Hey John Coward,
me too coming.
Standing on the train.
where is she:
is this a science
or is this evidence?
You look for invigorating theories
brought on by the catchphrase word.
Delve deeper and you might find life.
What’s this habit here?
Only outward tuned.
Tell me you don’t know anything:
it’s all conjecture, guess, and patchwork answer.
Evangelize this uncertainty.
All that can be known is in your little book.
Gimmie that a second;
it says you’re at
a larger historia
than right here taking an inventory of what I’m saying.
Behind closed doors
a muscle romance with dawn
tells your inner life with dream.
Behind walls of thought
you are rounding
Open your inner life,
spend time there.
Where is the key?
In the realm of your bed,
around the neck of dream
and other things during sleep.
Pour over the books there like a university.
No way –
I see it.
Superstition idn’t it?
Science’s armchair here?
Science can’t reckon there.
we got here.
for the smell of God at your door.
Oh you laugh and say smile?
Don’t try to shut up the bottom mile
Alight lookin’ good Brenda.
Still study your cat.
Bank it on the lips of dream
the rest of it.
Originally posted with the title “See Beyond the Peon” and without the last verse as a comment to the BBC Magazine article Point of View: "Ghosts and the Material World", May 5, 2013. It came via the inner voice.
In a sunny corner of remote earth
the bite of it all
This was in Nature’s plan.
Green-gold it moved.
This conducted harmony
operating on discords –
not a packaged plan,
neither from the stars.
It brought in cities beyond the universe.
We bask in its revelry –
a riot of God
on lone isles of trust.
Wonderful it wore shoes.
Naked impulse did not light its lamp.
it brought all to bear on noontide.
Light held its room.
Yes, we sing in darkness’ lair.
We deliver anthems
without knowing on which we rest.
It came to us unclothed,
and we saw naught but sin.
What distance orthodoxy
from all that abounds in this place.
This poem came complete via the inner voice while I was sitting and waiting for a room darshan on Mother’s birthday at the Sri Aurobindo Ashram in 2015. It was originally posted in the old blog of Douglas and I, The Chipmunk Press. It bears mentioning that I went to the Samadhi the next day after writing the poem and inwardly asked where I should put the poem, and I heard my muse answer:
To the question in Sri Aurobindo's room:
are you there?"
In whatever comes our way.
After eighteen seasons it’s so funny though.
I bet you
Leave the characters alone.
We’ve a back part.
Halfway finished you want to throw me away.
It was hard gave him a lawyer.
This is a transcendent poem.
Wait a minute,
is my life short?
It seems you don’t want to think for the psychopath.
You tell me.
His therapists are his words:
I don’t come down easy.
I’m a middle man.
I like killing.
You can see it in their eyes when you shoot them:
life has meaning.
I’m instructed to go.
Limitation’s my ink.
I can’t express the dying word.
My favorite is the surprise face.
They look at me so dumbly.
Maybe it would sound better if you play with it.
I’m laughing in front of their house.
I will take whatever I want.
You give it to me.
I’m not drowning.
I’m a full on power.
Your life gives me whatever I need.
Your life is my answer to life’s boredom.
Man, I’ve had to please,
grovel up to the paycheck.
Man I’m big.
They don’t know what power has come their way.
The person I kill sees my importance.
That’s the way the Gods speak to you sister.
With me have some understanding.
No, I haven’t found Them.
But I will put on after.
It’s gonna be tough
To get him outta there.
There’s the joy of the free ride.
Oh I’m sorry,
The police found your tracks.
I come distinct from them.
You are their calling card.
Some of them,
your attitude they share,
though on a different path.
You kill to fulfill delight.
They do under the guise of duty.
It’s a humiliation law code.
They don’t actually need to kill.
Yeah you know it.
Released from crime,
whose letter’s not interesting or significant,
the psychopath sits in jail and thinks:
contact with other people,
is this the word Kim’s back?
You know all shades of restaurant, right?
I’m glad because you’re going to marry me.
Kim is his split personality.
Kim is slightly easier to get along with.
Kim has a plan in his head:
he can play the game
whilst he’s in prison.
the basest emotions are given free reign.
He just erupts on Ginger Ale.
Meanwhile he has a little house
beyond the reason
unfolding in his soul story.
