The world let me come to your room.
a poet’s met greater listening.
Now what did he fish?
I’m not in your reach before.
What is the moon?
Symbol for where I am,
To help you cross the night.
death takes a terrible moment to calm down.
Now I touch you with the real.
I am a dead speaker.
The suicide bomber changes its space,
and everything right now
A story about how long it is.
Give rise to future presentations.
I cry to your hand.
Look at me.
My water, oh no,
I’m sorry to act.
Disappointment knows no greater sum.
Give me the light
of your understanding,
and I’ll give you changed view.
The service there to act the middle road to stars,
the courage there to act.
Each man has a fear, love, dread, and pull to the extreme.
We feel ourselves so different from one another.
The problem’s building the people to be a church
so I can blow people up.
Man is a kicking gale a dozen kicking gales like him.
Can you understand why?
The small raft that conceals us all in bodily harm,
what I was to become in search of myself,
a big wall of religious separation between us,
and the grizzly bodies of adolescents to 13 men to find,
it’s not a secret the whole flesh can discover.
Death was not in my hands.
I exploded immediately.
their voice right there.
We had a pay together.
It wasn’t bright and sunny.
Can we show you nonexistence?
I think I touched her.
You’ve got to fear.
Oh my God,
every finger accusingly sat at me.
This was no paradise.
There are realms in death you understand.
More order came.
I guess all went off to their private lesson.
I winked into hell.
All my mountain said no.
We lingered there.
It was my own order I made myself.
Please arrive me out of terror.
There lessons learned,
deep dark secrets you who understands.
A light found me thinking.
I grasped my neck to myself
and began to see.
I vanished hell.
On my journey I rose to you.
I’ve come up to my Faith.
As it doesn’t have one of the goals reconciliation
this is where Mohammad messed up.
The others I must also treat with light.
To grow oneself in mercy good idea.
Treat them with kid gloves even bad people.
The nature of the Prophet cannot be seen by your calculations.
It is hidden,
in a sense,
This sometimes assailed him,
Have to take apart anger.
I was just mad at you.
Through so much deception and web
the heartbreak was crouched around a day of killing,
terror hush, terror deep.
Tearin’ a hole in the fabric
of what death open
I am the author of a little child of the Furies,
a fierce cartoon within the page of my own age.
Every word easing the spear.
Not a secret a baby can tell.
Muslim doesn’t even talk about Muslim.
God is the veil at which he lowers his eyes.
Adam used to tell his name
unto his soul.
Let me release an air of sin
this cell from within,
right where they told me to explode.
It’s time for them to know:
all the way they cut truly in to a child’s deep identity.
Behind me the spear gave lesson.
I was sleeping –
There are some things that result in our hatred.
These things are ugly on us.
If you can tell the victim in the victimizer
stop the hatred.
That’s the first thing the very first.
No one else can listen.
No one else has ears.
The best place the time would be now,
to bring us into the 21st century.
The future writes this very slowly.
It’s now on the city conscience of Europe, Asia, Africa, and the United States.
In my last post, “To View the Hunting Design of Mourning”, I examined dreams of the suicide bomber of the Brussels Metro that seemed to show a contact with the heaven of Islam that gave him a divine sanction to carry out his mission. Over the course of years, I’ve had a contact with that heaven that’s of a very different nature, one not from Allah or angels but from a dead suicide bomber. It’s in the form of a poem in which he’s the speaker, and so it’s his words filtered through my creative reflex, put in my language and style of poetry, one which continued to develop over the course of time it took to complete the poem. I haven’t received it out of the blue, just because I had an inner opening that could receive it, nor because I was some good person chosen to show his bad. Whatever we hear or see in vision in regards to other people has a bearing on our own lives, is something we need to see and hear so to become better people ourselves, that someone else a mirror we’re looking into to help us change. This is true for both (inspired) poets and prophets, something neither they nor the people that quote them seem to understand.
The first lines of the poem came among the first lines I received once my muse turned on like a flood, which was in South America in September 2001, and it took me awhile to see the bomber’s voice out of all the muse I was getting. By the time I got to Paris, several months later, I did recognize that distinct voice and organized the scattered lines into a poem, and more lines came, and this earlier form was submitted to and rejected by The Atlantic and Poetry. My muse edited it after, adding more verses and individual lines, and I continued to work on it slightly until I posted it on my personal blog in 2015, after submitting it a few more places. The majority of the poem, however, the core, came in those few months after 9/11, as did many lines about Islamic extremism, mixed in with lines about the world harm I have caused, all of which I included in a prose/poetry manuscript I wrote for The Atlantic (never submitted) on the island of Crete in 2002 called “Civilization and the Art of Terror” or “The Inspired Word”, which will remain unpublished, though it’s a source of organized muse I draw from from time to time.
Last week, as I was meditating at the Samadhi of the Mother and Sri Aurobindo, I heard the lines “That’s got my name on it. / Perfect,” and then I saw a light blue curtain blowing slightly, and then I saw the face of Sri Aurobindo, the age he was in the last photos taken of him, the outline of his face highlighted, and he was right in front of me looking directly at me. I was then told to wait before boosting the poem, to do some purification first, told in lines of muse, the vision of his face having faded. At the time I interpreted that to say the poem would be seen as something he’s behind because I’m his disciple and because of what I’ve written about inner contact with both he and Mother in regards to my poetry and writing in general. Although the muse said “perfect”, it said it a little while after hearing the first line, enough time to make me realize I didn’t want to drag his name through the mud, since I’m considered the worst kind of person on the planet, a minor attracted person. I sat there afterwards and let that sink in. It took the ego out of it, and I’m sitting here now not wanting to be in the shoes I am, but I think I understand.
