I’ve gotta go to the phone.
Enough Riverwood.
Reader,
flowery alphabet,
high avenue.
That’s a lot of surplus.
Heads down.
Prayer.

We’ve spotted Virgil.
Come over here.
What would you say one night greeting the world?
All I can say
is change.
Would an American epic suffer?
American employment.
You’ve got your stadium
young poet.

Linked your mind.
We’ll put you down for
visions of mud.
We go @Firefox.
Okay,
pick him up
to your determination.

Hell, Jeff Gardener
would turn it against that way.
He figured out
we pay for.
What’s that?
When you abuse.
Since you’re okay
you put people outside
on it.
Can we poddle?

I apologize.
I have that in perspective.
They can explain
fit into explode.
From Grace I came.
From there study.
Win the house.
Are you gonna freedom?
Are you gonna quit?
I mean,
What would the address
Be hostin’?

What’s he mad for,
it’s them in America,
or you’re tunin’ it right
the guitar,
the avenue,
of the greatest public instrument:
all for change?

Just a lot of difference pal
you’re workin’.
I wanna see what I’ve been doin’.
He have a place to live
every soul?
That
help out.

Have to have a group to do this one:
you are a soul,
something that’s not
offended by anything.
No reactions.
What a gift
to society
(I ain’t givin’ this stance.
I only seen this stance),
the most wonderful
Person
it’s a challenge
to find.
The biggest thing I ever saw.

When I saw that…
They didn’t go in the backdoor.
They talked to Someone.
Will help
see the soul inside
a reference point
human
and over your head
there the God.

Toilet paper
Can’t cover it up.
Donny saw what he saw,
and he looked.
Whose coveralls are these?
Could be mine.
Play.
There are other trappers.
You made us there?
Just a look,
but I saw the world through Those eyes.

All this equipment,
that’s where it came from.
You have no idea.
You can play the player.
Play One.
Here I am always played,
rubbed out,
by your enchantment.

Soon fire all this light.
You take off.
Many times right there
the food the fight.
I write all of you
fullscreen.

 

Introduction to Soul Power

Me walking the dogs, image credit: Dhina
by Donny Duke

Posting this song around the net takes a giant leap of faith. (You can find the link to it at the bottom of this article.) Surely it’s an extremely intolerant moment for the minor attracted person, the pedophile, the villain of the internet, someone almost universally considered the most depraved unredeemable person in society. While I may face a social nightmare, or at the very least see its possibility loom over my house, there’s no better person, if you give it some hard thought, to show us the soul, the hidden and unrecognized reason we exist (its evolution), what’s missing in our moral reasoning. Evolution, in its essence, isn’t a material one nor one of consciousness; it’s an evolution of the soul.

The soul is as misunderstood a concept as God, used to mean a variety of things. While it’s been talked about in both religion and the arts for thousands of years, I’d argue true knowledge of it has not yet entered the public mind. We know of enlightenment, but we don’t generally know of the soul change, that our soul not only influences us from within, turns us towards God, more and more as we allow it, but it can also surface and replace the ego once we are in the emptiness of enlightenment liberated from ego. My use of the term comes from my own experience informed by the teachings and inner guidance of the Mother and Sri Aurobindo. Since my aim here is not to introduce the soul but its power, I won’t elaborate on what the soul is, as my teachers and I see it, or its evolution for that matter, though in a future article I may do so, one I’m planning to write about the finding of the soul.

I would imagine the soul’s purpose is more varied than the universe, and as it evolves, or its evolving aspect the psychic being I should say, the dynamic personality of the soul, it wouldn’t necessarily take on some aspect of the world to help set right, some world problem to help solve, but as my psychic being has reached the place of maturity where it’s free to choose its comings and goings[i], it has donned the scapegoat process. I should stress here I’m speaking of my soul and not Donny, and while it would stand to reason that Donny too should be as developed as his soul, soul process is irrational, oftentimes runs contrary to our reason, is free to don a very fucked up outer personality for some purpose the likes of which you see playing out here: Donny coming online, or getting in line with his soul I should say, in order to help with the huge obstacle in our collective evolution, the making and maintaining of scapegoats, and as well help remove an equally huge obstacle, the sexual abuse of children. The song I’m introducing holds this double purpose, sings the removal of both obstacles simultaneously, what can only be done by the seeing of the soul, not by a blind one-sided world power making the pedophile the seemingly foolproof universal scapegoat.

While the word scapegoat and its use is cliché, and today we seem more comfortable with the less defining phrase the ‘other’, the making and persecution of scapegoats is still the big hold up in realizing a viable human unity, what we’d need to achieve if we’re going to make it on this crowded planet. Put simply, a ‘humanity’ scapegoat is a group of people who are what they are by nature, not by choice, not speaking of quirks in the nature, but things fundamental like race or sexuality, whether they like or want to be that or not, speaking of sexuality, people who we don’t have to treat as fellow human beings with the same rights as everyone else, people we can vent on, who it’s generally socially acceptable to bear ill will towards, to hate, people on whom we project human evil so we don’t see it in ourselves, people we blame for the problems in our world so we ourselves can feel free of responsibility for those problems.

Though it may not be readily apparent, the scapegoat is as much a part of life in ego consciousness as the alpha male or female, what can almost be called a need of the ego and its maintenance, a need of the animal we are evolving out of I might say, equating here ego identity with animal identity. The scapegoat’s scope and purpose is quite visibly illustrated in the book and film 1984, and I’d argue 1984 is not only showing a frightening future to try to avoid, but at the same time doing what creative expression often does so closely aligned as it is with dream, albeit largely unconsciously. It’s showing the present social conditions of the writer in an exaggerated and larger than life form. What in 1984 people go to an auditorium to do, vent their penned up hatred and frustration on the scapegoat as he’s flashed across a screen, so they don’t turn that on the system, we do in the auditorium of our hearts and minds. It’s like the book and film is showing us what we do on the inside, using the outer symbol of an auditorium, even if such wasn’t intended by the creators, since, in any genuine creative expression, something of the representative nature of our world comes into play, and we see a little behind things, see much more than the human creator envisioned.

My psychic being became an adult (figuratively speaking) two lifetimes ago. It had donned the life of a black man in the South (of the U.S.) just before the turn of the 20th century, a person who “could play the guitar just like a-ringing a bell.”[ii] He played with his soul, that is, his soul was involved in his music to the point you could hear its qualities, as it was reaching adulthood. The scapegoat of his day, African-American, he was killed by the KKK, for playing his guitar in white establishments, and because he was on the edge of fame. I re-experienced the last day of his life in one of those dreams that last much longer than the time it takes to dream it and one where it was as though I was here in the world, not in dream, as there was no shifting of either the material in the dream or its field until the very end. It was as though I actually re-experienced the last day of his life. I was lucid but inside him experiencing both myself and he, aware of my thoughts and feelings and his thoughts, feelings, and bodily sensations, except at the very moment of his death, when the flames reached him as his home burned down,  his wife and children screaming as they were burned alive, when I became the fly on the wall observer outside of him. There was no need to feel the whole brunt of that moment a second time.

In my last life I was a Jewish man in Nazi Germany, the scapegoat of his time and place, of historic proportions, as African Americans were in the Old South. Though it was also a dream that showed me this, or the defining moment I saw it was in a dream, a very recent one, I’ve dreamed all my life of having a Jewish identity, inexplicably, since neither my mother nor father are Jewish, as I had dreamed of that black man in various stages of his life throughout this life, and I am neither black nor mulatto, although he wasn’t a guitar picker until that defining dream but someone of great talent or intellect, like an artist, a scientist, a university professor, and so forth. The remembrance of past lives is like that. It comes not as some instant revelation, although the defining moment is pretty revealing and may come as somewhat a surprise, but as an essential piece of your personal puzzle falling into place, fitting essentially into your process.

It’s not details such as names, addresses, and the like you remember, or it hasn’t been with me, and nor is it in the teachings of the Mother and Sri Aurobindo (I can’t tell you the name of the guitar picker or even what state he lived in, despite such a revealing dream about him, as those details disappeared upon awakening), but moments when the soul comes to the surface or very near, like the last day of the guitar picker’s life.[iii] I should also say these two recent lives are the only ones I remember, and my memory of them comes as a necessity of my present life, to do the work my soul has set before me. To truly remember your past lives, “one must become a wholly conscious being, conscious in all its parts, totally united with one’s divine origin.”[iv]

With the Jewish man the defining dream was full of all the shifts and strangeness of dream material, where he was part of a small group of Jews being hidden by farmers in the countryside, the railroad tracks leading to the death camps a central feature of the dream, that threat and utter despair over the whole situation taking him to rock bottom. The dream revolved around a soul moment when he had a momentary experience of liberation from ego, enlightenment. It’s not only sadhana that can take us there; sorrow can too if it hits the right note, a soul note.

In the dream there were a score of others who experienced the same, and I feel that represents an unknown aspect of the holocaust: out of the millions who suffered the horror there were those whose soul was reaching maturity, and they experienced the spiritual liberation or a flash of it. You might imagine some marched into death triumphant. Neither the Nazis nor any hate group has any control over the soul. You might also imagine that, in a representative world, nothing and no one can touch the soul, it being the reality in it and behind it, all else mere symbol and representation, the will-o-wisp of dream really, even Nazis.

Such definitive soul contact did not arise automatically. In this my present life, soon after reaching maturity as man, when I was around 30 years old, I made the inner journey to my center, the well of soul, connecting my surface conscious with it. It’s a lengthy story I won’t relate here other than to say that I’d opened the inner consciousness, was not only lucid in dream very often but also learning to try and remain conscious as I fell asleep and during a full period of sleep, all the way through a night’s dreaming, and it was in dreamless sleep I found my soul, “on a remote extremity of sleep,”[v] but it was a journey in stages, over the course of several days, a journey I made one time, a journey that had me face my greatest fears and overcome my strongest attachments. You might imagine that to find the soul is actually to find it inside you, and that, while a strong belief in it or feeling of it can bring or indicate contact with it, you won’t have the definitive concrete contact until you go to the deepest most remote place inside you and find it.

“Turn Around Soul”, the song I’m introducing, was shown I feel in the dream of the guitar picker, specifically in the dream short that came at the end of the dream, a dream short something that comes often at the end of a powerful dream that’s a basic summation of the dream, a symbolic representation of it, so different from the dream itself as to seem another dream, but there is no interval between it and the dream it’s symbolizing. If this song does get heard by my society then it is what that dream short was showing: being heard. I was watching a man with a guitar on a high ridge overlooking a large valley below. He was both black and white, not mulatto but actually a black man and a white man at the same time, an impossibility dream can do. There were lay lines along the ridge, and he was trying to hook his guitar into one so to be heard in the valley below. He made some unsuccessful attempts until he was finally able to hook into the one closest to  him, which made his acoustic guitar electric, and it was like he was inventing the electric guitar by hooking into that lay line. When he connected, his guitar music resounded throughout the whole valley, and it was more than sound I heard. I heard reality resound, a common feature of powerful dream, it ending with a sound, simply a large ‘crack’ in some cases, that you feel in your very soul.

I doubt most will believe that the soul can do what I show it doing here, write an entire song. While many believe in the soul, few know that it’s capable of healing us, as individuals and as a society. We not only have an immune system to heal our bodies; we have one also to heal our hearts and minds, to set right what’s messed up about us. It’s this innate and largely unknown immune system I want to show with my song, a system of soul more powerful than any world system, what sets worlds right.

The lyrics were sung to me over a period of months, via inner voice and vision. First came the two lines that form the backbone of the song, “Hold on tight. Turn around slowly.” It was sung by a female singing group complete with musical accompaniment and had a pop sound to it. Knowing there was no way I could manifest it into outer reality with my not so great voice and guitar skills, I nonetheless focused on it so that a full song would come, something I’ve learned to do with voice and vision over a period of some 15 years. With this song, unlike my others written from inner vision, I accepted only lyrics that I knew were from my soul, not from anywhere else, not even from the divine. Years of soul contact has enabled me to distinguish its voice from any other, knowing also that it often sings when it does speak to me.

After the initial lines, more came but very slowly, one or two lines a day (and not every day) that not only fit into the song but were also what I needed to hear that day, what I needed to see. Soon I had a skeleton of a song but didn’t even know what it was about. By the time I knew it was about what it’s about it was too late to turn back, and I couldn’t deny I needed to sing it and my society needed to hear it. I must say this is embarrassing for me, or for the ego I should say, and singing so openly about being a pedophile in today’s society is not what I want to do, why no doubt my soul kind of snuck it up on me, knowing I’d not have completed it if I had know what it was about from the first.