This house beauty knows the price of.
It is beauty’s tool.
Beauty can find this arm.
This is mastery’s circle.
Those in care of him
did we want there?
Let’s not open our mouth wide.
We can keep him right here.
We can do our level best to control him.
No one is pushing us otherwise.
Why isn’t the government doing something for him?
Oh my God I just had the weirdest look.
You batted my elbow.
Let’s call in the hotshots.
Go out searching homes I’m already home.
And what’s this crime carrier do?
He acts as a closing agent.
He solidifies the type.
It’s his mercy in prison.
I’m mean this guy has feelings.
They’re all sharpened up.
You wouldn’t believe how mercy he is.
Oh I know;
I can’t seem to find mine.
You kill that fish.
Gold is one of the most dangerous places.
My wife distributes many mountain climbers.
But you won’t let him see the mountain
nor marry my wife,
a river whose flow is words.
No one wants to play babe I’m sorry,
no one wants to play.
That refused my song.
I couldn’t bend in the knees.
This is not to your bureaucrat.
This is to that reach in you
that answers prayer.
Anybody can bow to reach a God.
I’m calling on your special stuff.
What’s the time?
What’s this I want?
You forgive me
the hands call
words you don’t like.
That would mean a different arrangement for his answer.
His body you’ve kept in buffalo tape.
The body is getting just to ten.
With the body move on ahead.
Alright time’s up.
Maybe it was too complicated.
I’m trying to tell you
that there’s a river in that man,
a natural born therapist,
that will take him outside the jail house
a lover of humanity.
It looks better with Me inside the point.
I am divinity in Man.
I am his first answer.
The soul is not a piece of plastic.
It has a divine outgrowth.
It calls My name in secret.
It is My pages heal your story.
I know the ways of the world,
am master of existence.
The universe I hold in the palm of my hand.
Its every movement My gaze understands.
The Sun measures My name,
is a symbol for its splendor.
I sit atop this man and await your law to give way.
He will not find Me on his own.
He cannot cargo that answer.
Necessity will not hold his hand.
Handsome him with love,
make beauty his living room,
surround him with those who know their land,
and from behind the heart My representative will sing to him
all the measures of his life
put into harmony’s window.
Hearing this high speech
the Gods will rainbow their messages.
He will be an open vessel for universal lore.
Healing streams of light will come to him from the stars.
The moon will glow in his notebook.
The darkness inside him will not know where to hide.
It will be vanquished with the coming dawn.
This I can do in him
if you let him see his own worth.
I enter the country late
because this man is a monster to you,
and you will not see him home.
Now use lovelier powers
to bend his knees,
ones that call from the house of love.
You have grappled him down in hate.
What a wooden start.
Kid, you murdered a family.
This is who we kill.
All wrapped up in mourning
the family lies slain.
Existence has been robbed of its joy.
That loved one’s face stole the sun.
Madness crawls on their hours threatening touch.
What’s the matter?
My temple is gone.
Here is life’s sweetheart.
We bridge reality with this,
a smile that passes by?
Our loved ones are borrowed customers.
They are characters in a plot.
They sooth our need awhile and move on.
We think them a reality’s ship.
One little curtain closed can undo our lives.
What management is this?
What fools we are prey to death.
The heart has deeper need
than its animal holdings.
We pause here on the brink of life’s meaning.
it’s up to you.
Matter fills every corner.
We cannot surround its view with anything else.
God even is of this make made.
Our understanding of Him is material.
He is a material agent not a spiritual cause
in our view of God acting.
He acts; He moves; He speaks
a material outlook.
God can be otherwise,
but we would have to brush name aside,
see past its formula,
the useful path,
to something larger than name.
There’s a family in these woods.
We can bridge the gap to God.
God can wear their face.
Then we begin to be circled by love,
when God wears every face in the crowd.
The loved one is just a familiar particular,
an intimacy we can hold
Death only rearranges His face.
But God is deeper still.
God has a beckoning plan.
Here, some side paragraphs you should know.
This is deep today.
What are we supposed to do?
Grief, you will have problems there.
Let them know where to stand.
A senseless killing is a teacher still.
Deep it will hold you open to reality.
There is your existence swim:
you can see beyond time.
Life has more fields of study.
