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An Existential View Of Creation (A JT Hilltop Twisted Tale)

On By Terrapin - The JourneyIn Keith Jaret, The Existential BakerLeave a comment

 

Adam, Eve, A Snake, and A Not So Immaculate Conception

In the beginning the Creator invented seven time periods. He was tired so he made each one 24 hours and called it a day. After a good nights rest the Creator then placed Adam in a garden, yanked out one of his ribs and created the easily fooled Eve to keep him company (as if). The Creator made Eve without the snake appendage that was supplied to Adam so it was decided more of those egg chasing snakes should flourish in the garden. The Cobra leader of those slivering salacious heat seeking missiles had the ability to talk and loved to flirt. This snake was quite a player. A forked tongue sweet talker he was selling his snake oil in exchange for a little piece of fruit. An apple you Weinstein perverts! At any rate (usually based on the hour) this high end slinking pimp of a snake wanted to make a deal with Eve. The very second the deal was consummated Adam fell down. Yes my brothers and sisters, the fall of Man. That’s the story of the Garden Of Eden as I remember it, but what if……….

Went To A Garden Party
In the beginning a number of tribes existed in an area we now call the Middle East. The so-called “fertile crescent” housed two tribes which stood out amongst all other colonies. They had become far more advanced than most other tribes beyond opposable thumbs. These two communities had differing methods of survival both using reason and logic. One tribe, The Aggies, learned how to manipulate the vegetation and grow it at will using soil, sun and water. They were prolific growers who planted the seeds of society. Oh yea, they also planted Cannabis, Wheat, Alfalfa, and a variety of Vegan deliciousness that way in the future would give hipsters GMO free orgasms. The other tribe, The Shepherds, learned how to manipulate the cattle and sheep, goats, and the occasional Chupacabra and penned them up creating a seemingly endless supply of milk, meat, and bestiality. (Lets not even go there) They were prolific manipulators. These two tribes habituated a very large botanical section called the Garden of Eden. Truth be told they did not like each other, but they used their logic and reason to devise treaties and form boundaries which they agreed not to cross. So it was agreed the Aggies could live in the North Eden, and the Shepherds in South Eden. The tribes kept to themselves and all was peaceful and both were prosperous. That is until one seemingly insignificant incident set of a series of events that would change the world forever.
It was a beautiful late morning day in the Garden of Eden when a young male Aggie named Adam decided to take a walk in the forbidden area. The forbidden area was smack dab in the middle of the garden and was chock full of colorful vegetation and mysteries that both Aggies and Shepherds agreed to never entertain. That was their buffer, a patch of land untouched and unused by man. But Adam was a curious adventurous young man with a strong desire to explore, along with other desires he didn’t yet understand. Ergo it wasn’t unusual for Adam to be traveling into the agreed upon DMZ (Don’t Masturbate Zone) but on this particular day Adam came across a small waterhole in which a young lady was bathing in the nude. Not recognizing her from his tribe he assumed she must belong to the Shepherds. Those slightly whiter skinned people who smelled of animal shit which was oddly alluring at times. At first he was turned off by her exoticness but when he looked closely at her he noticed something strange. Aside from her large woman bumps she looked much like he did only fairer in skin and hair but without the appendage that ruled his emotion. She had a pale complexion but much of her face was obscured by long bouncing colorless curls of thick hair. He liked the way her hair looked across her face allowing only her eyes of turquoise which sparkled like evening stars and a tiny button like nose above thick full lips. He began to get a tingling in his loins because he found her oddly attractive. He became entranced as she bathed, water glistening off her white full breasts. The sight of her cherry red nipples made his stomach a tad queasy. But not a bad queasy. He spied her with great delight and even began to wonder if she was like the women of Aggies in other ways. He felt that youthful familiar rising in his loins that cause men to lose control of their senses. He began to wonder if she enjoyed the pleasures of sex in the same manner women of his tribe had enjoyed him. He imagined making wild unbridled passionate love to her. Considering the times perhaps it was bridled sex, but whatever, she made him hard and horny as all….. For lack of a better term, all Hell.
Now he had a specials reason to sneak off to the forbidden place. After quickly finishing his chores each day he would sneak down to the waterhole hoping for a salacious viewing. He watched from the trees as she bathed herself getting himself more horny each day. He stared in awe until one day he got up enough nerve to confront her. “Young maiden of the Shepherds, why do you come to the forbidden place each day by yourself?” The young maiden pretended to be alarmed even though she had been aware of his hiding and staring since his first visit. Frankly, she was just as curious as he was, also experiencing tingles and just as curious about inter-tribal sex. “I come here to bath myself, not to be stared at by an Aggie. Why do you come here every day to stare at me?” The young Aggie gave this some thought, because quite frankly he wasn’t sure himself why he was here. “ I come not to stare at you but to explore the area and determine if the land is fit for growing” he lied. The young maiden blushed slightly when she saw the lust in his dark brown eyes. “Are you sure it is the land you wish to explore? It seems to me you are looking at my body and I believe that is not vegetation I see growing under your loincloth” The audacious young maiden gave him a look that offered more a challenge than a venting of distain. She blinked her eyes at him and something strange happened. He felt a Funny feeling in his stomach as though the seeds he used to grow things themselves were festering from within. He boldly chose to accept the challenge. “It is true that I have gazed upon you and appreciate the uh….. The unusual beauty you possess. Indeed I was hoping perhaps you were an Aggie and perhapswould be my maiden.” The Aggie could feel his entire body shaking and the young Shepherd maiden did not back away. She moved closer to the Aggie. “I am a Shepherd woman, not a dirt laden Aggie maiden. And you young Aggie stud, you are filled with dirt from your farming. If I were to ever consider being a maiden to the like of you I would expect you to be clean. Why don’t you come in here and allow me to bathe you?” It was more of an order than an invitation but that was of no consequence because he had already made his mind up as to where he was headed and his manhood was pointing the way. He approached the watering hole with a mere modicum of trepidation. She held out her hand and he accepted, and the both of them shuddered ever so slightly. He dropped his loincloth and revealed the growth underneath it was indeed not vegetation yet ripe for the picking. He stepped naked into the waterhole beside her. For five minutes they stared and cleansed each other, eyes sparkling with curious wonder. The Aggie closed his eyes and allowed this maiden, this Shepherd woman to touch him all over. When she got down to washing below his waist he was surprised to discover how eagerly his body was responding. The maiden held his solid manpole in her hand. “Methinks my Aggie that you have something other than bathing on your mind.” Unable to form an actual word, the Aggie grabbed the maiden in his arms and laid a big fat spit swapping kiss on her using his tongue muscle very skillfully. This was something new to the maiden, and at first she wanted to pull back. However, once she realized how good the tongue tango felt, she greedily sucked his tongue into her mouth and allowed the saliva filled dance to continue. Well I don’t have to tell you what happened next. Sparks flew and fluids oozed, and soft moaning was the only form of communication. Of course the two lovers understood they braved the scorn of their fellow tribe members by allowing their naked bodies to exchange these biological fluids. But it felt so crazy good they did indeed continue to explore each other and exchange passion and bodily fluids. Four times. It wasn’t until after the fourth round of carnal explorations led to exhaustion that they even introduced themselves to each other. “I am called Adam, which means man.” To which the maiden replied, “Indeed Adam, you are quite the man. More so than any Shepherd I have ever known. My name is Eve, which means life.” With a big fat satisfied grin Adam replied, “Indeed Eve, you have breathed life into me unequaled by any other Aggie I have ever known.”
So Adam and Eve began to meet each other every day and made love like a couple of school kids. But all was not so good back at the tribes. The other Aggies were beginning to get suspicious because Adam never ever seemed to be dirty. How could anyone work the soil all day yet remain free of dirt. And back at the Shepherds they began to get suspicious because Eve was always whistling and showed no interest in even the most handsome of Shepherds. Now it just so happened that the leader of each tribe sent someone to follow their respective suspected tribe violators on the very same day. Once at the watering hole, the Aggie spy hid in the north woods, and the Shepherd spy hid in the south woods. At first the spies were appalled and shocked. But Adam and Eve were both so very sexually talented, and each brought new tricks specific to their tribes that it became more of a show. I believe at least one, perhaps even both had become so excited while watching that they pleasured themselves before retuning to the tribe leaders to give the reports.
The tribe leaders were livid. Furious! How could this possibly happen? It was the most outrageous act that had ever occurred. They both paced, in different colonies yet somehow in unison, until the sinners returned to their folds. The minute Adam returned to the Shepherd village he was grabbed by the biggest and strongest Aggies and brought before the leader. “Adam, I am quite disappointed”, he said, “You have disrespected every member of our tribe by engaging in this disgusting act with a Shepherd woman.” Adam didn’t answer, he just stood there looking sheepish, which for an Aggie was another no no. “You’re despicable act has left me with no other choice. You shall be banned forever from the garden of Eden. Go now, get out and never return. Take your Shepherd slut with you!” Adam sadly walked to his hut to gather his belongings. Inside he saw his best and now only friend. “How did he find out” he asked of this friend. “Well Adam, you were spied on by Cain. He followed you and reported back to the leader.” Adam shook his head and mumbled, “Cain, of course. I should have guessed. That shit spreading farmer is gonna pay for this someday.” And with that, Adam left towards the waterhole hoping to see Eve there one last time.
Eve of course had a similar experience, and she too was permanently banned from the Garden of Eden. Eve was certain it was Abel that had spied on her as Abel had always tried putting the moves on her but she forever denied his advances. Reluctantly she too had to leave, and also chose to have one last look around the sexually charged waterhole in hopes that somehow Adam might be there. As luck would have it, which luck often does in tales, they met at the very same moment and exchanged stories of banishments.
So hand in hand Adam and Eve left the Garden of Eden forever, Adam holding in his free hand the apple the Aggie farmer had grown for her, and eve holding in her free hand Adams snake, which Eve had so totally and completely tamed. So from this little tale of debauchery and scandal, many another story was begot……. TBC
Live and Love in Peace