Then came some months of the song being filled in, one or two lines a day, with many, many corrections to the lyrics, all of which were sung to me, now in my voice and guitar, and in a couple of instances, where I was having a hard time, even my hands were shown playing the guitar in vision so I’d know the right cords and right way to sing it. I still haven’t gotten it all right, very far from it, but this is the best I can do with the talent I have. It would be appropriate to mention here that my family, especially Douglas, my psychic being partner, a life partnership other than romantic/sexual not yet generally known to be possible, had a lot to do with the development of the music. He and my family kept it from getting out of  hand,  making sure it matched my so-so voice and guitar skills, else I would sound like an out of tune hillbilly.

It’s a contemporary folk song, a person and their guitar singing about their society and their between a rock and a hard place position in it. You have to engage with the lyrics to appreciate it, which are largely symbolic, poetic even, and it’s not so much meant to stir the emotions as much as it’s meant to stir the soul. No doubt it’ll make a lot of people mad as hell. That’s not my intention, and if it makes you angry, figure out what it’s saying and then see what you got. It goes from the general to the specific, each verse getting more specific, taking you on a soul journey. So what you’ve got is a soul, and by showing you mine, I hope you hear yours. At the very least, you should be introduced to the soul’s power.

Please click here to hear the song.

Turn Around Soul

1)
I’m sittin’ here on the bottom baby,
hold down tight,
standing all over town.
That would be
on the stairway.
I’m well armed.
I can’t believe he’s out there.
To keep them in line.
It’s huge practice huge practice.
Find it on the news.
Closed weapons by the rest of the world.
What a cost to our humanity.
Run around soul. 2x’s
How high we step there
and turn them in line.
God sent me to my soul, 2x’s
in a straight line.
Make you soul know you go,
hold south you fix.
Oh wave your fingers are you gone?
How should I change? 2x’s
Make a new world. 2x’s 

(Chorus):

Hold on tight,
turn around slowly today.
Inside out,
turn around slowly today.
Hold on tight
turn around slowly
in vision
will today
turn around soul. 2x’s
Hold on today. 2x’s

2)
To be somethin’ different
So keep it from runnin’.
To be somethin’ different
that warrant is for your arrest
on the 7 seas.
Take the best metro back there.
Walk heel in line. 2x’s
And that weakness was no longer
on the 7 seas.
The spirit was to find peace.
Entire soul. 2x’s
I can’t believe he’s out there.
To keep them in line.
One realize.
I promise I promise.
Come and speak,
cause I’m livin’ in a world that’s new,
vision of a world that’s true.
I saw the planet.
I am one another. 2x

 (Chorus)

3)
Find them and expose them
shows no solid arm.
Truth will be an attitude.
You have to live there.
I’ve seen him upside down.
I’ve seen him to my soul.
I am warm and I am cold
like the light of the world.
I’ll grow up
in the wild frame.
You hear Houston
name names.
My hand’s in the system
cause I’m livin’ in a world that’s new,
inner in the world that’s true,
when nature comes together,
from our door 2x’s
open.
What about soul? 2x’s
You can springtime
oh, oh, oh, oh,
above the world,
thunder like we’ll make together.
It’s a surrounding world. 2x’s 

(Chorus)

4)
Con you’re out there
problem in line.
You’ll have to see
how much we step there
over the years.
What in the a dark city?
Hold on out there.
With my hidin’,
with my terrorizin’,
In that flaming member you can’t decide.
The answer,
oh, oh, oh,
words of sound and murder came from his incantation.
What it cost to worlds.
What a cost to our humanity.
Run around soul. 2x’s
Dark science
turn of the century
pedophile. 2x’s 

(Chorus)

5)
Lacking in the system,
in the whole human race.
And there’s another thing
I didn’t question
in America,
when America.
Here’s something under there.
Don’t see my mind
and show of peace. 2x’s
You see what he means.
Allow this arm.
I’m well armed.
This could be real.
That was the most soul
word I ever heard,
a conscious soul. 2x’s
Oh the inner kingdom.
Of I’ve been born.
I’m the nineteen.
I’m your friend.
I’m the only romancing need
goin’ in the wind.
As long as it takes
if you mean work on one’s center.
Callin’ me today.
Please don’t put yourself in harm’s way.
Master and able it’s possible.
To believe. 2x’s
This is the melody.
Pledge the long road,
here in the top
in ‘bove the house. 2x’s 

(Chorus)

(addition to chorus, excluding last line “Hold on today”)
Turn around love,
yield today,
turn around love.
turn around soul,
entire soul.
It could be real,
a conscious soul.
I can have no beginning.
I can be soul.
What about soul,
run around soul? 2x’s this and above line
Turn around soul. 2x’s
It won’t be long. 2x’s

*          *          *          *          *          *          *

[i] “The time [on the other side] depends also on the development and on a certain rhythm of the being – for some there is practically immediate rebirth, for others it takes longer, for some it may take centuries; but here, again, once the psychic being is sufficiently developed, it is free to choose its own rhythm and its own intervals.” Letters On Yoga, Volume 1, page 444, by Sri Aurobindo, Sri Aurobindo Ashram Press.

[ii] Lyrics from the song “Johnny B. Goode” by Chuck Berry.

[iii] “But this memory is not a thing of the mental kind. Those who claim to have been such a baron of the Middle Ages or such a person who lived at such a place and such a time, are fanciful, they are simply victims of their own mental imagination. In fact, what remains of past lives are not beautiful pictures in which you appear as a mighty lord in a castle or a victorious general at the head of an army--that is only romance. What remains is the memory of those instants when the psychic being emerged from the depths of your being and revealed itself to you--that is to say, the memory of those instants when you were wholly conscious. That growth of consciousness is progressively effectuated in the course of evolution, and the memory of past lives is generally limited to the critical moments of evolution, to the decisive turns that marked the progress of your consciousness.” From: The Writings of the Mother, Memory of Past Lives, 1958, Sri Aurobindo Ashram Trust.

[iv] Ibid.

[v] Savitri, Book VII, Canto III, by Sri Aurobindo, Sri Aurobindo Press

I’m Not Picking Up Stump Posts

photo by Dhina of Lisa Rottweiler posing here as my altar ego.
photo by Dhina of Lisa Rottweiler, my dog

For the longest time, I had thought that all we needed to do to see we communicate with one another on the inside in the inner life was to become conscious of dreams. From there it seemed to me we could easily come to know our communal identity, human unity, something we can infer from the inner communication, but not confirm until we get beyond both the outer world and dreams and directly experience it ourselves. We could infer it, I’d figured, because our dreams are chock-full of such inner contact with each other. To my surprise, I’ve found that’s not the case. Most of the dream workers I’ve seen in discussion groups on the net and those I’ve talked to in person seem to be unaware of our inner links.

While it’s the needed direction, towards the inside, we seem to be going pell-mell into dreams without knowing either how to interpret them or even that they often tell us about incidents and situations in our waking life days before or days after. Most people into lucid dreams and those giving workshops on the same, of those I encounter, do not have this very basic foundation. Douglas has been showing the connection between dreams and waking life in articles on this blog. In this article, I hope to demonstrate something of our hidden inner communication by illustrating a dream, one that doesn’t, as is often the case, show it as only an aspect but as its focus and intention, showing me what was going on between others and myself.

I am at an American diner but in India, and I have a gift of $365 I want to give to my stepmother Ruth. It’s been a long time since I called her and my dad, but I’m confident she will accept the collect call, which I know has to be collect and somehow know she’ll be the one to answer the phone. There’s a pay phone in the restaurant, right among the tables, though it’s at night, and there are only a few customers, and after reflecting a moment on Ruth’s hatred of me, I make the call. It’s accepted, but I don’t speak to Ruth but my dad, and I tell him about the gift to Ruth, and he starts talking very fast about why I haven’t called in so long and at the same time not happy I’m calling.

There’s a dream shift. It’s very dark outside, and I’m alone sitting on the passenger’s side of the front seat of a car parked outside a bar talking to my dad on a cell phone. I’ve not gone into the bar and have no intention of doing so, but the bar has something to do with my dad I can’t figure out. On the other end I hear silence but know my dad is there. I try and talk to get him to talk, but he’s very reluctant, and maybe I hear him say a  word or two and maybe I don’t. I can’t tell because he is so distant on the line in terms of his willingness to be there. I begin to cry the kind of cry I do in dreams sometimes right before waking, where I’m dreaming I’m in my bed in my room but know it’s a dream still, a place I release emotional pain, a place I use for a lot of things. As I release the emotion I begin to become aware it’s a dream because I’m consciously now feeling the pain of being an outcast by my yoga, by almost the entire world. I hear thunder and see faint traces of lightning flashes, as though they’re not in the dream yet but are coming.

I don’t become lucid. Instead another dream shift catches my attention, and I’ve just gotten out of a car having driven home. It’s night still but not late, as I see my uncles and dad working on an old car not far from the house. It’s an old wooden one-story country house, and I walk past the front and stop to look at my dad and uncles working on the car, which is just on the edge of the light from the house on the other side from where my car is, and something I can’t quite relate happens, a different kind of shift, where my dad’s no longer with my uncles, and I realize he was just there, had been there a long time, and I should’ve talked to him when I had the chance because he’s gone, as in passed away, and I won’t have the opportunity to see him again in this life. As sadness wells up in me I walk to the backyard, and that scene takes my attention, the sadness leaving.

It’s now the backyard of the house I was teenager in, only much bigger. I walk up to a shed and suspect someone’s been in there and gotten some of the special kind of organic material I’ve made and allow the neighborhood to take if they want to, but I’m not sure. There’s no light in the backyard, and it’s very difficult to see. I follow faint tracks, like from a small tractor and wagon, and come to the back fence, a wooden one as at my teenage home in waking life. It’s been opened, and the tracks are very visible going into the backyard and coming out, and it confirms that someone came and got some of the material. I’m not bothered by it, just don’t know why they did it the way they did, at night in secret, not coming to the front like good neighbors, and they took down  part of the fence too, which does bother me a little until I see the fence can roll back in place without damaging it, sort of like a hidden gate, and I understand people can take the material that way too, understanding too that’s how people have been taking it for the most part. All I have to do is close it, but there’s no latch or anything, just roll it shut so it looks like there’s no seam in the fence there, and as I do I wake up.

Why it’s so hard for us to see the inner communication between us has to do with the nature of dreams, which don’t often or always depict the actual people or situations they are about but are symbolic in nature and tell a story of the story, some representative scenario often using our own family and the scenes most familiar to us as the symbols for the dream. Our creative reflex, what I call that in us which fashions them, can do this because dreams mean more than one thing, have more than a single interpretation, can be about your family and at the same time about whom or whatever. That’s the case in the above dream, but dreams are also irrational, that is, they don’t come from the rational thinking mind which likes order and symmetry, does not like loose ends, prefers a one to one correspondence in the making of analogies. Dreams more often float their different interpretations, rather loosely, making it not possible to interpret them the way the mind likes to do that: this means that, not this means that here but not also there.

We are also rather ignorant about universal symbols in dream, have some sense they occur, but for the most part, from what I’ve seen of dream dictionaries that now abound upon the net and what I saw available before the web, we are much more off base than on in what the symbols mean, for the mental reasons I’ve mentioned above. We tend to assign meaning to symbols with the thinking mind, or the talking, reading, networking thinking mind, and we don’t understand that we learn what the symbols mean from the very fashioning of our dreams, that is, as we open the inner consciousness, that part of us in which we experience dream, the meaning of the universal and personal symbols reveal themselves, as though we’re being taught, and we are. There’s a soul behind all doing that instruction, the psychic being.

With these things in our awareness, I’ll now interpret the above dream, assigning meaning to symbols as they occur therein. On the surface the dream is about my relationship with my dad and stepmother. We are estranged. I’m in India and they the U.S., but there are other gulfs of distances between us. The dream is symbolizing inner communication between us, but it’s not that contact that’s the focus of my interpretation, or not that interpretation, a contact that happens all the time between ourselves and those we are bound to by family ties or whatever, but an inner contact hard to see with the reason, though once it sees it, it doesn’t take being spelled out each time to see it. Though it would seem the dream is about that familial inner contact, what triggered the dream to show the disguised contact I’m focusing on, what the dream’s more about, is a situation I was involved in at the time in waking life, some two weeks back, and is the interpretation I’ll be  demonstrating. It bears some elaboration, which can be done in process, though you’ll have to keep picking up the thread of the dream so as not to lose it in the elaboration.