We receive again our loved one.
This face in death God wears.
God is a surrounding look.
God is our surrounding cause.
The meaning of life is a parable
these eyes unfold.
My foot’s out.
I can’t keep score.
This poet has found bankrupt as his last measure.
I cannot keep God’s vision in my sight.
These eyes are the toughest to hold.
The Unseen all around us,
the very issue of our existence,
and the world looms larger still.
Our daily bread becomes the story-line,
or a major left in sin.
I had come to speak a word of Silence.
Chaos has erupted in my song.
The killer knows these waters.
He can see no large eye of God.
The world presses in on him
its sideshow of the blind alley scene.
He cannot see out of its dim tale.
Nowhere has he found knowledge close.
All run to a savage dawn.
Man has no larger purpose than this:
there’s a world out there;
Do it now reads the signs
along the roadsides of his life’s little spurts.
All seek the same need,
a vague point lost in advertising.
War rumors his world.
The daily news is a glowing red
convincing you the world’s on fire,
convincing you of your need to fear.
He can read the papers:
every man for himself.
The good that men call society,
he’d seen its vision’s sweep.
Huddled in a little courtroom called monster
he was its prey.
It hung debasement around his neck.
This was where social disease
spread out into the land.
He banked on this loan.
He hoped no greater glory
than to be the system’s plague.
Society would find death in him.
We can vision out this story.
Its huge eyes cry sight.
Where in this is God’s encircling sun?
In the moment you laid eyes on Him.
Can you top this vision?
No measure knows its score.
Error cannot blind its sight.
Error defines it more.
I mean to put reality above God
it results I cry in my own mess.
God shines through his shiny overcoat.
He can wear a mistake too.
Here in harmony’s reach I can clean it up.
A killer’s no less a man.
One key feature is that sometimes you make a mistake life for.
You’ll have to turn yourself save me.
Another orgy from that.
You would threaten?
Up here, alone, encouraged, and again we encounter God.
I am a listening shelf.
The soul is not a sword.
It holds us together.
It is our flight suit.
We pull the answer
all along our heart’s show.
This is our bank card:
the promise of a better land.
The heart is the particular keeper.
It waits on a pull from the outside
to respond to its purpose.
This is not its better arrangement.
When we close off life’s customers,
when we come together on our own land,
alone in life’s cell,
we can manage its whereabouts,
we can find divinity’s room.
This is our soul keeper,
what banks in us on divine gold.
It makes no commerce with life’s heart.
It cherishes only divine holdings.
Our divine outreach,
where we find divinity’s wings,
is a cavern deep and wide,
a long fall to the reach of it.
The flame that you find there
will be the wonder that you seek.
This is the divine representative in Man,
It evolves with our common start.
It waits for union with the soul above,
the divinity we are
high above ourselves.
It is this link,
this psychic fire
that is our spokesman for healing change.
It sings to us that endeavor.
We know no outer managing overview.
This is our directing circle
we write ourselves.
Help me organize this arrangement
happily furnish the need
from divinity’s schoolbook,
a divine name to give you lesson.
It is the soul makes this choice.
Though they seem the Sun itself,
they are not the goal only its keepers.
In time your own Sun will shine through.
I’ve given you direction.
Here you go to process change.
Bring this soul round to the front.
Make the psychic leader of the life.
I don’t know if you understand me but
I’ve shown you where healing can be found.
No, you don’t have to do that,
be under the guidance of a supervising counselor,
undergo any type of special training.
We receive this change alone.
Those on the outside awaiting results,
they do not deliver the baby.
They are support vehicles.
They help manage our affairs.
You will see the soul is particular.
It does not make the same wardrobe for all,
but it does use
a similar vocabulary of symbols
when it talks to us.
Someone who has passed this bridge
– thank you ma’am –
can give us meanings clear.
You don’t want them to stand around.
A little bit different
than a guide,
they keep their noses out of it.
Their sentence help we need with words and phrases.
The whole we do not give to them.
okay I’ve spent
processing this change.
My sight here seemed to call over completely retractable ideas.
comic that look?
Yeah, where is it?
A demon’s laugh is graphic.
will be your growth rate.
A divine smile
has a heartbeat.
you have a top priority,
a process change.
Lore has not this freshness.