Do you? Maybe it’s the bad man that can truly show us human evil and how really to end harm, rather than who we normally think can, a good person’s that been burned by bad. To see what I’m saying you’d have to understand higher than good and evil and more integrally than there’s this bad person harming society, understanding that for us to climb out of our wrong we need the goodwill of a good number of people because it’s not something we can do all on our own, why, when it’s all said and done, this suicide bomber’s speaking and why I am. To speak in the terms of the spiritual path that I follow, you’d have to understand something of the great difference between the Supermind and Overmind, the very different ways from each other in which their processes work, to see why someone such as myself would be perfect to post what I’m posting as an outgrowth of my sadhana in the Integral Yoga.
Who this suicide bomber is and what bombing he’s talking about I don’t know, but there are vague references that would seem to indicate the attack happened in Israel and killed mostly young people. He describes an after death process that would take a long time by our reckoning, but heaven can open windows on time we cannot, and so this could be what to us would be a voice from the future. It’s important to understand this is a single bomber speaking, with all the things personal to him that would entail, and so each suicide bomber would have a different story of why they became one as much as their general fate in the afterlife would be along the same lines as the one speaking in the poem.
This poem needs to get into the right hands, and as of yet it’s not gotten into even a handful of hands, other than the editors who’ve rejected it and a few other people, and so I pick it up again and try its hand here. Does anyone out there have ears? If you do, please share this poem. Its license is Creative CommonsAttribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs.
Recently here at Harm’s End we were able to finally do something we’ve wanted to do for a while which is upgrade our satsung room with some dark blue carpet and a fresh coat of white paint on the walls. We also got some nice meditation cushions, and the final touch was some nice pictures of the Mother and Sri Aurobindo to hang on the walls.
To get the pictures Donny and I went to a place in town called Harpagon Workshop, which is a department of the Sri Aurobindo Ashram, and which has a very large photo gallery with thousands of pictures of Sri Aurobindo and the Mother of all different sizes. In addition to shopping for the satsung room, I was also on the lookout for one more picture for my room, one that would be directly across from me as I’m sitting in my chair. Shortly after we arrived at the gallery one picture really popped out at me of the Mother standing at the top of a staircase. I was drawn strongly to the picture, and thought it would be good one for my room.
Later on, as Donny and I were admiring the picture newly hung on my wall, he told me that this particular photo was the first image he ever saw of the Mother. It had been on the cover of a book called The Sunlit Path, which is a compilation of the Mother’s writings. I was also already familiar with the photo as well as that book, but Donny told me something I didn’t know about it, and that was that it was taken on the Kali Puja day when the Mother came down the stairs, and then gave blessings to all the ashramites. I found that very interesting since I had drawn the card that represents Mahakali1 that day from The Eternity Game, and I took it as confirmation that this indeed was the photo that was needed for my room. I also thought this could herald more involvement from that particular aspect of the Divine Shakti in my sadhana which is good news since the name of that card in The Eternity Game is ‘Power’ and its aspects are ‘Transformation’, ‘Rapidity’ and ‘Height.’ In the description of the card Medhananda states that:
Her way is a rapid transformation by the sudden and immediately effective removal of all obstacles opposing her divine will.2
For that to happen though:
she insists that we take our seat on the highest heights of our consciousness; only then can she shatter our limitations and smallness. Only when our aspiration mounts like a flame will she remove the enemies from our path.3
So getting Mahakali’s help isn’t easy, but maybe I’m nearing the point where that sort of decisive and irrevocable help is possible. I hope so. I did have one experience of Mahakali’s help a year or so ago on a day when I was caught up in a strong movement of anxiety. I had drawn the Mahakali card for that day and remembering that prompted me to call on her for help. It wasn’t instantaneous, but shortly after that the anxiety quickly lifted leaving me feeling peaceful. That wasn’t the end of my trouble with anxiety, but it showed me the possibility of Mahakali’s intervention.
It bears mentioning as an endnote to this post that after these events occurred I saw they would make a good article showing synchronicity, and had been planning to write it over the coming weekend. On Saturday I also drew the Mahakali card, which prompted me to follow through on writing the article, and I also took it as a sign that writing it was timely and fit with my process.
Notes and References
Mahakali is one of the four aspects of the Divine Mother referred to by both Sri Aurobindo and the Mother in their writings and talks.
He broke down and cried.
When I was theirs.
Do you have any idea what this does to you?
Couldn’t get me enough.
in the skills necessary to be with children
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.
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 –
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 my dad 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, and in the context of an integral soul healing, there needs to be time for only the soul to be the supervisor, else integral healing doesn’t happen, only a limited healing based on being supervised. In some cases, with virtuous pedophiles, ones who don’t sexually abuse kids, supervision just means the people around you need to be heads up, not watching you every minute, 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 desire 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 (when the kids are immediate or close family obviously there will be arrangements made, but within the context of the care of the 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 the voices and visions are healing me, leading me to the path of goodness.
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.
Right by the restroom
not ready for relaxed supervision.
I got it all under control.
That should warn you they shouldn’t be alone with kids.
There’s no formula,
I’m sorry. I’m sorry indicates
Basically I can climb a tree.
whoever wants to be alone with a child
who’s ever ready
doesn’t like kids,
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]