The contact the dreams shows isn’t just a representation of an event in waking life but a live streaming as it were of inner contact occurring at the ‘global’ moment of the dream, the timeframe of the unfolding of the incident the dream represents (along with the frontal or obvious familial interpretation). Before the dream, and after, I was seeing/hearing in my muse the discourse I was having, via a Facebook page, with the editors of a major publication of our yoga, the Integral Yoga of the Mother and Sri Aurobindo. That communication resulted  in a muse poem specifically to them and which I would post as a comment after one of their Facebook posts so they would accept a friend request I’d sent. That  poem  came during the day after the dream. Since the poem has that inner contact as its content, something they would recognize, since it reveals their thoughts and feelings on the matter, they friended me shortly after posting it. The dream I’m demonstrating, which occurred the night before they accepted the friend request, shows the ‘fury’ of inner communication between us revolving around that friend request as well as  a comment I’d put on their page asking them to read a poem of mine on our page Harm’s End that I’d written and posted before the dream, called “Pardon / Tell the Truth / You’re a Satellite”, a poem about atheism.

The diner, the first scene of the dream, represents Facebook, and that few people are there would indicate, though it’s a public place where people eat (we’re consuming for good or ill in the posts we read/watch-eat), there are only a few people listening or reading in on the event in question, that is the communication via Facebook  with that publication. That it’s night means, in this situation (night would mean something different in others), the whole event is under wraps, something done not in secret but, though occurring openly, not one anyone would want to see. The gift I have is the poem about atheism, and I can tell you what the numbers in $365 mean, but that’s too much detail. I’ll just say it has to do with the cost in my consciousness of the poem. That’s it’s both to my step-mother and that she’s the one who has to accept the collect call (collect because it’s their page they maintain) has to do with her hatred of me, what would be unbelievable if I tried to describe, what it was like being her step-child as a small boy.

The hatred of my yoga for me would also be likewise unbelievable in terms of its unwillingness to ‘accept’ me. That hatred is what I must go through to communicate outwardly with anyone in my yoga that knows my story (everyone gossips everywhere), with anyone in the world for that matter, and, because my writings are a bit revelatory and at the same time revealing, showing not only good stuff that attempts to sound the depths of the world but also stuff that sounds the bad I’ve been a party to, I seldom get a reply to any communication I send, to the yoga or us, us being humanity. In the dream, however, I’m confident the hatred will give way, and I’ll be able to get through.

Your dad in a dream is both your dad and representative of an authority figure in your life. Whether you accept their authority doesn’t matter. It matters that they have power to punish you. In the dream, the people behind the aforementioned publication, people with authority in the yoga, are represented by my dad. It’s been years since I called him, as it’s been years I’ve been a more or less quiet outcast in the yoga, though there have been periods in the past 12 years I’ve been in this exile, especially in the beginning, where I sent out a flurry of communications, but now, for the first time, people are talking to me, what the dream’s showing, since my dad, who are the people fielding the Facebook page and possibly their superiors, are at the same time ready to hear from me (full of questions about me more like it) and angry I’m contacting them. The gift, the poem, is of no consequence to them, only those questions and anger, but I do feel the gift has been accepted, and as I do find myself in that car outside a bar.

The windows are rolled up, and the doors shut, and I am very alone inside that car, much like I’m inside my room, where I spend most of my time, but the dream’s also demonstrating that the communication with my ‘dad’ has gotten real personal and private, between he and I, how it’s being experienced by us, regardless it’s still on a public Facebook page. A bar in dream symbolizes lower vital indulgence, whether that be drinking itself or other substances, or sex and the like. In the dream I don’t know why I’m parked outside that bar, only that it has to do with my dad, as though I’m waiting for him to come out, though I know he’s not in there and know he doesn’t drink. I’m there because my dad thinks that’s where I go a lot, or, to say it literally interpreting the dream symbol, the people of that publication, as well as my yoga in general, and the ‘world’ for that matter, see me parked at a bar indulging my desires when they think of me. You might notice that in the dream I haven’t parked myself there and don’t know why my dad has me waiting there, outside a bar.

Though it might be too much detail, why I’m in the front seat and not the back, and why I’m in the passenger’s seat, has to do with the fact I’m not driving either the car in the dream or my room in waking life, and it’s not the Devil driving let me tell you, but neither am I  just in the back seat a passive passenger; I’m riding shotgun.

The silence on the other end of the line, me trying to get my dad to talk, not knowing if he’s saying anything or not the darkness is so thick, night here again meaning what it does in the diner, jars me a little towards awareness. Pain tends to do that also in dream. The dream symbol begins to come off, and I start feeling what pain the dream’s surfacing, the position of being an almost total and absolute outcast in the household in which I live, on the inside of things, the house of The Mother and Sri Aurobindo. I release some of the emotional pain associated with that, and as I do I begin to wake up in the dream and also hear and see the play of thunder and lightning, as though it’s there but at the same time not yet, it being more an outline of the phenomenon than the full monty, a common characteristic of dream and its manner of revealing our reality. I’d be bold enough to say that it’s presence shows our communication, between the publication and I, to be significant at the very least, and that it seems more on the way than all the way there to be indicative perhaps of some coming climax in regards to my acceptance as a sadhak in the Integral Yoga with a contribution to give: understanding, though that contribution is an elaboration here, not a facet of the dream.

The dream shift captures my awareness back in the dream which is a much different scenario, and the only link to the other parts of the dream is the car, which I’ve just gotten out of after arriving at my house, which is also the Duke family house, my dad’s side of the family and made up of country people. As I walk across the yard/driveway, I see my dad and uncles working on an old car, just in my awareness, what it means when the action’s taking place on the edge of darkness. That my dad’s suddenly died, and I regret not taking the long opportunity I had to see him before that, is the dream shifting more to the frontal interpretation of it being about the relationship with my actual dad, and once again I begin to become aware it’s a dream, the regret pushing the boundaries of the dream-movie before my eyes, but it’s not enough to make me lucid , and as I walk to the back of the house, I see the shed, and the dream captures my complete awareness once again. The shed represents our Facebook page Harm’s End, and the special organic material are the muse poems posted on it. I can see that people have been on the page reading the material, though I see that in the symbols of the dream, not aware of what they represent.

The evidence, however, isn’t substantial enough for me to be sure neighbors have come and read some of the poems, taken the organic material, and so I follow the faint trail leading to the back fence to investigate. I should say, leaving the dream a moment, that I usually get no reactions from a muse poem post, except sometimes likes from my kids and their friends who like the pics, or a like from Douglas, my partner on the page. So I have no idea if anyone’s reading them or not except for the little round world on the top of the page telling me I’ve had pageviews, something that isn’t daily nor ever very many except when we’ve boosted a post, where most of our reactions for posts have come from: paid.

Nighttime here in this part of the dream has more to do with my neighbors getting the organic material, reading the poems, under the cover of darkness, not letting on about it , leaving no likes or comments, unless, like I said, it’s from our family or a boosted post. Once I get to the back fence it’s very clear neighbors have come, with a small tractor even, and gotten some of the reading material. It being the back gate represents the same thing it being night does; they came in secret, almost as if they stole. They left the fence open even, and it wouldn’t be stretching it to say that represents the two page views I saw the next morning after the dream, what had lit up in my little world at the top of the page. It’s no problem closing the fence again. All you have to do is read the message, and the number in the little world icon disappears. I don’t like it that neighbors are coming in secret to get what I’m giving openly and for free, want them to come around to the front, give some appreciation, but I do realize some material is being taken at least, posts are being read, and so, as I close the back fence, click on the little world, I’m not unhappy about it.

Although I don’t absolutely know that publication read the atheist poem that I asked them to in the comment I left on their page, the dream, along with the two page views, gives me good reason to believe that they did. The dream and other inner communication between us resulted in a poem I put as a comment on their page, during the day after the dream, and as I said earlier, they befriended me soon after posting it. For the past two weeks I’ve been waiting for them to like my page, and not even another poem has moved them, but I don’t see them ignoring me. What I do see is the necessity of showing I really see. Especially religious authority, as history bears witness, when it’s confronted by what it fears and doesn’t understand, is not a kind father.

Though you might think I’ve read too much into this dream, that it’s not possible to interpret them in such detail, even if I’ve gotten a symbol or two wrong, I haven’t over-stepped the boundaries of dream. It takes a lifetime to learn to interpret them, as much study as we put into books and other outer media, and few seem willing to do that, wanting just to jump to dream powers such as lucid dreaming and out of body experiences and the like, or even straight to spiritual experiences. Becoming conscious of dream initiates a multifarious process that eventually culminates in understanding not only the nature of dreams and their symbol meaning, understanding how to consciously use them to investigate reality, find the soul and look for God, seeing in great overabundant detail our hidden inner unity, how we communicate with one another on the inside of ourselves, but also, coming to the understanding that outer reality is as well like unto a dream in that it’s a story of a story, though a more substantial story we might say than our personal pell-mell dreams, a real story that represents layer upon layer of deeper reality that when you get to its bare ground, you find God.

I can’t lead you there, but I can try to show you how to see our underlying hidden unity, at the very least, how much we talk to one another in our inner life, and that the most readily available window to see that is the field of dreams. We don’t normally see it because, as I said in the beginning, we don’t yet know (have lost really) knowledge of the interpretation of dreams. This article might be called a field guide, looking however at only one species, but you have to use more than your reason to use it.

How in the world do I tell you, you only use your soul in a manner of speaking? To see what I’m talking about, your soul shows you that it’s using you. I don’t really think language can get here, it being itself a story of a story, representative by nature, and the soul, speaking of it in itself here and not its evolving personality the psychic being, well, how to say it? It doesn’t represent; it just is. It’s where dreams are born and all this communicating in them, sleeping dreams and world dreams, from where the seed is cast.

Minor Attraction on Rock Hill

Me, age 11, Leon County School picture
Me, age 11, Leon County School picture

He broke down and cried.
When I was theirs.
Do you have any idea what this does to you?
Couldn’t get me enough.
Perfection
in the skills necessary to be with children
terrible.
Take some in my mouth and go.

Whatever else I am, in my origin in the outer world I’m a Duke. Whenever I see that name on something or somewhere, I know to pay attention because of a line of muse some years back, “Wherever you see Duke, the heart there will it be.” My family broke my heart, gave me years of emotional pain. For 15 years I cried in dream, and, though it’s been a long time since I have, I did this morning as I awoke from a dream about my Uncle Jerry, the one who had to field the phone call making me an outcast where I was cut off like a cancer and never spoken to again by all but three people not in my immediate family. Now no one in my family will have anything to do with me, but that’s changing, as I’ve made contact again because I’m sending this article to them. I don’t know the reception I’ll get. The net has changed so many things, particularly morality, and particularly when it comes to minor attracted people. The social stigma was bad before, but my immediate family would talk to me at least. Now, I’m ignored by almost anyone in the whole wide world that knows my sexuality save Douglas, my blogging and Facebook partner – the friend of a lifetime.

It was working through that heart pain my family gave me that I learned it could be done in the hypnagogic and hypnopompic states, where you’re aware of yourself where you lay, and the space or room is only slightly different from waking reality, and you’re in vision. With me it’s usually in the mornings I find myself there, every so often, coming up from a night’s dreaming, a station right before waking up fully: hypnopompia. I either lay there and experience electrocutions streaming through my subtle body, which gives you a life-force charge that lasts for days, or I take the opportunity to let out heart pain, just wail or cry like a baby. It allows for its expression, out-gassing I call it, on the inside where it better helps to work it out, as visions often accompany it showing you the heart of the matter. When you let it out on the outside, while that’s needed too, you weaken yourself and indulge the vital. When you’re not doing sadhana that’s not a big problem, but when you are it can be.

I was 26 and in my junior year at the University of Houston (1987), and I went to visit my father’s family for the weekend, who lived on a small 200 acre farm north of Houston, around 4 miles from the small town of Jewett, Texas. My grandparents had 6 kids, and at one time or another all 6 have lived in homes and trailer houses scattered on the property, which was field and forest, like a family clan, poor working class people for the most part, but now things have changed and some have moved up the social ladder. When I lived among them in the late 1960’s, my grandfather, the farmer, was still farming.