Watch the road here.
It’s wide open.
Come to the river half dry
and you won’t be parched enough to hear it sing.
Dry off before you go in there.
Emotionally wet from the world,
we will hear desire’s holdings
if the ears can find the speech at all.
You know where I stand?
Behind your thought.
It is a trance vision
in the proximity of sleep.
You are awake to hear its call.
Inside the bell tolls.
There is no thought to the arrangement.
Thinking disrupts the process.
I’m sorry if listening stills.
We must accustom ourselves to its strain.
You come to it by degrees.
Your life must quiet to its measure.
The field of your difficulties is the better answer
than the retreat getaway.
You want to hear your problems.
This becomes the greater challenge
and the special key:
you quiet your life in the noise of life,
and you process your change in its tromp and strife.
Mastery has its brand here.
I’m a letter on healing nearing its sum.
The listening smile,
calm it brightens its world.
A summit answer,
we cannot process its plenitude.
There’s something wrong.
We can’t get over our outrage.
Debasement lies squealing.
Our basest reactions hold us here.
The psychopath is only a measure of his world.
Society knows no sitting station.
It has no examining review board.
The pack mentality governs its field book.
Disguised as law and due process,
they wreck havoc on human justice.
If it has become more sensitive,
it is because it is more aware of itself,
but revenge is still our answer to crime.
Our ethics have not evolved beyond this.
I sing to you its appointment,
the beginnings of a nobler race.
This has been a longing since the day we were born.
It has smiled upon us from afar
even when we’re at war.
We know this future ours,
however many disclaimers the times show.
I’m telling you it’s cold out there
in this waiting room of today.
Wait until you see society’s sharp teeth.
Then you understand.
Every once in awhile we’ll get a call from them,
the seekers after goodwill
as the governing agent of society.
They have each given formula –
This medicine watch it,
it’s not applicable in time.
Its feet do not touch the hours.
It relies to heavily on outer stress.
We capitulate to the call
of that greater need within,
our hearts calling in stillness
to the reach above,
a medicine we long for.
Being a moment on change,
wonderful that outlook.
Each holds this in store.
The time will bring it home to all of us.
Here, it is within reach.
How can you cry without salt?
What a grim life thou hast gotten a hold of.
They left building a city aside.
They arranged for killing room.
They can’t habit this gown.
Prison has them standing still,
a monster without a head to eat.
We review your killing.
It got menopause.
You deny our circle of trust.
I am the divine buoy in your harbor.
You are rich with sea salt,
carry the load of your number of kills.
There in the sudden door you find him.
It was in a back alley wasn’t it?
He had barbecued his drink.
Death stained his blood.
He said such stupid things.
He was black water.
You burned his ease.
It was a hollow kill.
He wasn’t straight on.
That laughed in your notebook.
We wasted your hour.
You cannot feel what you have done.
Pity you should remember him.
This felt not your power.
Pity you understand.
Let’s leftover this man.
He was not in harmony’s circle.
He thought that you had won.
Death took him by the hand.
He understood at once the reason for beers.
The light brought him out of it.
He’d paid his green card.
There he lay still.
It was a meditative dawn.
His glory is your surprise.
Can you see past dawn?
You thought you’d murdered hope.
We journey to rivers.
This man will see his private hell.
Burdened with this autopsy
hope could lay its hands on him.
Such is the river’s run.
And there we pass out his trust.
On the inside we work a slow outer change.
The epiphany will one day see the Sun.
Put their sleep to school.
Only after they come up with
the only answer to life:
Who am I going to come back to?
Meditative answers are coming.
I give you a lot to think about.
What are we looking for?
You’re in the bigger place.
You want to learn how to study bottom answers,
have a heart in the darkest part,
in feeling catch on.
I take a photo album with me,
those I operated upon.
Find the big change.
It’s in your river bed.
I leave it in your notebook.
You can fieldwork this change,
make it come out.
Guidance your river brings.
This is a crawl hole,
your insistent hostility.
Understand it as other then you.
Understand it as an attitude.
You can pencil it out.
This you have to hold at bay.
It will lessen by degrees.
When we indulge it,
the killing room,
or you just wait for the next victim.
This has us all bottled up inside.
A river can wash it down.
Hey look, come here.