I Got The News Today Oh Boy….(From Zen and the Art of Culinary Maintenance)

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J. T. Hilltop

Arties Quaalude parties where epic events and tonight’s was one for the records. We partied through the night high on ludes, shrooms, weed, and beer without a clue to what reality felt like. We laughed ourselves into the early morning hours unaware that time even exists. With Ken out of the picture for the night Patrick tried to put the move on Sue but I took him aside and set him straight. No harm no foul, it was the ludes that really gave him such big balls and Patrick wasn’t the kind of guy that would try and screw his friend’s girl. That is to say not without being coerced by a number of Quaaludes and herb. It was getting too late and time to head home so Carrie, Sue, and I headed for the homesteads hoping to sneak in unnoticed. We first dropped Sue off at her house, then Carrie and I hid in the bushes just on the side of her house. We made out for ten minutes and we both wanted to make love, especially with the enhanced desire from the Quaaludes, but doing it on her front lawn was not a good move and it was late and we had nowhere else to go. I gave her one long last passionate kiss goodnight and began my own trek home.
A myriad of thoughts were flooding my head and due to all the pills and weed combined with the shroom trip I began hallucinating wildly. This was not uncommon when you have been trying to maintain until it such a time as you could let it go like say the sanctity of my room. When you let your guard down the hallucinations flowed with the fury and passion of young love. Which by no accident was one of those swirling thoughts on this night. The smile on my face was so huge that my ears had to take a step back and make more room. The delirious joy from the ludes and the spiritual wonder of the mushrooms had begun to hit me in a tag team match. They both took me on at once kicking my ass and it felt unbelievably great. “Jesus shit, nothing in the world could possibly take me down!” But as we have learned the universe has it‘s own agenda.
I stumbled up the driveway feeling absolutely giddy until I noticed the kitchen light was on. “Oh fuck. Someone’s awake, this can’t be good.” I walked into the house sensing an uneasy feeling. That fantasy of life feeling was quickly replaced with trepidation. Maybe the parents found my weed, or I was busted for some dumb ass thing in school. I could hear my Mom whimpering in the kitchen. When I walked into the kitchen the tension in the air was thick as mud. It became obvious Mom had been crying for some time and the old man just stared at the floor with that dumb blank expression on his face he always seemed to have. I did my best to remain cool and not look as fucked up as I was, “What’s going on?” It was a familiar silence, the kind so tense and awkward your ears burned from the lack of noise. My head filled with heat and I was sure it made my face so red a beet would be jealous. Instant buzz kill from Mom’s laser machete chopping eyes swinging her anger at my general direction. Fuck me, don’t tell me they found my stash. But no. This was something far worse. After about 10 seconds of eerie nothingness my Pops broke the spell. “We got a visit from the army. James was killed in battle.” Mom broke out in a renewed set of loud heaving cries that I was sure had been going on for quite a while. I knew it. Jesus shit I fucking knew this was gonna happen! The rage built up quickly and I felt my face fill with anger, sorrow, and total disdain. I looked over to my old man and he never took his eyes off the floor. Didn’t even possess the balls to look me in the eye. I reflected on every Goddam fight Pops and I had over Vietnam, over government overreach and all the times I had to defend the fact that I wasn’t a shithead communist. I glared at him and all I could think of was how Ken had described punching his old man out for hitting his Mom. I wanted to go over and wail on him but my Moms crying stopped me dead. Stopped me dead? What a shit for brains thought that was for me to have. I looked past my war mongering old man and walked straight to Mom to hug her. My eyes filled up with salty rivers of sorrow. Jameson, my fucking hero, my big brother and only confidant dead. A senseless casualty of a senseless war. I began to cry as well and just held Mom tight as she cried in my arms. My whole world was now upside down, inside out, half assed, and backwards. The various drugs teamed up with the raw emotion and the result was a vortex of confusion, hurt, and anger.
My God praying Mom had an empty soul for the first time in her life. Her eyes were vacant and void, all red and beaten not just from tears tonight but from many years of worry and stress over her kids. I knew I was a major contributor to the weathered and worn orbs and felt ashamed at the moment. Her expression was blank, lost, at a complete emptinessm war,  of emotion. I had never seen anyone so detached and it worried the shit out of me. As I held her close I reflected on the better times James and I had, arm punch contests, purple nurples, and wet willies aside we were very tight as kids. Jameson always let me play ball with him and his friends and I thought back to the time playing football when he played quarterback and helped me score my first touchdown. “Okay JT, you take one step over the line, I’m throwing you the ball. You catch it, turn and run to the endzone.” Ha, the endzone. An obscure piece of real estate in between two large trees on our elementary schoolyard . The promise land of no rules pick a team football. He then turned to the rest of the guys in the huddle. “Any one of you mother fuckers lets JT get touched by anyone gonna get their ass kicked by me!” We laughed for days because I caught it, turned and ran my little ass off down the field and James and his friends used the most unethical and illegal forms of blocking, but not a soul touched me and no one from the other team dared to say a word. James was the best big brother anyone could hope for. For two weeks all anyone talked about in my Jr. High school was how JT made a touchdown playing football with the high school kids. It was gold. Jesus shit I’m gonna miss James.
I looked my Mom in the eye and said “Mah, remember the time James was chasing me around the house and I ran through the sliding screen door Dad had put in that morning? I thought you were gonna kill us both.” I could see the smile taking root on her face and her eyes lit up for just a tiny bit. I hoped it was making her forget if only for a short time the pain she was dealing with. I wondered if my asshole old man felt pain or patriotism but it didn’t matter either way, it was being numbed with cheap beer. But whatever, my Mom smiled probably for the first time tonight “Oh good god JT, you two were such terrors. You have no idea how much you guys put me through.” Mission accomplished, Mom was now reflecting fondly too. We exchanged stories for what seemed like hours, but it just felt good just to not see her crying. As for the old asshole, still not a word. Most likely he was wallowing in guilt and remorse. He was pounding down beer after beer and he looked drunk. I almost felt sorry for him because his sorry ass aura had no glow at all. Nothing, nada, zilch! Zero emotion as though he didn’t even have it in him to shed a tear. Beneath those red eyes was an empty sandlot.
I sat up with Mom for a few more hours until the sun began to shed light on what was a normal day for everyone else. Mom offered to make breakfast but I declined. My head was now pounding from the loss of James compounded by a killer hangover from booze and drugs. I went to my room slapped on the headphones and lay on the bed, not even bothering to take off my clothes. I have no idea for how long, but I stared at the ceiling until I fell asleep weeping. I slept hard all the time hoping when I woke up it will all have been a shit ass dream and James was waiting to kick my ass. Fuck war! Fuck Vietnam! Fuck me!! TBC

 

 

Zen and the art of Culinary Maintenance by JT Hilltop

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Centerlawn, 1971
Centerlawn. That’s where I grew up, in my parents suburban dream just east of the Gold Coast Great Gatsby section of Long Island. In the backdrop of this little utopia was a huge cauldron of a media inspired sizzling hot generation gap. A war in Viet Nam, a disregard for civil rights, women’s rights, and youth rights, added to the police brutality all over the country had boiled to the top and threatened to spill over into the kitchens all across Centerlawn pitting sons against fathers and daughters against mothers. It was no wonder all we ever cared about was getting high. My brother was in the army likely headed for Nam soon and if things continue the way they are my entire neighborhood would be in Viet Nam in two years. Being in high school sucked, but it sure was better than dodging bullets and bombs. Anyway, time for some old fashioned get high so let the search begin.