He had first used mules to plow until he got a small John Deere tractor, and he put out a cash crop every year, wheat I think, and he usually had a side crop of corn or potatoes and had a herd of cattle he tended. He was a very hardworking man, could not stop working even when he got old. He died building a fence for some neighbor, what he did along with chopping cords of firewood for a living when he’d stopped farming. We kids occasionally worked in the fields too to bring a crop in, worked often in our little garden plot in front of the trailer, except in winter of course. It was me dug the near quarter mile trench through the woods to our hand dug well, what we had until we got one dug near the house by professionals. My dad was also hardworking and wanted me to be the same, but I’m more a writer than a working man, more a story than work with my hands. He marked off a few yards a day I had to do when I got home from school before I could play, nothing too much really, but if I didn’t finish I got a whipping (if I couldn’t remember the name of a tree he’d showed me I got one too, got a lot of whippings). I also got up at dawn every morning to feed horses and farm animals.

I’d lived there for a couple of years as a boy, from 9-11, because my father wanted me to live with him, and marrying and moving to the farm was a way to get my mother to agree (they were divorced, and I lived in Houston suburbs with her and my sister Gwen, a momma’s boy hook, line, and sinker) and to teach me the old ways as he called them, clearing land from the forest and home setting, though after living in an old school bus and homemade camper we got a trailer house, didn’t build a house, only added a big wooden room to it. My dad was not a hippie but a red neck, didn’t smoke grass but drank home-made beer (it was a dry country), but this was in the 60’s when a lot of people were going back to the land.

That experience, though I had a mean step-mother and yes two step-sisters, and I had to roam the forest alone when my dad wasn’t home or she’d tear into me if I were even in earshot, was probably what brought me to deep thought and God, as that’s what I did as I roamed pining over my mother like a lost puppy: explored the forest and thought about God, not Jesus because I wanted to go directly to the source. My thoughts had more to do with asking him if I could live with my mom, but the nature of God, what must he be, came up naturally again and again.

The Dukes are a proud upright family, and because we lived literally on the other side of the railroad tracks among the poor blacks (whom my dad referred to with a racial slur) and what’s called white trash, my dad talked a lot about how we were better than most of the other families that had places scattered up and down that dirt road that since has been paved. The difference was the Duke family pride he said. Our places were clean and tidy, our men not known for causing trouble, but working hard to support their families (my dad and uncles were welders and worked building an electricity plant some 80 miles from home) and our women known for faithfully doing their duties as wives and mothers.

My step-mother, on the other hand, was an outsider, and there came a time when her abuse of me became known, but then quickly forgotten. She did, however, take very good care of us working as she did, as all the women did, under harsh conditions, doing all the cleaning, cooking, and shopping. It was just she hated me. To give a picture of that, she got me out of bed for school oftentimes by saying, “Get up you little bastard it’s time for school,” a couple of times yanking me up by the hair of my head. I remember her favorite saying to me, “I know you like a book. You’re no good and your father’s no good.” I say that to my dogs a lot, in jest when I’m petting them, with minor variations like, “your dog father that is, (because I’m their daddy), but the pain is still there behind the words, and I say them to remind myself of her abuse because, though for a moment the way she treated me got out, later I was called an actor and a liar because the abuse was just so horrible, and no one in a proud family wants to admit things like that happen. Even my mom denied it, and I understand why; people just don’t want to see what they allow happen to their most dear loved ones. Ruth, however, my step-mother, remembers I’m sure. She’s never admitted to it.

I saw in a lucid dream in my travels as an adult that she hated me because I’d hurt her terribly in a past life, which brings up all kinds of questions about the soul and what it may or may not carry from life to life. I can’t answer those questions yet. In the dream, as I sat on the foot of a bed right next to her, her fuming with hatred and me able to actually feel love and understanding for her, that past life presented it before me in a flash, but I wasn’t able to grab a hold of it and see what I’d done to her to warrant such hatred and abuse. Suffice it to say she isn’t an evil woman, if anyone’s evil. Evil I think comes from outside of us, or, more correctly, hostile beings  that whisper and push us from inside. My dad had made her send her son (my age) to his father in Georgia so I’d be the only son, and when you add that with the past life and those harsh conditions in them “damn woods,” you have a recipe for abusing your step-child so cruelly.

The sex with kids disorder didn’t come from the Duke side but from my mom, and I relate on my personal blog in various places her sexual abuse of me when I was an infant and toddler, not old enough to remember and only able to find out by her telling me and it coming up in dream, how it most often is in the making of a pedophile – you can’t remember because you were too young to post memories. Post 9, “Make Peace With the World”, gives the details you probably want to know. The Dukes did not touch their kids inappropriately, not at least my dad, uncles, aunts, and grandparents, one reason probably they had such an extreme reaction to me, but there’s more to the story than that, deeper hidden truth.

I do remember my Uncle Bobby, married to my dad’s sister, really liked kids and played with us a lot, but he never did anything to me or to my close cousins, that I heard about anyway. I only knew him as a kind uncle. It happened many years after this present story that my Aunt Sonia walked in on him sexually abusing their 5-year-old grandson, and she called the police and pressed charges, and Uncle Bobby died in prison within 6 months. We all knew it was from a broken heart, but by that time I’d already been made an outcast and heard about it from a distance. That physical distance didn’t matter, as I was still part of the family and felt its sorrows as my own. Although no one said it, said instead calling the cops was bad decision because of all the boy had to go through, it was pretty obvious his death of a heart attack pained them all and was probably the bigger reason Aunt Sonia, his wife, said it was a big mistake to involve the police, a point on which the rest agreed, because it was hard on the boy though, not his heartbreaking death, but I heard the story from a distance, and only knew what my grandmother was telling my sister Gwen about what everyone was saying. In any event, that no one, that I heard about anyway, expressed sadness at his tragedy had to do I imagine with they just didn’t want to concede they even cared. Such is the attitude of the general public with pedophiles, and that was almost 30 years ago. Now most people would celebrate his death.

So often, as in this case, the black sheep of the family carries its unconscious process, as the following prophetic dreams demonstrate. The first one I realate in an article in Pages of my personal blog called “The Epic of Man”, where I experience my grandfather’s death inside of him in some sort of spontaneous inner-body time-travel a couple of weeks before it happened. The second one happened right before my MeMaw died of a heart attack, the same thing that killed my Pepal, I met my Aunt Jackie, the oldest of the siblings, David’s mother, who appears a little later on, in a lucid dream where she tells me of my grandmother’s coming death from one. The Dukes don’t know of these things because I was only able to tell my father, and besides him not believing me, my name was not mentioned in the family circle and probably still isn’t. In such a position you wonder if you’re even remembered.

Apart from my immediate family, and my MeMaw, Aunt Sonia, and my cousin Rex, no one in the family had spoken to me (before she died and before my aunt knew about her husband) since the incident I’m about to relate. About three years after it my grandmother was in the hospital with a slightly broken neck, attended to by her daughter my aunt and her daughters, and it happened to be within walking distance from my apartment. My MeMaw had told my dad she really wanted to see me, which filled me with both joy and trepidation. I visited her with my heart in my hands but had decided not to be selfish and bring up my stuff, and I didn’t even tell her I didn’t do it, and to tell her that was screaming inside me, but I was a Duke, and Dukes consider themselves to be noble.

Though it’s another digression, it does bear on the story. Some months after she died, in a lucid dream, MeMaw was sitting next to me in my mom’s house, my mom across the room looking on in approval, and MeMaw looked very tenderly on me and exposed a breast and I suckled on it. Interpreting the dream, I thought she was accepting me back into the family fold, but nothing changed in outer reality with the family, and so she was just working through her personal stuff on the other side and had gotten to the wrong done to me, because, though she had wanted to see me when she was in Houston when weakened from her car accident, she’d been quite vocal, according to my sister, about blaming me for what happened with David Wayne, a 4-year-old, my second cousin and David’s little boy, who I was wrongly accused of fondling.

Many think this universe is based on morality, the fight between good and evil, and that when you die you get punished for the bad you’ve done and rewarded for the good. It’s not. It’s based on oneness. How you’ve treated others does bear on your afterlife journey, but it’s not reward and punishment you get but whatever you need to get to get you to accept the people you’ve rejected, which is doing them harm, whoever they are and whatever they’ve done, and when you outright harm someone you’ve rejected them on a fundamental level because you’ve violated the principle of oneness and  haven’t treated your neighbor as yourself. So what you get appears to be punishment, but that’s not it exactly. If you are more accepting of others you simply advance faster, quite a reward, since that’s what we’re here for, to evolve oneness, the ground of God, and things get nicer for you as you know in your mind, heart, hands and mouth you share identity with everybody and everything, nicer in the very ground of your being where it counts. If you have inner peace what happens on your outside isn’t even a thing. Not many see what that shift in perspective from morality to oneness brings. They’ll be many meeting me on the other side. I’ve been rejected by so very many people, all the world.

Okay daddy, [Lydia’s voice, my grown (20) unofficially adopted daughter, Tamil]
just come along here.
That story’s painful
about the Dukes.
I’m just cryin’
and smokin’ cigarettes.

Tragedy
does that to you.
I want off the hook.
He didn’t do it.
The heart it’s been a long, long, long time. [sung, my voice, my Rainbow song]

Abusing your step-child –
step-children,
they need some help,
and this story can help you.

It’s quite a simple but sad story, especially for the boy, David Wayne, who has to carry this story around with him whether anyone speaks of it or not, and it didn’t even happen. My Uncle Jerry, whom I called to return his earlier call when I wasn’t home, the Monday after my return to Houston, spoke to me in a way I’d not ever heard  him speak before, with a mean sneer, the way people talk to whom they consider vile and depraved, a lecherous beast. He said that they figured I must’ve taken him behind a car and put my hand down his pants because everyone was watching me every minute, but that’s not true, not only that I didn’t fondle him, but that I hadn’t been alone with him. I had been, when he came into the room I was sleeping in, I having spent the night with David, a favorite cousin of mine, the boy’s father. Ironically, I was sleeping in the same kind of custom room attached to a trailer house that I lived in when I lived in those woods. But that’s not the only irony. On the land lived the Dukes, Suggs (Uncle Bobby’s family) and Kings, and David was a King. There was often some kind of feud between the families, the Dukes and Kings especially, as the Dukes owned the land. The Dukes were proud, but the Suggs and Kings were more down to earth, another irony, if you pay attention to the meaning of the names Duke and King. Sometimes it’s just really clear a story’s to be told because it’s representative of a lot of family stories. Irony usually tells the tale.

What happened was this. The little boy cried as soon as I drove away the Sunday night I left, and my younger cousin Karryn, her older brother Eddie, Uncle Jerry and Aunt Sherry’s kids, and another person I don’t remember, immediately asked him if I touched him, and for some reason he said yes. The only thing I could think of that would make him say yes was the following story, but it would bear mentioning that I’d been good to that boy, had given him good attention, and a minor attracted person knows how to do that, and he was sad to see me go because I imagine he didn’t get much focused attention, not the kind I gave him, with no anger, boredom or distraction. His parents had met in the state mental hospital, and they had their own issues to deal with, though he was well cared for. He was just starving for attention, and I gave it. Though I was good with him, I was quite attracted to the little boy, him being quite young for my tastes though (9-11 was my bag, the age I lived in those woods, and it should be easy to put two and two together). I was proud of myself not giving him a slight of hand feel over his trousers or even looking at his stuff. For a brief moment it had given me confidence that I could always do that, and I was starving for that kind of attention too, but from the other end, and so we met one another’s needs, why, like I said, the kid cried when I left.

What might’ve given him some sexual impression was spying on me as I put my pants on in the room I’d slept in, where there wasn’t a door but a curtain that separated it from the hallway of the trailer. I always slept naked back then, and being alone in the room I did so that night too. The little boy came into the room early that morning and woke me up, asking me to read him a story, a children’s book about Robin Hood, and he wasn’t expected because of the situation, and it greatly surprised me, but I wanted to read him the story. I sent him out to ask his mother if that was okay, and when he left, knowing he’d be coming back and might be sitting in the bed with me, I got up and put my pants on. I wasn’t wearing underwear much back then either. I noticed movement in the curtained doorway, and he twisted himself around so I could see him, he wearing that grin toddlers get when they see your privates. I just pulled my pants up, not taking the opportunity that had presented itself, ignoring his devilish little smile, brushing aside his natural curiosity, and reading him the story, careful to continue to be upright with him, a control I’d put on myself in my visits there: not to even look at a kid’s stuff much less touch it, not even in play and tickling over the pants, what’s not hard to do even if you’re being watched by a hundred people.