I’m not going to get you for this.
If I ask you
throw it out,
can you do that?
A river answers why
hostility you answer.
Shrimps are eating politics.
That was your father years ago.
Hey children is disturbing.
Can’t live in the greenhouse.
I’ve got a lower angle.
I get physical.
Grab you by the neck I can.
Murder I wrote in the air around you.
You seemed to slip by love.
You had no comforting arm.
Life was a bare blade
to your infant heart.
We meet selfishness from even mother’s hands.
Can you hit the ball?
Some many things to watch.
What so many things?
Your environmental scorecard and your world review,
the inside does what in their presence?
The meaning lay behind the words.
Jump to its scaffold.
How many visions see red?
I can climb down in importance.
Place the notebook in sky hands.
Climb it to the top of the equation.
that’s what it’s coming to,
that high place.
You are a spirit.
God is the value of it.
You almost put me to sleep.
I must be bigger than that.
To the thing that owns me
I throw it out.
A sharp division here.
This man makes a path.
He has risen above his danger issue,
but he is in need of trust.
He could slide back.
If you was justice you would hold my hand.
There his answer waits.
It’s just hard to tell the difference.
If it doesn’t tell deep
it has not understand.
I opened his house on change.
There’s an understanding castle
near sleep he builds.
We come together all along world lines.
We would not want to harm its view.
What’s left to do here?
How finish we gotta go?
You haven’t filled out the map yet.
Where is your food bar?
Cooking for the meat last time.
Now you’ve changed to a diet of soft sand,
what’s this the world’s about.
That has your hat in oil.
It doesn’t leave you peace clean.
You need to be clean.
Of all the knowledge
I gave you
you haven’t come out of the pool yet.
Everything like a boy,
I went ahead and added it.
Get that space off your face.
A remote control
it’s pretty obvious.
You just succumb to influences.
We move towards a deeper circle.
Spirituality issues its day.
Have a plan to remember.
Drink this all day long
crash point to zero.
I would’ve held you all night.
He ran off before I was sleeping.
You should take this point home:
have a hand on desire
no reach there for Me.
To settle fell, interesting of a company member.
Some things are just powerful
and can even overshadow the divine rally.
You want to learn to hold your bread.
Move in the daytime as if I’m beside you.
Sleep as if I’m in your arms.
You choose a way
To put Me in your driving car
so that your thought lights up your process
in terms I am laid down
You have to believe.
My floor not has you sleeping.
Matter is your waking tool.
In this prison you see My consistency.
In My reach you are.
I would certainly want it so.
I’d like to be here.
I’d like to have.
You’ve heard it.
Now you must bring what you hear into your living room.
Focus on the heart.
We bring the soul around to the front.
As a soul you meet the higher stations.
I have given you in peace.
Now it is your work to bona fie its real.
Why didn’t he answer?
He went into the shop.
So I won’t hear what’s up there?
A heart sound
You want to know you’re sorry.
You have a map.
You want to find anything you just
begin to look for it.
Your need will determine here.
Like I said,
The more concentrated,
the more you are put together,
the more you are given room.
I know voice.
I will teach you how to find it.
Now give to Me
your managing equation,
what you snap to in your night of light,
your own accord.
The divine embodied in human everywhere
has given Me a name,
the divine in Man,
a good news.
Have a singing mixture.
Use a strategy.
You get the Overframe:
a divine beauty
sitting in his own
will give you.
Your soul chooses this answer.
A foul use here,
You need to study
and know the difference between a wake song
and a diabolical need.
One smells funny.
It has not the genuine concern.
A quiet demeanor
will be your living tool.
Normally I get off this tape,
this chariot wheel,
and become to you a living frame of deity
your day revolves around.
I am not your frame of worship.
There are two frames here.
God can be your encompassing reality,
your special program of worship.
Name has an order here.
He will grow larger,
as understanding beckons.
Bona fide results of the first ticket:
you find God.
The second no one knows.
The One is this storybook,
a code no idea can crack.
We hear Him a personality in the hours,
that which sustains us,
a half-light nonetheless.
A mystery bigger than creation,
it is God’s tabernacle,
his field of worship.
Even consciousness cannot account for its sum.
There is no greater field of play.
The One is your absolving window.
Your wrong can find reason there.