Chapter II The Dream Is Born

A typically boring day in high school where cutting class was a necessary event to keep from dying of boredom. Some of us made it an art form which most often was accompanied with a search for a little buz or someone to share yours with. Three years ago pot smokers were a small group but now the non pot smokers are a small group and most of them were considered “narcs”. So much pot was smoked daily in school that we sometimes wondered if that was how it earned the term “high” school. We knew that was just a joke of course but the amount of marijuana exchanged in the hallways was really was substantial. My particular clan of cronies had earned a reputation for being some of the most prolific pot puffers. I could smoke a huge doobie all by myself and still be able to go to any class and function. At least I thought I was. Any class except maybe gym anyway. Yea the “jocks” Those boneheaded sports enthusiast loved to pick on longhairs. They talked in what I assume was the Cro-Magnon vernacular saying well thought out repetitive jokes like “Hey, is that a girl in our gym class? Hey girlie, the girls gym is next door.” So many times I wanted to say something like “Oh I know, I share a locker with your girlfriend”, but I am much too nice a guy. Then again maybe it was because they would have kicked my ass with their Charles Atlas biceps. Not wanting to get sand kicked in my eyes I opted for keeping it an inside joke. They really would kick my ass if they ever found out I had sold and smoked pot with many of their girlfriends at one time or another.
Anyway, whenever I got bored, which usually only happened on school days I engaged in a ritual tradition that Ken and the rest of my band of merry marauders enjoyed called “Find some Buzz”. We would go in search of anyone that had a joint, or a chunk of hash, and ask them to front us a hit. More often than not when a good friend came by they would ask us if we wanted some buzz before we even asked because we always shared our stash, no one really liked to smoke alone. It wasn’t unusual for Ken and I to run into each other in the hallways because we had a certain few places we always hung out at that were prime hiding spots while cutting class. Today would be no different. My best friends voice startled me, “Hey dude, I have a fucking brilliant idea.” Ken was the idea man and had tons of them. “And we should start saving money for it right now.” As always, Ken immediately garnered my curiosity having blown me away with truly great ideas so often. Ken was brilliant and creative. Many of the other students laughed at him back in Jr. high, because when he moved here from Oklahoma he was the first boy in school to have really long hair. All of five foot six, he had long flowing blond hair that was parted in the middle cascading over his shoulders and half way down his back. He had a rebel soul and I was drawn to him instantly. Like most of the male students I had started growing my hair long in part to look cool, but more importantly to piss off my Mom and Dad. Most all of us had developed a twitch from keeping our long bangs out of our eyes. We all wanted to be Beatle “moptops”back then but Ken was ahead of the curve and had already grown his hair long like……well like a girl. That was also part of Kens appeal. He seemed to know ahead of everyone else what would be in style before it actually came in style. He had gone from a long haired geek freak that was made fun of to a well respected member of the hippie rebellion ranks. Proudly I admit I had much to do with his rise to “coolness” because for some weird reason I was always allowed to hang with the cool kids since fourth grade. It wasn’t that I actually was cool, but I had an older brother and even older sister who had created reputations with the teachers. Those reputations preceded me so you could say I was cool by association. I played kid rules football and baseball with the “older” kids , got rides in my sisters boyfriends “Surf Woody”, and just always hung out with the older kids. So my becoming Kens friend had helped him gain acceptance and move up the hipster social ranks quickly with my friends. It wasn’t long until they too saw how insightful he was to popular culture and trends. Before the end of the 9th grade we were all growing our hair long, and wearing cool clothes like bell bottom pants and double breasted balloon sleeve shirts. Checks, stripes, paisley prints, the brighter the better and no worries if it doesn’t match. Now we all had real long hair, afro’s, long straight hair, super curly locks or like mine long wavy banana curls.
But the first order of business was to relieve the boredom with a little herbal remedy. “Cool dude, but lets go out to La Bomba and do a bowl first. You still got that hash?” As usual Ken came through. “Of course bro, some nice opium streaked black Afghanistan. Lets go asshole.” I hated his “lets go asshole” phrase but he always sang it like a commercial jingle and everyone laughed, so I just dealt with it. Off we went to the parking lot to climb into my car to smoke some hash. My little red Simca, A French sedan type car that was Frances answer to the Volkswagen, “La Bomba” is what we called the car and it was our entire groups pot smoking haven. I never locked the doors because so many of my friends used it at various times of the day, even if I wasn’t there. But this day, at this moment, no one else was around. I could tell Ken was happy about that because he really wanted to talk about his idea. Tell you the truth, I was pretty anxious as well. As he filled his chamber pipe with a small piece of black hash I needed to know. “So Ken, what’s this new idea?” Not a ground breaking or earth shattering question but it‘s hard to talk while smoking hashish. “ Well, here’s the thing.” I heard the match strike and light up as he put the pipe to his lips and lit the hash. He spoke as he was inhaling and his voice got lower and stranger as he talked as if gasping for a last breath but had to get a statement out. The interior of my little red bomba filled up with the sweet herbal haze of hash smoke. In between inhaling and holding the smoke Ken laid out his plan. We would be graduating in two year’s and with no job or plan for college Ken was open for an adventure. I did have a job but at the time I thought it was just a job not a career. I was up for adventure too and most likely not attending college either. The choice was basically go to college, get drafted, or leave the country. I was smart enough for college but my grades had fallen substantially over the last two and a half years. I stopped putting in any effort after my Dad called me a worthless communist because I did a project about the dreaded USSR and the positive side of Socialism. I took the point of view that they had some redeeming values. Controversial but worthy of an A+ from my liberal social studies teacher. Instead of being proud he freaked on me. What an asshole! Anyway our fates will be in the hands of our government considering we would more than likely be shipped off to Viet Nam. Ken thought we could save up some cash, get a video camera and supplies, and head out to Chicago. “Jesus shit man, we can burn our draft cards and just get the fuck out of town.” His idea was to start at one end of Rt. 66 and travel to the other end to Santa Monica where we could settle in with the hippies of California. “You know man that’s a great fucking idea, we can be like those two guys on Rt 66, I’ll be Buzz and you can be Todd.” Ken gave me a punch, “No fucking way man, I’m Buzz, you’re more the Todd type. If either of them dudes were around today Buzz would definitely be in a band. Todd would have a silver pen!” Ken had a love of guitar and film and I wanted to write. His idea was to basically make a kind of documentary of the trip, Ken with his camera and me with my pen. “Bro, you can write the whole thing down in your notebook.” Yea, my notebook, JT’s bible. I took my notebook almost everywhere convinced I was the next James Michner, Jack Kerouac, or maybe even Ken Kesey who wrote about the life of the Merry Pranksters. My book was full of poems, short stories, or just a few of my abstract observationsand Ken’s idea blew me away. To me it was brilliant, the chance of a lifetime. RT 66 was so historic, a television show, the route for all the dust bowlers of the 1930’s who fled to California to escape poverty. Route 66 was the sort of scenic route people took who just wanted to migrate to Los Angeles. I mean Jesus shit, the fucking stones do a tune about it. Brilliant choice, from Chicago to Los Angeles via Missouri, Kansas, Oklahoma, New Mexico, Texas, and Arizona. Ken shot me his infamous shit eating grin and said, “whatcha think, lets go asshole.” I was sold instantly.
TBC

 

Transcendental Medication (Act III)

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From Act II
< She was very attractive with piercing hazel green eyes and long straight black hair tied up neatly in a swinging ponytail but allowing perfectly cut bangs to cover her forehead. Her eyes were as stunning as a Montana sky and just as vast. Butterflies had left my stomach and created a chrysalis caravan traveling through my digestive tract straight towards my reproductive organs. It was complicated even more profoundly by her sensual and suggestive tone echoing through my soul. Maybe she wasn’t even there to begin with, the line that separated reality from non-reality had become wafer thin.>

<Nothing is the absence of anything. Anything is something so nothing must be something if its anything>

 

 