When I told my uncle over the phone that he’d come to where I was sleeping and asked to be read a story, and I’d had him ask his mother, he said I was lying because they’d questioned her, and she said I’d not been alone with him at all while in the house. She really went off about the ‘molestation’ I heard later from Gwen, and there’s something up with that, some power or attention she wanted, what false accusations usually boil down to, but I never got to talk to her, never got to talk to anyone or give my side of the story but my cousin Rex King, David’s older brother. He saw me on a motorcycle in Pasadena, near Houston, and gave me that big smile of his I knew him for, as he’s a gentle soul, and he invited me to come with his family to a pizza parlor he was going to. After sitting with he and his wife and kids a moment, I asked him to go to the bathroom with me, and there among the urinals and stalls, one occupied by someone quiet as a mouse listening to a secret, I asked him if he could somehow help me let people know I didn’t do it. Though his actions were extraordinary under the circumstances, he didn’t want to help.

I did ask in that phone call to my uncle what David was saying about it, and Uncle Jerry said he wasn’t saying anything, and that’s big of him in light of the story David told me, in graphic detail some years before this incident, when he was about 17, about how he’d been spending the night at Uncle Jerry’s house with Jerry Lloyd, my best cousin and David’s, and he raped Karryn, Jerry Lloyd’s little sister, then 11. He did have problems controlling his impulses, especially sexual ones, though he wasn’t attracted to children (Karen had just bloomed). He said he wasn’t violent and didn’t hold her down or anything, though she did make it clear she didn’t want him to do it. She was probably scared and didn’t know what to do. He told me the next morning all she’d said was not to put his thing in her again, but I’ve known Karryn since she was born, was a kid with her when she was a kid, and if she said that, she was dead serious because she had had a little trouble saying no to people and standing up for herself, but she never was a pushover that I saw. Knowing these things, maybe you can see why she immediately asked David Wayne if I’d touched his stuff, and so I don’t blame her for fielding that situation wrongly. He also said later Uncle Jerry gave a snide remark as he passed by about people that screwed little girls, indicating that he knew about it, but other than that no one said anything to him, much less throw him out of the family. It’s a story I only heard from David, not from anyone else, and back then David was mentally ill. That story happened on Rock Hill, the only hill on the whole property, the title of this story, where Uncle Jerry had built his house.

The family had Uncle Jerry field that phone call because I usually visited his family when I came, was closest to them, since birth, and they had always invited me back. In fact, he’d told me as I left the last time, the weekend before, that I was welcome at his house and with him no matter what. I learned then that when someone tells you something like that they really mean the opposite, and so you have to beware, though with him there was sincerity there too. It was just hard for him because everyone was blaming him for what happened, as if he were responsible. It probably didn’t even cross his mind I didn’t do it. Everyone was suspicious of me because, some years earlier, my dad had gone to my uncle and cried on his shoulder because he had a pedophile for a son, saying that I’d done such and such to his younger son, my half-brother, and my uncle told this person, and they told that person, and so on, and so that’s why the first thing they asked David Wayne was did I ‘touch’ him, why they said they were all watching me.

I see now my uncle was torn over me, whether to care for me like an uncle should his nephew or reject me because of my sexuality, because I ‘played nasty’ a lot with Jerry Lloyd and Eddie when we were little, with Jerry Lloyd because we were 5 weeks apart in age, and he was my first friend and closest playmate during my infancy and toddler years, when my mom was sexually abusing me, Eddie because he followed us everywhere, into that too. My muse told me a long time ago that “what goes into a family starts to manifest.” Although it was speaking of religious intolerance, it holds true for sexual activity too, for most things you put in families. I simply did with him what my mom was doing with me, mainly falacio. My uncle really had an aversion to homosexuality, and he didn’t differentiate between boys doing it and men. He hated gay sex so much he threw up after a gay man left his house that had visited his wife, my Aunt Sherry, her brother I think. My Aunt Sherry, it bears mentioning, was the was the only adult that actually witnessed my step-mother Ruth’s abuse of me.

I’ll never forget that. I was out in front of the trailer playing with toy cars in the sand, happy that I didn’t have to spend the day in the woods alone because my Aunt Sherry was there, and Ruth started in on me, knowing I was out front playing. Whenever she knew I was in earshot, whatever she was doing in the trailer, she’d bad mouth me from one end of the trailer to another something fierce, a continual stream of cuss words and insults. It’s like nothing you’ve ever seen. I sat up happy because I knew now people would believe me, but to my utter horror she joined in, and my little boy world came crashing down inside my heart, and I told myself I was a good boy, trying not to think about how I liked to play nasty, and I just sat in that dirt and tried not to cry, but I’m crying now.

I’d always known Aunt Sherry as nice, motherly even, and, briefly as a young man, as a close friend that liked, like me, to talk about God, only then I was an atheist, and she felt it her duty to bring me back into the fold. She was a religious Christian. I had and still have deep feelings for her because my mom and her were best friends when I and Jerry Lloyd, her oldest son, were toddlers, and they did shopping together, baby sat each other’s babies, and so this was out of character for her. I never have been able to figure it out, but it was one of the biggest betrayals of my childhood. The biggest was my mom and dad pulling me off my mother in front of that trailer house, me kicking and screaming holding onto her for dear life, when I was forced to stay in those woods with my dad and Ruth. I was 9. One reason my mom gave into that, the main reason in my little boy’s mind, was that my dad had told her I played nasty and had put another little boy’s penis in my mouth, and so I needed a man’s guidance. They didn’t know they were cementing my sexuality into place, because they didn’t know what a child’s understanding does with such guilt-implanting reasons. We are so ignorant when it comes to the important things.

We’re especially ignorant of our journey after death, or even that we have one. Through dream and muse I watching my mom on her journey, her travel through the vital plane letting go of this life. It’s not such a nice journey because she has a lot to let go of, a lot of baggage, especially right after she died when she was in danger of becoming a ghost,[i] but as she worked through things she would speak a line or two in my muse from time to time, but I was angry at her, not really about the abuse (I more or less understood that), but because she also wouldn’t have much to do with me either in her last years, would talk to me like I was disgusting, the word she used in our last conversation, over the phone (the phone fields so much of our stuff). When she finally arrived somewhere she could talk to me at length, I heard her voice begin what I thought would be her finally just coming out and admitting  she really messed me up, but I just ignored her, rolled over and went to sleep. That was almost 4 years ago, and  I still don’t know what she wanted to tell me, but it may not have been an expression of remorse. I don’ t know. Though she’d admitted to the abuse many years before she died, she had said, insisted, it wasn’t sexual, and she really believed that. If she still does maybe the other side is much different than we think, much more individually oriented, and it can take a very long time to work things out.

My Aunt Sherry’s excuse for not only not stopping Ruth from tearing into on me but also for tearing into me herself, what told me she remembered that and had given it some thought and didn’t like her actions, was what she’d told me a week before the incident this story’s about, not long before Uncle Jerry told me I was always welcome at his house. She said I was a mean little boy, said it in that way shared secrets are being brought up. It’s not a twinkle in the eye. It’s vulnerability visible, despite the person trying to hide their shame and pain. I just looked at her wanting for all the world to really bring up her joining Ruth in abusing me. I didn’t for the same reason I didn’t with my MeMaw, because I didn’t want to be selfish, Both her and my Uncle Jerry were really making an effort to make me feel welcome, trying to treat me like their own son, and in light of what everyone knew about me that was exceptional of them. She said that after just handing me gas money to get back to Houston. The very next weekend the incident happened that didn’t  happen, and so I imagine both feel betrayed by me. If families can just talk about what can’t be mentioned because it’s so bad or painful, the very things families need to talk about, we would have a much better world.

It’s  a dream that led to the writing of this story, and I hope you can see that, far from being random firings from the subconscious processing our outer life mainstream science says our dreams are, dreams heal us and guide us if we but let them. Upon awakening my muse took it up, gave the lines that begin this article, saying it was needed. Now, upon finishing it, though I had my doubts in the beginning, I know beyond a shadow of a doubt it’s needed, even if it might hurt some feelings. I’m not trying to get revenge, or even so much getting heard or spoken to, as much as I’m following the will of my soul and God and meeting a soul need, for everybody: telling this tragic tale.

I’m at a gas station with some friends, and it’s Christmas time. I’ve been invited to my friends’ house for Christmas dinner, they being Christians and me American (the dream takes place in India), and both in the dream and in waking life I hadn’t been invited to the last year’s Christmas dinner, and there was some doubt if I were really invited this year or not. We’re traveling to the dinner. My dad’s there too, speaking to me but only to remind me why Uncle Jerry won’t talk to me.

I might interrupt the dream to explain that in waking reality he stopped speaking to me 4 or 5 years ago soon after he snail mailed me here in India a book about Hell, and I emailed him back saying heretical things about how Jesus was a bastard child, and that he didn’t die for the sins of the word, how that was made up by his disciples because they couldn’t make sense out of his dying like a common criminal, and how he suffered so in life because of his mother’s sexual sin, having sex out of wedlock as a young teen, why he had so much compassion and understanding for sinners, and why he called himself the son of God even and wanted people to accept him, but he did birth the divine human in himself and is therefore an example, name, and conscious power for that selfsame. I wasn’t able to tell him all that before he stopped replying to my emails, but he got the gist of where I was going. That was the end of our outer relationship, as it stands now. My dad’s a fundamentalist Christian, but I’m sure his turning his back to me has more to do with being a minor attracted person, the worst sinner in the whole wide world if you want to swallow that. He thinks I came to India to have sex with children. No, whatever I might’ve done or not done, I came here to follow my soul, find God, and be near the samadhi (tomb) and epicenter of the influence of my teachers the Mother and Sri Aurobindo, to do yoga, and I think maybe by now you can see that. The dream continues:

In the dream Uncle Jerry’s with my dad, but he’s not even looking at me much less speaking. As I go to leave by myself on a motorcycle, it turns into a small train, the kind you find in parks and places, but this one has no walls or sides. I’m going very slowly past everyone sitting along a wall, and as I pass my uncle I tap him on the arm, saying, purposely not calling him uncle because he’s not being a good one, “I’ll see you in heaven Jerry. You’ll talk to me one day. You will.”

When you touch a person in dream that means something, a stronger kind of communication, one that’s likely to manifest in waking reality, as this dream has. It’s probable he’ll read this, as it’s an explosive story, like much of my material, hits nails on the head that need hitting, and so that dream might manifest before we meet in heaven, (heaven here symbolic for ‘the other side), meaning he’ll speak to me again. I hope so. I love the man, love all of them, but I had to realize the feeling’s not mutual, that each is wrapped up in the cares of concerns of their immediate family, and I’m more or less an outsider and have been since I left the property as a boy, although I didn’t see myself as one until I was outcast. I’ve had to try and close the heart wound, and so my reason tells me these things. Maybe inside their hearts it’s another matter, but I don’t know. All I know is the Dukes need this story, even if they don’t know it, as it’s affecting them from this distance, is still just as fresh as it was when it happened, since the past is all around us, touching us, moving us, not the dead and buried thing we think it is.

There’s something you need to know, all of you, the whole human race. I didn’t even try to be good with children for many years after that, and I know that must sound awful to you, but that’s what happened. We aren’t the creatures capable of complete control like we think we are, especially with sexual impulses, something so close to our identity. If we have a problem controlling them we need help to do so, and that help has more to do with being given love and support than being watched and having people afraid we’re going to something you can’t even talk about.

Any pedophile needs to be supervised around kids, to what degree depending on the pedophile (in the context of an integral healing, however, it’s a whole different ball game: the soul and natural movement hold sway, supervision under the supervision of the soul, and the soul, if you didn’t know, allows for mistakes). In some cases, with virtuous pedophiles, ones who don’t sexually abuse kids, that just means the people around you need to be heads up, but people around you do need to know, and I’ve learned that through bitter experience. But here’s the difficulty. Most anybody that knows will treat you like a depraved person not in control of themselves, since that’s the attitude regarding minor attracted people whether you abuse kids or not. You have to be in a supportive environment, and a family can provide that if they really do love you. People don’t understand the impossible position we’re in, one reason I’m showing that. What’s most important about any kind of supervision is that you’re not watched with any fear or ill will. That greatly intensifies desire to do the very thing people fear you will do and hate you for doing. I’m talking about even virtuous pedophiles like me that have worked through their disorder to the point we no longer need or even want to be around children.

The question is: do children need to be around us? The answer depends on the individual situation and can’t be ruled, what the rule of law just can’t account for: differences in individual circumstances, what integral healing can and does allow for, but that, I can’t say enough, is a totally different way of doing things, dependent on the finding of the soul, something generally unknown today even in the Integral Yoga I’m a student of, given its moral reaction to me, save for close disciples such as Nolini Gupta, who has left his body but is still, along with the Mother and Sri Aurobindo, incredibly and magically active teaching the yoga the meaning and process of integrality, its application in the field especially, where people most fail to apply it, though they go on and on about it in theory and ideal.