In its totality quarter
it is the basis of all deed.
Don’t condemn your process to their hands:
we’ll make you pay for this.
They have nothing original to say.
Solution does not open its schoolbook to them.
The payment for your crime
you will dole out in your effort for change.
Such is the master code.
Your will to change is your effective tool and special look.
Regard the world with its purpose.
Come to the garden without this
and you will not enter the gate.
A circumstance is just an opportunity for its progress.
We manage defeat this way.
Understand the need for change
and it comes in your courtyard.
Walk it into your house.
I am its gardening arrangement,
the divine in your own smile.
Look to Me your divine rose.
You wondered a long time without an aim.
You got lost.
I went up to comfort her,
make her feel better.
This is the Principal speaking.
We don’t have the play station;
He has the play station.
You let the killer run lose among us.
I do not arrange his deed.
He is your order run amuck.
This is My witness.
Go to talk with your grandmother,
a divine field book.
Don’t bend your knees before a wooden god.
Life is not your throne.
Let’s keep it
this is no ordinary game.
You are founded on ambush
to show you God in the impersonal hours.
Don’t walk again you’re going to fly.
Don’t worry about it.
There’s proof inside
where the heart of the question lay.
You need to come out of your canteen,
your desire’s arrangement.
I had a holding plug missing.
I couldn’t see for the pollution.
They’re calling you for fifty-nine.
That will be fifty-nine up there.
Wake up that number on you.
We arrive on healing number.
Your field of play is material wealth.
You fail your hours
you’ll have your hydrogen peroxide back.
Buddy this is it,
how to put your foot in the door.
You wanna fly folks
– come on –
through a divine opportunity.
This is exactly
the basis of all our arguments.
We don’t wanna promote any specific religion.
Problems result for everybody.
Yes but if you can process change
you can find you can be diversified.
There’s a unified answer.
You have something to read to us.
You tell us what it is you report on.
This is healing.
A healing outcast
is your ticket on change.
You took it,
the things he held dear:
a place in society,
Was to the point that They came,
and showed him how the rivers run.
He processed hope
that We gave him.
It’s like that.
from its outcast,
will be brought into living picture.
You have a cornerstone here.
So much misunderstanding
when these things hit the streets.
A poem can be disruptive.
I tell them what’s wrong.
This is where I give back.
This is a pedophile’s field book.
all the lights and stuff,
will help the ignorant to see,
or you’ll hate me even more?
I bring home the change,
strands of the common way.
This is another song my soul wrote. Below are the lyrics. It came via the muse, inner voice and vision, over a period of months, usually around dawn one or two sung lines at a time, accompanied by at least the guitar but often with a whole band or orchestra, but not every day and not only at dawn. Often lines are in the voice of a particular famous singer or band, but just as often they’re in my own faulty voice. Sometimes weeks went by without anything for the song, although lines are sung to me in my muse almost daily. I have to center a song and only choose lines that fit. It’s not a cut and dried process, most especially the melody, which, like in this song, evolved over the time it was completed. Characteristic of the multifaceted nature of the inner voice, these lines were not only for the song but were also what I needed to hear and muse over the day they came, things my soul had said, which matched the needs of my sadhana. May the song help you with yours.
Adam used to tell his name unto his soul.
Bid yourself in your mirror.
There are you who you are.
And I know, and I know, and I know
it’ll be my soul.
I am just so tired of crowding around.
Not a single access program of watching process rise.
Feeling sorry for myself living without you
And I know, and I know, and I know
it’ll be my soul.
Getting wrapped by you.
Getting wrapped by you.
I find my religion is all is waking up.
Just strokes and takes my pressures.
Cause I’m livin’ down connected to the world.
And I know, and I know, and I know
it’ll be my soul.
Upon the stone of fortune’s wrath
I live and die a fattened calf.
Here is everybody show ‘em what you’re made of.
And I know, and I know, and I know
it’ll be my soul.
Every second every hour of the day,
Every second every hour of the day,
Every second every hour of the day,
You see touch my soul.
How can I help you do the same?
And I know
I can feeling in your soul.
And I know it’ll be my soul,
on the conscious world, on the conscious world.
And I know it’ll be my soul,
And I know, and I know, and I know
it’ll be my soul.
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]