III Begin At The Beginning
J.T. Hilltop

When I got home from The Holistic Center still feeling sluggish from the hallucination induced medicated acupuncture needles the first thing I did was pour myself a big glass of wine. A very big glass of wine. I needed to process what just happened today and decide if it was wise to go back. The more I thought about the nurse I was with the more I feared it was all in my head. Was I imagining some pornographic manifestation of a dominatrix nurse? A scene from “Romancing The Bone” or some such weird porno movie in the hopes of some spiritual sexcapade while under acupuncture meditation? Was it just a wet daydream? Maybe I’m hoping for a close encounter of the supernatural sexual kind. Everything about it seemed so very real and she seemed to know me intimately. Besides I need to know what the hell this everything is nothing bullshit was all about and how far I would be taking this so I’m definitely going. Then again what if I go back to the opposite universe and its Dr. Kha that ties me up and toys with my pleasure zones. Erotic adventures involving Dr. Kha’s thermometer probes and patient doctor confidentiality. Then again if it is the nurse she was so hot and so sexy my libido did triple somersaults with a full twist and was hoping to stick a landing. I would have made a contract with the devil himself for an evening of exploration with her but who and what can I trust? Doctor Kha said equal and opposite! I’m not even sure if she was a manifestation of my inner desires or if that sweet temptress really exists. She seemed like eve thing but maybe its nothing. So fucking confused!
I near guzzled the first large glass of wine and as I poured a second I glanced at the calendar. My eyes went directly to two days from now, Friday the 27th. Twenty seven is a good number as numbers go. Two is balance and union and seven is a very spiritual number in nearly every religion. Together they add up to nine which is the highest level of changes. Hmmm, union, balance, and change! I looked away closing my eyes as if to think about it but I knew my mind was made up. I mean a night of deep philosophic discovery contemplating the secrets of science followed by a fantasy involving wild abandoned sex, what’s not to like. Secrets of science? OMFG, have I become a nerd? Maybe so, but when I wake up Saturday morning I will be one happy and satisfied nerd. I glanced dreamily back at the calendar but all I saw were those beautiful hazel eyes filled with longing and promise. Friday it is!

Of course Friday couldn’t possibly have dragged on longer if it were fitted with friction bars. From the moment I woke up all the way through the day all I could think of was my dominatrix nurse. I made four errors on my lunch orders at the restaurant which is four more than usual, and my head just wasn’t in it at all. But the shift finally limped slowly to an end and I flew home to prepare for my journey. Nothing was on my mind. That is to say the everything sort of nothing. Oh yea, sex was on my mind as well. Maybe nothing but sex but I was very excited on so many levels. After the longest shower in history I did my best to look my best and it certainly wasn’t for nothing, at least I was hoping it wasn‘t.
When I arrived no one seemed as excited as I was, acting as if this were just another mundane visit. Maybe it was for them but I came here to be enlightened and turned on like never before. Dr. Kha led me back to my cot, my waiting room to experience nothing, and began inserting his medicated needles. “Hmmm, I feel much tension JT, I think I need put more puncture in foot today. Not want you running away, eh?” Kha chuckled as if it were some inside joke but I barely heard him at this point. He knew something was up, or rather that nothing was up, or was going to be up but lest‘s not go there. “Just really looking forward to what’s in store Dr. Kha, to pick up exactly where I left off the other day.” My smile must have been huge. “I see. Remember JT, every session new session. Like snowflake nothing ever exact.” I turned to look at him but he was already gone. I thought about a line from The Wizard of Oz and laughed, “My, people come and go so quickly here”, then I laid back to meditate while thinking of other Oz quotes. “Some people without brains do an awful lot of thinking, a heart is not judged by how much you love but by how much you are loved by others, you’re confusing courage with wisdom my friend.” I entered my zone, incense and music comforting me, a soothing sitar solo and I was transported again.
“Dr. Kha?” I pushed my way past the smoky curtain of dimensions. “Very clever JT, using Wizard of Oz. You think other dimension same as Oz for Dorothy? Maybe you same than Dorothy.” I could feel a strong burst of air pushing me back towards the smoke curtain and had to fight it off. “You gotta admit there are similarities Kha, I know I’m not in Kansas anymore.” The air kept me at bay. “True, no Kansas JT, but no Oz either. If you want learn about nothing you need to enter completely.” I fought off the air blast, “I can’t seem to get any further this air current is keeping me away.” Kha smiled, “No air current JT, is nothing. Nothing is what keep you from moving forward. If you want to understand everything you must first conquer nothing.” Conquer nothing? What the hell is he talking about? I concentrated hard and the wind stopped. I could see my nurse off in the distance, on the other side of a pond or something. She caught my eye and smiled. I looked back at her and then at Kha.
What you see is desire JT, but before you receive reward of what you desire lesson must be understood. You are in paradox JT, time and space much different than what you know. In this dimension Schrödinger’s cat exist and not exist” I shook my head full of doubt, “Are you saying we are in a box Kha?” He laughed loudly, “Box? No JT, here no box, but here always need think out of box. No use logic, use sensory instincts. Let feelings guide you.” I glanced back over the pond but no nurse. “So am I really here or am I still laying on the mattress?” Kha smiled, “I sorry JT, cannot answer. Anyway wrong question. What you should ask is when are you here and when are you on mattress. First to understand time you need let go of perception. You measure time in linear progressions, seconds, minutes, hours. But time constant and wobbly, no straight. You have already existed and already ceased to exist, time not wait on you. Your life is how you experience time, how you put it in order to understand. But time not linear JT, time flexible.” Kha pulled out a yard of string, “This your life JT. For you it have beginning and end. But time have no beginning, no end, time ownry exist. You see your life from one end of string to other. If I give you string in different pieces you think it useless, just like if I show you your life at 19, then at 5, then at 30. Not make sense because out of order yet it all happen. That ownry way you can see time, moving straight and forward every second. If you want see time as time truly is need more than acupuncture and meditation. For special people I give special transcendental medication. Combine acupuncture with special medication to help you understand. I believe you ready but it up to you JT.” He paused looking at me as if I needed time to consider, but he must have known if my life has already been that I was going to go for it. “Dr. Kha, I want to understand. It would be my honor and a privilege to undergo transcendental medication.” I gave him a sly smile, “When did I start?” I looked at him hoping he got my joke and saw he was smiling. “Very good JT, I see I have chosen you wisely. I leave now but I back to arrange session.” He pointed across the water to where my fantasy had been waiting, “Meantime, I recommend you take rowboat across pond.”
Right there in front of me was a small dinghy with oars. I jumped in and rowed like a maniacal teen about to lose his virginity towards whatever waited for me across the pond. When I got there the other side it was even more amazing than I thought possible. It was like an island paradise, brimming with plants, trees, and flowers of all colors. It smelled clean and new, lilac and fresh cut grass with a sense of serenity. I followed a path taking in the sheer beauty around me. Flowers with their genitals boldly hanging out on display for all to see, giving off intoxicating scents to tickle the minds of men. With every breath I felt desire building up inside me awaiting release. Then I saw her.
Not a nurse, not a dominatrix, not even an exotic island native woman, but that gorgeous hazel eyed enticing beautiful woman from my first visit dressed as if for a date “I’m so glad you chose to come back JT, I am Ambrosina. I’ve been waiting for you. Come here.”
To Be Continued