With a little observation you can tell the difference between pedophiles, those that seek contact with children and/or sex and those that don’t. The ones that don’t do not arrange to be around kids, don’t touch them other than the necessary physical contact needed to care for kids, aren’t nervous or antsy when around them, a state similar to a low degree of mania. In mania, as most any shrink can tell you, anti-social impulses can much more easily rise up from the subconscious and manifest as outer action. We’re still in the dark ages when it comes to this subject and don’t know much about it other than we hate and fear the pedophile. I’ve read it’s not being studied a lot because even many if not most therapists and scientists have an aversion to pedophiles.

We don’t know it yet because it’s still considered a religious or spiritual notion and not the very fabric of reality, but we are not only connected to one another in millions of ways on the outside but also on the inside too, share thoughts and feelings like waves moving among us, and that’s because, as I’ve said, we share identity, are indeed one, a unity. When you put fear and ill will into the equation of dealing with and supervising minor attracted people you put desire into them, because we pick hatred and ill will up as that, and oftentimes, when combined with the minor attracted person’s own desire coming from themselves, it tips the scales, and the pedophile can’t handle it, and they have sex with a child (this is true of all crime). When that’s cultural-wide you have the kind of problem with sexual child abuse that’s coming to light by the self-righteous and hyper-moral eye of the internet, the kind of eye that helps to cause the abuse in the first place.

Here’s another useful piece of information: fear and ill will are in their more dressed up clothes judging and self-righteousness, blaming and moral indignation. It’s out of control, and it’s not only the authorities making it so, but you too if you fear us and send us ill will, judge and look down upon us as one would a monster or sub-human, or even as an evil bad person. You have to love us, support us, or you’ll have millions of children sexually abused, and the numbers will grow and grow, and it won’t stop until you do. I  need your help, and you need mine.

I understand we’re probably hundreds of years if not thousands of years away from realizing these things, given the current situation of a morality becoming intolerant of being human (though grace is among us speeding things up), and someone has to stand up and say these things now that we still have a somewhat free net. It most likely won’t be free too much longer, and so I’m standing up and saying what we all need to hear before it’s too late, and I’m not the only one, not by far, but remember, “wherever you see Duke, the heart there will it be.”

The stigmatized phenomenon of hearing voices and seeing things, what you’ve heard in this article and might not understand what I’m talking about, though in my case it’s on the inside, an inner seeing and not an outer, is considered a manifestation of mental illness by most western peoples, and maybe oftentimes it is, if your voices are telling you to do anti-social things. With me, from the very beginning as you’ll see below, the voices and visions are healing me, leading me to the path of goodness on which I now stand and from which I can see the world.

Though I no longer desire to be around children, I still have that basic raw attraction as a sleeping complex in my subconscious, that can, you need to know, rise up like a cyclone without warning in the most squared away virtuous pedophiles until such time as, in this present life, I’m enlightened, what our yoga calls the spiritual transformation, where you no longer have desires or subconscious complexes. I live in semi-seclusion in a house of young adults, and seldom am in the company of children. Whether I’m around them or not I’m supervised 24 hours a day, am under supervision now, since even as I write this inner voice and vision speaks to me if I say something wrong, but not in every instance, gives me the right word if I’m stuck, or suggests words and phrases I haven’t even thought about. It’s  semi-constant, and it’s there anytime I rest or lay back inside myself even a little, which takes some getting used to and a very different mind-set than the norm.

But I still need human supervision when around young children like every pedophile needs, as I’ve stated, but not every minute, nothing like that, just heads up people. And I can easily say that because I don’t want to be around them – too much trouble, too much responsibility (even looks count, and the younger the child the more they count), too much attention necessary, too much work, and maybe the person babysitting the kid and I would do it, and I wouldn’t have to, but simply saying I need to be supervised isn’t the whole truth of the matter, and it really isn’t all that necessary, except maybe if the kid’s a real pistol and likes to tempt you, and if I’ve given sexual desire play inside me, and it’s the same with many virtuous pedophiles I imagine. Because I’m in an integral healing process I probably need to be around them every once in awhile, but it’s a natural process orchestrated by the spontaneity of the soul, and so it would just happen when it needs to, as it does.

Right by the restroom
tells yah
not ready for relaxed supervision.
I’m comfortable
I got it all under control.
That should warn you they shouldn’t be alone with kids.
There’s no formula,
hello?

I’m sorry.
I’m sorry
indicates
Basically I can climb a tree.
Basically,
whoever wants to be alone with a child
isn’t ready.
Basically,
who’s ever ready
doesn’t like kids,
doesn’t
want to stay in their company
any longer than they have to.

That’s the field test.
It’s pretty simple.
See what I mean Vern?

My soul is no stranger to being the outcast, and, in a story I relate in an article about lucid dreaming on the blog I share with Douglas, “And I had Two Lightning Bolts”, in my last life I was a black man in the old South that could really pick the guitar, and my family and I were killed by the KKK because I’d been warned not to play in white establishments, and I ignored that warning. The dream ended as a little short that often ends powerful and meaningful dreams, a little dream shift at that end that captures the whole dream in a concise symbol story. It ended with his story getting out, in the form of his guitar becoming electrified by him hooking into a lay line along a ridge, and his music resounding through the whole valley. Being a soul that carries such process, one of the scapegoat, the ‘other’, I’m confident I won’t be killed this time, though some anxiety is there, especially as I so boldly post these stories, taking little regard to my safety.

Look at Jesus. Maybe he didn’t think it would happen to him either. One of the most powerful dreams of my life, a lucid dream, one I’ve yet to relate anywhere in writing, is of Jesus on the cross giving me just a tiny little sliver of it, and when it hit my hand it weighed a ton, and I heard a great dream crack and fell deep down into a dark abyss that had yawned under me, and then I awoke. The dream tells me that I’m carrying just a little of what he carried, a process of sexual sin, though with me it’s a cross of pedophilia, and with him it was being an illegitimate male child at a time and in a culture that didn’t tolerate that. That loud ‘dream crack’ is so characteristic of dream when it wants to really emphasis something. Falling into that abyss, well, I would hope that represents falling into my disorder as much and as deeply as I did and not having to suffer cruelty at the hands of the authorities, but you just never know.

It’s a great risk I’m taking speaking with such candor, and I come to you not only with my heart in my hands but have put my own head on the chopping block and exposed my neck, about the most stupid thing someone in my shoes can do, because any instance of sexual child abuse is sniffed out, and the person’s hounded into prison like a Nazi war criminal (and who’s to say they deserve such vengeance upon them?).[ii] We do this because we don’t quite fully grasp that morality isn’t a fixed formula running through time but one that changes, evolves, and what might’ve been against the law 20 or 30 years ago before the advent of the internet, something you didn’t take as incredibly seriously as you do today with that net (in the context of the culture and its time, not to say that’s right today or the right thing to do under any circumstances), where even a 14-year-old getting their privates touched is considered almost as bad as murder, the fondling of a small child worse, should be looked at through that time lens. In other words it should be understood that the wrongdoers were operating from within their cultural context, and it’s neither fair nor right to hold them to the moral standards of today, which, as I’ve suggested, are so out of control with the advent of the net and all the bringing to light of our garbage that that entails, being human itself is becoming wrong, and the true road of becoming right with your society is illegal, since the rule of law and its broad generalizations can’t allow for and follow integral healing, healing by the power and direction of the soul. There doesn’t seem to be any understanding that the internet is significantly changing human morality, and not, at this finger-pointing initial stage, for the better but for the worse, to the detriment of human society, however much it betters us in other ways.

If the universe, and hence the world, isn’t really based on morality, what we base human society on, and it’s indeed all about oneness, then the way we heal wouldn’t have morality, whether or not we do wrong, as it’s main criterion for judging its failure or success. When the muse first started I was asked if I wanted “a partial spiritual healing or a complete spiritual healing”, and I chose the complete, which is an integral healing: soul healing. It comes from the soul and can’t be regulated with rules and laws, and your soul is your doctor, have no outer therapist, but you have to be where you’ve found your soul, brought your conscious all the way down into the well of soul establishing that hard link to it, what I’ll explain in an article now in the works, something not known about yet in this day and time. When you have that link, you can readily hear and see the guidance your soul gives, inner voice and vision. The process, though managed and overseen by the soul, allows for soul and nature to come together for the healing to happen, and it’s movements follow the natural movement of things, and because of that right and wrong are not the most important or even all that important in certain stages of its process, though in others the would be, since the goal is not to harm, do no wrong. That’s why soul healing is unheard of in our explosively hyper-moral society. But’s not just a string of falls leading to victory either. I’ve said elsewhere that language can’t cut it here, and we can’t think about two things at the same time, and so the integral idea avoids definition. I might approach it by saying we don’t allow for mistakes, expect people to stop wrong on a dime, and if you want a complete healing that’s just not the way it works; by your mistakes you learn the ropes of stopping. It will take so very much exposure to the wisdom of this way for society to even begin to listen to this. William Blake, a poet who wrote by the muse, captures it like this: “The fool who persists in his folly will become wise.”

Though it might appear just another conspiracy theory, I have it on good authority (my muse) that there’s an agenda with the pedophile,[iii] and to understand it we need to begin to understand the role of the scapegoat in human society, in its families and all its institutions. It’s a need of the human ego, though one we need to learn to live without, and governments exploit that need, especially the great technological and financially powerful nations that make up what’s called the world order, who impose the rule of law, taking advantage of their power advantage in its implementation I might add. And they do so because they have the means to exploit it and need so much to control their populations, or think they do.

Read or watch 1984 with the understanding that it’s not talking about the future as much as it’s showing the present, in an exaggerated form so we can see it, the same way dream shows us something, making it stand out by amplifying it. (The creative process that makes books and films comes, though much more indirectly, from the same creative reflex that makes dream. ) If you do you’ll see why a nation needs a scapegoat[iv], but if you want a better view of ‘modern’ society, one set far into the future so as not to even appear as the present, read the science fiction of Cordwainer Smith,[v] who heard the divine muse, wrote his poetry by it and used it as a guide for his stories like I do, getting ideas, words, phrases, and corrections. You might also be amazed you probably haven’t heard of him.

Last night and early this morning, my muse corrected this story, making sure I’m careful with everyone’s feelings, am not mean, am not trying to get revenge, telling me to be especially careful with Karryn and my Uncle Jerry, as they are honest people and only did what they could not but help to do, something I know all too well about harming other people, their bodies, their hearts. I hope, by my muse and story, that you begin to get the picture that we are loved by the divine, like little children, theirs, and the planet’s not spiraling out of control as it so pressingly appears to be doing. “But there is a guardian power, there are Hands that save, Calm eyes divine regard the human scene.”[vi] Below are lines of muse that came when the muse first started some 15 years ago. Back then they didn’t come in order, and so these are pieced together from my early notebooks, and so don’t take it as gospel. Walk with me.

This muse is from an unpublished and unedited manuscript called, “The Inspired Word,” or “Civilization and the Art of Terror,” written on the isle of Crete in 2003, though lines of muse go back further.

 

What do you say when someone hates you?
My first name, Donny.
I have a very deep love voice.
There are two main things that come out of a writer’s darkness:
a presence and a beauty in the sky.
Saying that a poet had to be a good person.
There is only one thing we can do:
Tell the truth.
Truth equals goodness.
Pardons of truth.

I don’t care how spiritual you are.
Do you think we want to hear you abuse a child?
Speak for yourself.
Only one of you.
Only one of you.
The reason most people don’t like child molesters is that
they don’t want to be discovered.
Pedophilia had its roots in everybody,
and because it does We’d like to wash it from everybody.

I really thought about speaking to you before I spoke.
It seems appropriate at this time.
Did you hear me?
I listen to you.
Calls from all over the area he hears,
from every person.
Do you feel me like I feel you?
If it weren’t for abuse I wouldn’t see child abuse.
Do you know what kind of suffering people can fall into in this world?
I am carrying an unconscious process of the entire city,
the entire town.

He who would get out of suffering must deliver the world out of suffering.
To blindness a time will come to put out the darkness,
because it can see the darkness so clearly.
I have to mold old garbage.
I’ll show you the bottom of God,
the rear of things.
Show bottom I have to,
give you the love of God.
Give answers I’ve got to,
on these very physical-vital details.
Answers you should be getting.

I always liked sex,
but I thought it was natural with a child.
The maimed prolong of a long disease.
An ugly picture,
I was flying high.
Why Donny?
Lust.
Did you hunt?
I was a fool in reality’s deeps.
I expected of myself I could make the changes,
but I am weak and I am human.

You know what?
You’re first fix.
I’m being looked at by who cares.
Sufficiently wet for Them to fix me.
It took a long time.
To project harmony’s use I had slowly the hand.
You had to over it out just in the face of losing.
Thus forestalling a shady movement in your forward progress
that follows you down field.
I write the full sentence of Orb of which you speak.
To put the quality of light
you have to put everything in there.
Whale’s abduction in song,
yet it’s my private line He uses to set humanity.

Pour over a text.
Pour over a pedophile.
Reflect on my face I’m the human race,
and I’m a moment of its desire.
Facing the face of offender open to God’s will,
one who returned from error into prostrate truth,
carrying the torch of a conscious Duke,
Traveling the speed of light in the tame of Texas.
When did you rather see small deeds?

[i] The poem, “An Elegy,” tells the story, though in the symbols of poetry.

[ii] My short story, fiction, “The Capture of a Killer,” pleas their case (scroll down to part 5).

[iii] Watch my video “Ranbow as a Radical With Islamic State” to see how the press presses that agenda (warning: it’s an extremely graphically violent video).

[iv] Read the poem “The Freedom” that shows how the press shapes public opinion as it reports the news, especially in the case of minor attracted people.

[v] Cordwainer Smith.

[vi] Savitri, Sri Aurobindo, courtesy of the Sri Aurobindo Ashram Press.

© Donny Duke 2016

You’re Like Wow, That Really Was Enchanted With a Rock

Enchanted Rock image credit:http://tpwd.texas.gov/state-parks/enchanted-rock
Enchanted Rock
image credit: http://tpwd.texas.gov/state-parks/enchanted-rock

Every since mainstream science has admitted the existence of lucid dreaming (as if it needed to say that for it to exist), interest in it has sky rocketed, and there are forums and groups talking about it around the net. Out of body experiences, however, science studies but doesn’t allow into its cannon. It’s considered a sort of a hallucination/dream, not an OBE, because if it were, it would cross the material line that science has drawn and would give consciousness independence from the body.

Any chat or forum about lucid dreaming will show, not only it’s closely related to OBE, but also that line, and the science-minded and the spiritual-minded are arguing over it. I’ve gone out of groups because I just don’t want to argue with the mind that uses science as its sole authority for an investigation of reality, often denying or explaining away their own personal experience so as not to be heretical to their beliefs. The spiritual-minded seems to have a tendency to the opposite, too easily accepting its personal experiences as this and that without rigorously testing the field, and so I stopped commenting in groups.

This present article on OBE, while it doesn’t give proof that I would accept as clear and certain evidence the consciousness is actually leaving the body, it’s one of the most powerful I’ve had, because of the dream experience that ends it, but it’s one of only 3 or 4 OBEs in my life where I’m out of body in outer reality without little or no dream or inner elements present, what I’d call being an independent invisible spirit in the material world.

An article I’ve posted on my personal blog, “The Epic of Man”, is one that I do take as proof I’m going out of the body and not just having a ‘strange dream’, and you would too if you have confidence I’m not lying or exaggerating, but only there time travel is involved, and it’s inner body travel, not a journey in the outer world, though it more substantially shows that the consciousness can leave the body and travel than in a regular OBE. If you chalk it up to ‘coincidence’, then you’re not only grasping at straws to keep your faith in the materialism of science intact, you’ve crossed that line where you put your beliefs over reason itself. Read it.

By Jujutacular (Own work) [GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html) or CC BY 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons
By Jujutacular (Own work) [GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html) or CC BY 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0)%5D, via Wikimedia Commons
Returning to the story of this OBE, I’d gone with some friends to a state natural area in Texas called Enchanted Rock, a dome-shaped “425 foot pink granite batholith”[i] that just juts up out of the landscape almost like something from another world. Local Indians, the Tonkawa, had named it that because of a legend that a Spanish conquistador had cast a spell on it, making ghost fires glow at the top, and because they believed spirits roamed the place, and if you hear the haunting winds whistling around it, you might yourself feel that to be true. Whatever’s the case with why they named it, or the story we have today why they did, I believe the Native Americans knew the place to be a portal, a power spot on the earth where the fence of matter has a hole in it, making it possible to travel ‘elsewhere’.

I’d gone with the intention of inducing an OBE and going to the moon. I know that sounds ridiculous, but I’d had many OBEs in my life and had done some experimenting with it, and it’s only natural to want to try and leave the earth eventually, and the moon is the most obvious and natural first target to attempt to reach. I’ve heard others who have honed these skills try the same. I was sleeping with three other people in a tent in the campground of the park, near the foot of the mountain, and I awoke in cataleptic trance, or sleep paralysis as it’s known now that the state is talked about on the net, usually as something to fear and get out of as quickly as possible, because of the ominous presences often felt or seen in that state.[ii] I’ve found it to be a state, where, among other things, it’s easy to leave the body. I’ve only once been able to lay down with the intention of going into cataleptic trance so to leave the body, though many times if I awoke in the night anywhere near the state I could relax and bring on the full McCoy. What killed my mastery over inducing the state was a metaphysical accident I had a few months after this present story I’m telling; I conjured a demon and had to deal with that and learned there really were fearful things lurking in our bed sheets.[iii]

Studying ancient literature about the exploration of consciousness, what I did to get a handle on what I’d experienced with that demon and other inner experiences I was having, I found those presences that present themselves in cataleptic trance and lucid dream to be called guardians of the threshold, what you  have to overcome in order to go further in your exploration, like a test you have to pass, whatever they themselves think they’re doing there, but I never have been able to get back to such mastery as to be able to lay down and induce the state. Now I’m doing sadhana, spiritual practice, and I don’t focus on ‘powers’, as they are called in yoga, and so both my experience of cataleptic trance and OBE have waned, but when it’s called for by my practice, and it seldom is, I leave my body, usually for a specific purpose.

Getting back to that enchanted rock, I had no trouble going out of my body, something you learn if you have enough practice doing it. I simply use my will and rise up out of it. I was just above my body and had a thought about seeing the tent from the outside, and suddenly I found myself well away from the tent up closer to the mountain about 20 meters above the ground. In inner exploration (though here it’s more like being on the inside in outer reality) where you put your will, which might just be thinking about something or someone, is where you will go or attempt to reach, why it takes such focus and concentration to explore consciousness. You really have to have a handle on it.

The moon was nearly full, waxing or waning I don’t remember, and I became excited when I saw that I’d done it, was a free spirit floating in the material world, what I figured I had to be in order to leave the earth. I’d tried to go just into space free of the earth in a lucid dream a couple of years before, and I realized I’d have to do it in an complete OBE. I didn’t make it then. As I got to the outer atmosphere everything disintegrated, and I awoke in my bed.

What I hadn’t yet fully grasped, though, was the threshold matter. There are thresholds other than the hostile powers, and one quite significant one is leaving the room or enclosed space you’re in. If you don’t have enough focus, grasp on your consciousness, you simply go out of there and into a lucid dream. Obviously leaving the earth is a much larger and more difficult threshold to master, and though I’ve had dreams of being in space or on the moon or Mars, I’ve yet to cross that threshold and actually leave the earth intending consciously to do so. I don’t know the difference between dreaming of that and doing that in waking reality while in the dream or inner state, such as an OBE, but I do feel there is a large or small distinction between the two, but I can’t discount the possibility of finding myself off the earth in dream and really being off it. I suspect our view of the matter is too rigid, and that there aren’t clear cut lines between the planes as we believe. Nature, whether inner or outer, doesn’t draw distinct lines between things like we do. Things often sort of blend into something else, though there are definite boundaries too.

full-moon-krittika

The scene before me with that looming moon was fantastic. As a ‘spirit’, the moonlight seemed to be what the scene was about, not what was creating it but its focus. I looked around me and, to my slight disappointment, saw that there was one difference with waking reality. Though my friends in the tent were all sleeping as though the tent was there, curled around its walls, my body too, there was no tent. Other than that I was the free spirit I wanted to be. I looked up at the moon and willed myself up, going up very quickly, faster and faster, and just as had happened in that aforementioned lucid dream, as I got to the threshold of space the scene before me disintegrated, but I don’t think it was a lucid dream I found myself in but a dream experience, what in the integral yoga means you actually go somewhere in the inner fields and don’t just dream you do, intending to or not.

I found myself looking at a clearing in an old growth ancient forest, the full moon shining upon the scene illuminating it with moonlight’s coolness. I didn’t have a physical presence. Sitting in the middle of the clearing was a beautiful middle aged woman. Her hair style was quite distinctive, very intricate braiding that’s too complicated to describe, and she wore simple but adorned natural clothing. She was sitting on some sort of chair or stool I couldn’t see because all around her and on her were the animals of the forest, birds, butterflies, squirrels and things on her body like living decorations, larger animals as near to her as they could get, as it was evident they loved her and she them. The clearing was full of animals, predator and prey alike, but there was no strife. They just wanted close to her, and so did I.

She was smiling the sweetest and wisest smile I’ve ever seen, smiling at me, and with mirth sparkling in her eyes she said simply, and I remember her exact words, “You’re on the right path. Don’t turn to the right or left, and take baby steps.” Then the scene faded suddenly, and I awoke in my body inside the tent.

The path I was on, and still am, though I’m a sadhak of the Integral Yoga of The Mother and Sri Aurobindo, was what I called at the time the personal growth process towards wholeness and healing, and my focus was inner exploration. It would bear mentioning that for me I didn’t take up the spiritual path for realization but for healing with an impossible disorder I relate in poems, stories, and articles on my personal blog.

In order to prepare for the moon shot, I just stopped all vital indulgences, rigidly, the vital in our yoga the life-body of the impulses, desires, emotions, and preferences, what usually in a sadhana gives the trouble, more than the mind and body, the two other instruments of the lower being. My main indulgence at that time was grass, and I’d stopped smoking it for the duration of my attempt to reach the moon.

Grass for me has been an indulgence, accelerator, and a medicine. The powerful spiritual experiences I had at the beginning of my sadhana were partly triggered by it, except the finding of the soul, where I wasn’t stoned because I was deep inside a night’s trance. I don’t call it a sleep because, though it’s the same state, there I was conscious. Lucid would neither be what I was because I was no longer in dream but had gone all the way through it via a dark ‘tunnel’ and was no longer in this universe or this type of existence but in spirit, the well of soul, a journey I took some months after this OBE. The story is in the works and will be posted on this blog upon its completion if I do actually complete it.

Lately, pot has only been an indulgence and a medicine, the latter since it stops nausea and vomiting and eases stomach pain, and I’ve have a serious mysterious stomach condition. It also helps accelerate having spiritual experiences, if you know how to use it that way, but not for a permanent realization, though anything is possible in the wide conditions we find ourselves in. I see it now more as an immaturity than as an aid. My muse said, when it first started some 15 years ago, when I was a daily pot smoker, that “pot can take over any nature there is,” and I’ve found that to be true. The Mother doesn’t like it, and so, after not listening to her about it all these years, I’ve stopped using it even for a medicine, learning to rely on inner things as opposed to outer remedies, mainly the Mother’s force, what Douglas inspired me to do, since he’s looking into that for resolution of his chronic pain. It’s not a denial. It’s simply time to do that. When you reach such times with indulgences, you simply know it.

The earth mother, whom I feel that woman was, wasn’t telling me to give up pot at that time, or anything else. She was saying something in very simple language that I can’t explain no matter how many words I use: neither denying your desires nor simply indulging them. My latest story on my personal blog, “Clambers on the Mountaintop,” about posting poems on Mt. Sinai in Egypt, goes into that idea in great detail, but, as much detail as I give, I still can’t put that idea into concrete language, but the attempt, I feel at least, is worth the read. That story  takes place some years after this one, and it was the earth mother that planted the seed that had me planting poems in Jerusalem, Mt. Sinai, and the pyramids at Giza. Now those seeds and poems are flowering, and I understand what she told me, but I can’t give you that understanding. I can only tell you the story, taking my time to do that, 25 years, because the last thing she said is as important as the other two, what I needed to hear because I wanted the moon, and wanted it now. You see I didn’t get it. I may try again at some point, but when and if I do it’ll be the right time.

[i] http://tpwd.texas.gov/state-parks/enchanted-rock

[ii] Douglas, who I share this blog with, discusses this on the post “Bed Hopping With the Hostiles”.

[iii] That story’s also related on this blog, “Breaking Silence, Careful to Stay an Apparition”.