 

JT Stays At The Motorcycle Club Safe House

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safe house

 

J. T. Hilltop

Disclaimer…in order to preserve the integrity and anonymity of the motorcycle group in this story as well as my own personal protection for disclosing a few of their not so well guarded secrets I will refer to the group as the “Infidels” Infidels were original a name given to anti-Christian religions, kinda like Pagans. So this MC Club are the main rival club of the Angels from Hell and their name has Pagan roots. But I never said that……..

It Won’t Be Long Until You Belong

For reasons I won’t discuss I found myself a temporary resident of a safe house with the Infidels Motorcycle Club. Suffice to say my best friend Archie, who I knew since kindergarten was a member in good standing and it was at his request I was kept away from the world under the protection of his brother Infidels. It was keeping me safe more from myself than anything insidious but there I was, surrounded by a lively bunch of guys whose most obvious flaw was forgetting or simply not caring enough to bathe. (If you know a biker please don’t tell them I said that) To be honest once in the safe house where they let down their guarded style of confrontational outlaw anger and angst they were a remarkably gracious and fun group. They joked both with and about me and I kidded back in an extremely cautious manner. That said it was still my best interest to be aware and respectful of the clubs hierarchy.

The Bayshore Infidels are highly organized motorcycle club chapter with strict chapter rules and a deeply revered caste of social status within the group. My friend was a member in good standing but he had no special attributes, which basically meant he hadn’t earned upper club status through doing time in prison, beating the hell out of a rival club member, or earning the ultimate title of ITCB. That essentially intimated that the person removed an obstacle for a higher up. I Took Care Of Business (ITCB) loosely translates to I’m a homicidal maniac and if you fuck with any officer of our brotherhood you’ll be dead before you can apologize. Archie was a kind and mellow friend back in the day so it came as no surprise he hadn’t reached any of those statuses. Yet. He had however developed a certain air of violent behavior I hadn’t seen since we fought over Tonka toys and Lincoln Logs in kindergarten, and was quite intent of getting me to join his newfound club.

Archie explained to me how I could start off in the socially admired position of “hanger around”. The hanger around has literally no status with the club but is permitted to go on beer runs and clean up after parties to include numerous piles of stale beer stinking puke stains, piss puddles, and an array of DNA treasure troves so gross you don’t even want to guess at what they are or how they got where they did, let alone whom they belong to. As appealing as that sounded doubt had already begun churning up in my stomach. If you last past that for a year or two you may find yourself a member willing to sponsor you. Then you become a prospect and are allowed to begin proving yourself loyal. You do this in a number of ways which may involve getting into a fight with someone who disses the Infidel colors or someone’s bike, or by taking care of the wounded, and by becoming an official gopher and basically holding your head high while any and all members emasculate dissect embarrass harass and generally shit on you for everyone else’s amusement. Not able to wear colors as a prospect but at least no longer on DNA scrub detail unless there were no hanger arounds around. After that the levels and their status in the brotherhood vary but it sounded like a bloody violent and downright disgusting form of fraternal challenges that go on for a very long time before you earn the right to wear the patch, and add 1%er to you jacket. To be honest it sounded more like an unending audition for The Ultimate Jackass Movie featuring The Marquis De Sade.

But anyway I was here as a guest not a hopeful wannabe outlaw on two wheels despite the promise of oodles of drinking, smoking, and ass kicking. Besides, by the look of these behemoth brutes in this safe house it would more than likely my ass that would be on the kicked end and I‘m just not a fan of having my face nor my ass bloodied up. So it was with a modicum or more of trepidation that I joined in the fun we, or at least they were having. For lunch we had a six pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon premium beer. Aside from my sarcasm PBR’s were a staple not only with the biker crowd but also with the middle class kids that never got allowances so it wasn’t actually out of my social stratus anyway. The shit was cheap and good, two qualities us young know it all dudes liked in both beer and women. So it wasn’t an unfamiliar lunch but considering I was being “kept safe” it did lack a certain nourishment. That aside, it did take the edge off which was helping me get through my 3 days of safe house rehab. So the lunch was good but lacked any substance, but dinner hadn’t yet been considered. For dinner we had two six packs of PBR’s which while not much in the way of real vitamin intake it was jam packed with psychological vitamins. By seven o’clock my head was so numb nothing else mattered, which was after all why I was there in the first place.

I’m guessing it was more of Archie’s girlfriend, or “Chick” or “Mama” Lauren who decided we all needed something solid in our stomachs but at any rate at around 1AM or so Archie, Lauren, another couple who I won’t make a fake name for because I have no clue what their real names are anyway all packed in to a cage(a non motorcycle four wheeled vehicle) and headed out to a dinner. To the best of my compromised recollection I ordered Belgian Waffles. I say this because both Archie and :Lauren laughed their respective asses of the next day telling me I kept calling them belching waffles because my PBR diet had caused an enormous excess of gas.

The truth is I have very little memory of the diner or the waffles let alone any clue as to what I may or may not have said. Suffice to say it was an interesting first safe day with the Infidel Motorcycle Club who were all compassionate endearing, and even charming when away from the perils of everyday life among the citizens. I am forever in debt to to them for holding my hand through a very tough period of not just the three days I had hoped for but extending my safe visit for a five day experience I needed. That group of outstanding if intimidating riders helped me move on with my life free from at least one evil that no longer had it’s deep claws stuck into my circulatory system. Archie and I lost contact again but I have heard that he has since passed, and I haven’t a clue what became of Lauren or any one of the beautiful souls who saw me through my predicament but still I will love them forever.

Peace

 

 

 

 

 

 

From Cosmo and His Garden Earth/ The Mass Extinction

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Asteroid impact. Illustration of a large asteroid colliding with Earth on the Yucatan Peninsula in Mexico. This impact is believed to have led to the death of the dinosaurs some 65 million years ago. The impact formed the Chicxulub crater, which is around 200 kilometres wide. The impact would have thrown trillions of tons of dust into the atmosphere, cooling the Earth's climate significantly, which may have been responsible for the mass extinction. A layer of iridium- rich rock, known as the K/T boundary, is thought to be the remnants of the impact debris.
Asteroid impact. Illustration of a large asteroid colliding with Earth on the Yucatan Peninsula in Mexico. This impact is believed to have led to the death of the dinosaurs some 65 million years ago. The impact formed the Chicxulub crater, which is around 200 kilometers wide. The impact would have thrown trillions of tons of dust into the atmosphere, cooling the Earth’s climate significantly, which may have been responsible for the mass extinction. A layer of iridium- rich rock, known as the K/T boundary, is thought to be the remnants of the impact debris.

JT Hilltop
One morning while sipping some of his favorite caffeinated breakfast beverage, Thors Thunderbolt, Cosmo noticed some strange things happening in his garden Earth. His jumbo creatures appeared to be having unusually sloppy sex far more consistently than before. Pangaea was becoming over crowded with baby creatures not to mention lakes of dino-sperm. Some of the creatures took on different characteristics. They were larger, wider, and exceedingly clumsy. Cosmo sensed some major adaptations taking hold. The sex also seemed to make the creatures very hungry and they were eating twice the normal amount of his marvelous treetops. Many seemed to favor this one particular bush, or rather one particular weed, which seemed to give them voracious appetites as well. And not just for food, but for more sex. Cosmo won’t swear to it but he believed munching the weed made his creatures laugh. At the very least they smiled more than normal. He wondered if it was co-incidence, or if this cannabis bush weed had unusual qualities to it so he took a few homegrown plants to try himself. He decided he would let them dry out and smoke some with a bottle of Pinot Neutron after dinner. As he continued to survey Pangaea another curious practice he observed. The creatures seemed to be fighting each other over sex, which was not really a colossal deal but it appeared that the winners where actually eating the losers as some sort of carnivorous prize. Believing it to be from the cannabis he referred to the practice as canibisalism. He opted not to try smoking the enticing weed just yet afraid of what it may make him want to do. The eating of the other creatures as a diet instead of just vegetation also made the meat eaters even bigger and stronger. He would need to keep an eye on these developments.
As time passed more and more creatures were killing each other and eating the remains. And damn were they multiplying. They engaged in sex virtually everyday and babies were everywhere. It was like some kind of Dino-nursery. Every day there seemed to be more and more, and nearly all the vegetation had been eaten. Not only that but they began biting kicking and scratching each other for no apparent reason. Many fights seemed to be over who had more dangling under their tail or who was going to screw the better looking female dinosaurs. Many times these fights caused some to fall down never to get back up. Cosmo was not happy with these developments at all. His garden of creatures was turning into a giant fighting fiasco. His giant behemoth experiments were simply much to big and clumsy. He decided he needed to start over and this time start with much more compact set of creatures. First though he needed a plan to extinguish and cover up the debacle of the dinosaur.
His first thought was to go subterranean. He began to churn up the ground at different points of the land mass Pangaea. The shifting of dirt created numerous effects. The mass of land split in various places and Pangaea began to break up into smaller lands. A few dinosaurs fell off the edges, but for the most part they rode the land mass that they happened to reside on and just sort of relocated. Two chunks of dirt headed out quickly, one due north and one due south. Each went as far as it could go until it turned into a giant massive iceball. Every dinosaur on these arctic edges froze along with it. The other land masses fared much better. Cosmo needed names now for the different masses. On the east he named his land masses North Columbia and South Columbia. Way across the newly formed ocean there was a dark mass he called Afrika, and a huge piece he called Eurasia. A smaller mass slipped down under while a very green land went slightly north. He would name them later. As for the dinosaurs they had begun to change and were ironically defined by their land masses. The creatures in North Columbia grew more aggressive body parts, like large razor sharp teeth, pointed spiny tails, and large muscular arms. Military adaptations. Cosmo believed they actually thought themselves superior and tried to make all the others live the way they did. Pretentiousauruses! The dinosaurs in Africa were very wild and it took on a predatory nature of survival of the mightiest. In Eurasisa half fancied themselves the more sophisticated and chic while the other half absolutely excelled in math. They had all begun to mutate body parts that were used as weapons or as protective amour. Spiny heads and necks, horns, shells, claws, Talons, scales and many other features that assisted warfare or survival. They continued cross breeding and a host of new genus’s were born. Now he had some walking on two legs, some on four, some eating only vegetation, some only other dinosaurs, and many eating both. The flying dinosaurs alone mutated into over 500 species. The fights became rampant and more frequent and quite frankly it was pissing Cosmo off a bit. The shifting of the land also had an effect on the once enormous Pangaean sea which was all the water surrounding Pangaea. The other lands had created borders which split the Pangaean sea into vast oceans. New weather patterns and water currents came into play, and many of the places he churned up dirt had formed piles, ranging from tiny molehills to humongous mountains that reached up towards the sky. At first Cosmo tried to make all the dirt piles as majestic as the giant ones but he quickly learned he couldn’t make a mountain out of a molehill.