Your Horsemen Are Already Here

me coming in door
photo: Dhina

Your Horsemen Are Already Here

Our dreams are scattered not only with the present and past, but also the future. That’s usually hard to see until the thing predicted happens, and even then you have to be able to interpret the symbols of the future in dream to see it when it does manifest. I’ve done dream work on four continents, in many different cultures and religions, and I’ve seen it over and over. In my nonfiction story “Behind the Mask Jerusalem, the Journey of a Thousand Tongues”, posted on my personal blog, I give a very clear example of a dream of the future that is cloaked in symbols, since dream is from our creative reflex and doesn’t usually say anything outright but tells a story of the story that will manifest at some point in waking reality, usually quite soon, but not always. About three weeks ago, however, I had a precognitive dream that wasn’t hidden in symbols, and though it wasn’t an exact rendition of the waking reality event, it was close enough to have no doubt it was precognitive dreaming, and even before the event occurred, I was waiting for it to happen. It did last week.

I dreamed I was in my room, and a person came in and told me someone very special to me was at the door, that they’d brought them, some close relative I hadn’t seen in a long time. I went into the living room of my apartment, which was a little different than the one in waking reality, and at the door was Midhun, my one and only yoga student, who had moved to another city about a year ago. When I saw him there was a dream shift, and the scene changed, as though the piece of ‘dream ground’ he was standing on wasn’t dream but waking reality, although there was a glow to it, and that glow was his presence, like it was actually him standing there. I was surprised to see him, and we hugged, and when we did I started to become lucid but woke up before I did.

About 2 weeks after the dream I was in my room, and someone came in and said someone had come to see me, was at the locked gate downstairs waiting to be let in, and it was Midhun, the person telling me that knowing it would be a surprise, and I’d be happy about it. I sent someone down with the key, but it took some time, and so I went out to open it myself, but there he was at my front door exactly like he’d been in the dream, and we hugged and had a short but fruitful three hour visit.

Now, I’d sent him a Facebook message a few days after my dream telling him about it. He’s in school and a teenager, and his parents don’t want him traveling here alone, why I haven’t seen him for so long. You could say my telling him the dream made him come, but he came on family business, something that happened on the spur of the moment, though he probably took the opportunity given him to come when it finally presented itself. In any event, the conscious power behind dream knew that opportunity would come, and the events of the dream itself were an obvious rendition of waking reality, making it such a clear example of the future in dream.

A dream connection like that we don’t just have with anyone. I’ve been in his dreams for the past three years, and he in mine, my muse too, and it was dream that brought him to me to begin with. For reasons I relate elsewhere, my function on the spiritual path is not to do the usual and become a teacher, and so I don’t accept students. When he showed up at my door the first time he wanted to talk to me about superpowers. He was 14. I laughed and talked to him a bit and sent him on his way. Then he returned a few days later and told me of a dream he’d had where I was his teacher. I explained again I didn’t accept students. Then he came again telling of another dream where I was his teacher, and I refused again, though I told him a couple of stories I tell the young people here, what had brought him to me to begin with since he’d heard about it. But he was persistent, and the next time he came I’d had a lucid dream about teaching him, and it’d come up in my muse, and so I agreed, but I told him I wouldn’t be his teacher, just his coach, and that the teachers would be The Mother and Sri Aurobindo, who my teachers are.

He advanced rapidly, too fast, and in a short time he was having lucid dreams and inner contact with deity, vibration in the heart and head, a little of the inner voice, and by the time he left he was having out of body experiences, but I didn’t focus him on those things. I was giving him the tools to find his soul and God. By that time he was being pulled into trance in the late mornings in school, and he was experiencing changes in his consciousness, and it scared him a little bit, and just when he learned not to be afraid, his family moved unexpectedly to another city. Obviously he needed time to assimilate all that he’d learned, and so the conscious power behind reality arranged for that to happen.

Even though I told him I would only be his coach, in practice I became his teacher, and that’s a relationship on the level of soul when it comes from within like it did with both of us, and so the connection between us in dream in very strong, as evidenced by the precognitive dream being so close to what happened in waking reality and the realness of his presence in the dream. We don’t hear about these kinds of precognitive dreams very much because the dream connection has to be quite strong, and they happen more in private I imagine, like between spiritual teachers and their students.

I will close by saying that, although for all practical purposes I’m his spiritual teacher, I’m still ‘coaching’ him to the real teachers, the Mother and Sri Aurobindo, and as for the future, I think I’ve shown that, not only the future of our relationship (that there’ll be more inner connection and outer meeting), but also that the future is here among us already if we can but see it. Dreams are the most readily available portal for that, and you’re actually seeing it often and just don’t realize it. When, however, you have a dream like I describe here, and it comes true, you begin to.

A Soul-dialogue Between a Poet and the leader of Islamic State

(What ISIS has let rear its head, what’s in the pit of humanity)

Believe me you need some introduction to what you’re about to watch. The dialogue, in the form of a poetry video (at bottom), is probably the most gory-graphic video using real-life footage you have ever seen, more graphic than ISIS videos themselves because it uses many clips from their videos, most often the worst parts. Why in the world would I make something like this? Why would you want to watch it? I’d say both are needs, and it’ll take some explaining as to why.

They pride themselves on their videos, act as though they’re creating art, mistaking commercials for art just like most everyone else does, and one of their major past times is reciting and writing poetry, as if they are cultured people, we the barbarians with our electronic escapist past times, our porn, but from what I’ve seen of their stuff, they have even less of an idea of what poetry is than mainstream contemporary English poetry, which seems to me to have only the faintest idea.

It would bear mentioning that the poem you’re about to listen to is a complete break from the poetry of today, and, though it embraces the spirit of the poetry of the past, that of it that it looks deeper or beyond the world, it’s a break from the past too – a new and genuine style. I can’t tell you it’s poetry in the sense of the word, but I can say I’ve created something uniquely different in poetry and claim it’s a style. I should also mention that it’s a style that requires multiple readings, or viewings as is the case here, and that’s an element of its style, and there’s no way to convince you it’s worth that much attention other than to say you probably won’t understand much of it the first time you see it, or maybe even the second, but when you begin to, you’ll be in a position to see something’s coming in from beyond the world. That’s a big payoff.

I don’t know if and how you feel the world, but I feel it like it’s me, identify with it, and this is because of a long process of development that came about as a result of healing myself of wrongdoing, and so it’s no saint’s boast. It’s the degree we feel others like unto ourselves that determines the harm we cause others, and all of us cause harm because none of us yet have a ‘world consciousness’, where the identification is so complete you do no harm at all in thought, word, or deed, but we can be on the way to one. I’ve opened to the world and feel it acutely, and right now on it at the places ISIS is, the harm is reaching holocaust-pain, points of it here and there, and I feel it.

So, since I make videos too and aim for art, and I write poetry and aim for the word, I decided to write this poem and make this video and show ISIS themselves and at the same time what art and poetry is, a very tall order to fill, but I don’t write poetry and make videos like most do. I bring down verse from overhead, inner regions directly above us, and I listen to my soul. All of the poem (music too, another element) and much of the video is inspired. It came from within, inner voice and vision, the kind that takes trance or sleep to get to because you have to get past the waking thinking mind. I can only tell you that I did my best as a listener and seer, and what I chose to keep, and what I chose to throw away, and what I chose to focus on, were what my muse wanted, what I call my inspiration. My thinking mind was held mostly at bay. Whether or not my muse has created art and poetry, that I’m at a place of artistic and poetic maturity where it can, at this point I really can’t say. That will be for time to tell.

I also want to show what’s going on, so you can feel it. We are desensitized to violence we see so much of it virtually, or so it’s said. It’s my view that if we really saw it, saw in the seeing what it does to everyone involved, victims and victimizers alike, and in that seeing identified with that harm, then being shown violence would help and not hurt because we’d feel it, and we don’t like those feelings, and we’d go about to put an end to what causes them or at least give strong moral support and goodwill towards such an end. My attempt here is to show violence in that way, so that it will heal and not harm, and I’m speaking of harm harm, not being offended over a graphic video.

I don’t like those feelings either, do not enjoy watching gore, and making this video was a task I did not relish nor even want to complete. I was in and out of the hospital throughout, experiencing intense physical pain (in the solar plexus, where we field what comes to us from the world), and so I can tell you that I feel it, and if you don’t, don’t feel the horror of some of the moments in those parts of the world especially ISIS and those like them are occupying, then you need to watch the video because you need to see this, even if you don’t want to. Why should art always make you comfortable and relaxed?

It’s what I call an electronic graffiti poem, which is slightly different than street graffiti because in e-graffiti you always aim for art and because your art isn’t defacing whatever wall or property. It aims to compliment whatever painting, photo, video, webpage, what have you, to fit so well it appears inevitable. It’s working for a higher culture free from all that harms us, has that in its eyes: the healing power of the soul, in this instance that power is directed towards Islamic State, especially al Baghdadi, its leader, and it takes the form of poetic seer-vision which includes past, present, and future. The future, however, is pretty hit and miss in seer-vision, but even if the predicted future is wrong, there’s some soul-story being told that bears listening to and interpreting. In this video poem the future is not engraved in stone. A lot like street graffiti, the video’s warning people about something, that if they don’t open their eyes, change, something terrible will happen to them. It’s warning Islamic State.

E-graffiti also, by it’s very action, is calling for change in the copyright laws just as it’s calling for social change, and when there’s significant change in the former away from a self-centered sharing towards sharing for the betterment of humanity, they’re be change walking swiftly towards social revolution . It’ll be art, as I see it, that will change the world, not politics, science, or even religion – because it can do at the drop of hat what religion can rarely do: reach your soul. Art from the soul is a collective endeavor as this video poem is. I created it mostly myself, but I recorded the music in a studio, and I had the help of my household taking some of the photos and videos and the help of an artist friend to film the guitar playing and perfect ending, and I have to say, using all the different artwork I did, it felt like I was carried on the shoulders of many an artist, carried in the arms of many a soul.

It’s obvious ISIS needs to be stopped, and that will take military action (It has to be said it was the wrong use of that that helped cause ISIS in the first place.) That’s the way we deal with human evil: destroy it and get retribution. We stop evil. We don’t heal it. ISIS will be stopped, but will it be healed? By that I mean the root causes in a particular incident of evil are exposed and uprooted so that everyone involved and alive is healed of the situation, victimizers and victims alike, and if such healing were to happen in any particular situation it would insure eventually and inevitably such barbarity in the name of religion no longer happens, anywhere. Only the soul has the power to do that. But soul healing is very different from how society heals if society even tries to heal a situation. The soul uses compassion and understanding as opposed to hatred. And it not only allows for mistakes, they are an integral part of the process.

How can it do that and at the same time address evil head on so to both stop it and heal it? By the power of the soul. This video is an example of that. It’s also an example of how to deal with the evil of other people: you point the finger at your evil at the same time, and you speak as directly to them as possible, or try to, so to be a friend, but one that will except nothing less than their friend’s best. In fact, if the need to address someone’s evil out there in the world does indeed come from the soul, the match will be perfect, and you will be trying more to save them than destroy them. You’re on their side too, not only on the side that’s trying to stop it. Your goodness goes full circle; you’re not only good to the good but to the bad too. We haven’t learned this yet, but it’s the only way to stop human evil once and for all.

You might imagine it will take us a thousand more years to realize that. I do hope not, but it seems human society in general, not just ISIS, is flirting with barbarism, that old evil we been trying to eradicate since day one, the beast in us, with the advent of the internet and the bringing to light of all our dirt that entails. But what we don’t understand is that self-righteous, another old evil but not recognized as one, causes as much harm as evil itself, if not sometimes more. Isn’t ISIS operating from self-righteousness? They don’t think they’re evil; they think everyone else is. In that they are just like all the rest of us.

At any rate, I hope you understand this example I provide. I’m providing it because my own personal change from a bad man to a better one has reached the point where my healing and the world’s healing conjoin. I’d rather not post this if you really want to know, since I’m a sitting duck, and it has the potential to destroy my home and family. It’s not ISIS I’m concerned about harming me though; it’s all good people good only to the good, maybe even you. I should hope not, but if push does come to shove this is self-sacrifice. When it is genuine, people eventually validate your sacrifice and except it, not everyone, but those in touch with their humanity and with their soul. I would ask for compassion and understanding. Will you give it to me? Give it to ISIS too, even if you’re a soldier required to kill its members. There’s a way to do that from the soul, their soul, your soul, and the world soul. Coming from the soul, you don’t soil yourself, and you meet the soul need of the person you must fight. But you can’t come from the soul until you find it, and it’s the most hidden part of us. Only slightly hidden in the poem video is how to do that, find the soul.

Donny