As time went on things just got worse and worse. The changes in the garden plots were great, but the dinosaurs were out of control. In each land mass they were carrying on and destroying the vegetation, trampling everything in their paths, kicking the everlasting dinosaur shit out of each other. If that wasn’t bad enough the fornicating was maddening. No matter where you looked in the garden you could find many dinosaurs letting it all hang out ready for reproduction. Giant penispods galore. Humping and swamp hopping there was sex going on everywhere. Puddles of sperm gathered that drowned the lower vegetation and while they were knocking horns and creating future fossils it tore up the ground and caused many a fight to the death. Genus were being wiped out, it was a constant state of confusion. The trees they had eaten clear down to the roots. They simply had no respect at all for Cosmo, his garden, or each other and that was the final sipping stick! It was time for a raptor rapture!
The angry Cosmo had had it. He reached up into space and grabbed the biggest asteroid he could hold and hurled it towards earth with all his might. Had it not been an act of destruction one might have thought it a beautiful magnificent sight. Upon impact a huge explosion of colors, bright reds and yellows danced tangos across the planet. A blinding flash of white so brilliant it could be seen as far away as the Tolkien Galaxy. Flames that reached so high they tickled the moon and made it giggle and squirm. Sheer magnifigance. Why it was a fireworks display fit for the gods. But mere minutess after the glowing kaleidoscope of destruction lit up the skies as if to remind everyone that its beauty was marred by violence it was quickly replaced with an ear pounding roar. Bursts of concussion inducing reverberation accompanied the evening festivities with a mushroom plume of billowing smoke dressed in charcoal black from head to toe. A snap. A crackle. A pop. Within seconds garden earth became Earth Krispies. The explosion kicked up an awful cloud of dust with it that pulled the rug of sparkle pomp and circumstance right from under its cosmic ass. For the longest time Cosmo could see nothing but an enormous floating burntout dust bunny. Virtually everything was obscured and he had no clue as to the fate of his living garden below. One thing for sure, if any of the suns rays got through at all it was undetectable. How could anything live without food, without light, without sunshine? Cosmo was absolutely certain he had lost everything. He underestimated the ultra tiny earth dwelling insect known as the cockroach. Will anything kill those bastards?
As time went by the dust began to settle it was becoming apparent not much if anything would survive. Even with only a portion of the dust gone he could see there was not much sign of life. The vegetation tried valiantly to reach back up towards the sun but with limited success. The garden seemed still and void. Even Cosmo couldn’t detect the tiny crawling cockroach foraging at the base of the stringy vines of vegetation. But trust me when I tell you, those cucaracha’s marched on. The once magnificent dinosaurs however were not able to crawl between any cracks let alone march anywhere. A massive open graveyard was all the gardening god could see. Humongous piles of giant carcasses littered the ground and whatever ground that could be seen was scorched to a grayish black. Nary a leaf or a pine cone to be found. Not even a blade of grass on this once animated garden of green and blue. Stacks of bodies and body parts could be seen everywhere with billows of smoke reaching out to the Milky Way cluster. There was a stench quite unfamiliar to Cosmo, charred flesh smelled nothing at all similar to a god BBQ. To call the aroma unpleasant would be an understatement. The forces of fetid decay banded together with burning flesh and gunpowder. The acrid odors began an all out assault that would serve as a rank reminder of the magnitude of failure here. Battalions of rotted mounds of foul fecal sewage mixed with dino debris formed an aerial assault. The army of stench marched up Cosmo’s nose and set up a camp of odiferous angry troops behind his eyes. Some salted droplets of sorrow snuck down Cosmo’s cheek which he blamed on the carousel of stink spinning in his sinuses. Make no mistake though that was no dew drop, that was a teardrop
Denial is not yet just a river in Egypt. A deep sadness overtook the creator of the dinosaur. Still smoldering and becoming increasingly covered in dust Cosmo reflected on his once thriving lizard kingdom. Had they not been so enormous he mused, perhaps things would have been different. He wanted to have a way to remember the jumbo Jurassic relics . After some time many of the hearty vegetation had once again begun to sprout, rising up from the ashes. It seemed as though everything reminded him of his creatures. “I shall name this period of existence the cretaceous period in honor of my creatures. In order that no one, especially me, ever forget their magnifigance I shall create a living memorial. With that Cosmo placed very colorful vegetation he called flowers everywhere. At first the flowers were impractical, the only benefit being the ambiance and je ne sais quoi of their beauty and fresh interesting aroma’s. The wonderful aroma’s to cover the stench of scorched earth were amusing. He had no idea what an impact they would have later on. Flowers would become symbolic of love and beauty and figure into a strange talk between fathers and sons some day. People would fashion perfumes and air fresheners form their enticing smells and men would find them a beneficial tool in making up for mistakes. Flowers would proudly display their floral genitalia and bees would find them irresistible. Flowers would come to represent anticipation of sex for both honey bee and honey dear alike. Forever linked with love because that was why Cosmo created them, to remind him of his love for the once utopian behemoths. Beautiful flowers of white pink peach, purple, red, yellow, blue, violet, green and orange. Fantastically designed shapes of bells, funnels, trumpets, tubes, saucers, bowls and labia. Brilliantly displayed all over the land masses along with new and tastier vegetation. It was a sight to behold. An arboretum of the grandest scale any had ever seen. This colorful garden alone would have stopped a charging raptor in its path to gawk at the beauty and inhale deeply the scent of passion on this marvel of an orb. An ambush makeover on the grandest of scales.
Now a new task was at hand. “I will take my new plan to the BOCGG and see if the Gods will approve and allow me to once again have mobile life in the garden. It was time to face the rhythms melodies and harmonies expressed through instruments. Cosmo knew it was no use trying to pull the woolly mammoth over the boards eyes. Best thing to do was simply fess up and submit his urban renewal plan complete with manageable animals of different species to match the flourishing flora of Garden Earth. However, when Cosmo got to District Seven to request new life seeds, the Board of Co-operative God and Goddesses were waiting for him. They had apparently heard about the mass extinction back in Cosmo’s galaxy. They did not seem pleased.
TBC

Take The Long Road Home (by J.T. Hilltop) pt2

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road

Where There’s Hope…

When I thanked the sheriff for the ride it occurred to me he may have had an ulterior motive. He wasn’t saving me in the name of Jesus, he was getting me the hell out of his Dodge. I was a hindrance, a public relation nightmare. If some of his people were to engage me in a game of full contact Red Rover and leave this New Yorker dead on the side of a road in his jurisdiction the repercussions to tourism would be staggering. The mother fucker left me off in the middle of nowhere, full on darkness and a stretch of road so straight and lonely it begs tires to rotate as fast as they can in an audition for NASCAR status. The side of road across from me was dotted with a few little shacks, a general store, and a pub advertising a pool table. My side of the road was a fucking swampland. Nothing but marshy woods mainly due, I would soon find out , to the fact that you can’t build a decent structure in mud. The only thing that could survive this side of the highway was Swamp Thing or some genetic mutation thereof. But there was life somewhere because I could hear a deafening din of some kind of amphibian-like croaking. A group of frogs are called an army and this sounded like The Amphibian Marine Corps out on massive combat maneuvers. They shocked and awed me! I had never heard so much ear shattering croaking in my life and the voices in my head were nice enough to remind me of the intimidating alligator congregation so the level of fear intensity was through the roof. I was imagining killer frogs and mutated swamp things waiting for me to take one step too many. Nothing to do but start walking and hitchhiking with my back turned to whatever went whizzing by in the hopes that another pearl white Chevy truck would come my way and not a gaggle of goose stepping backwoods hicks looking for some boot practice. Well it was neither, after the first ten vehicles raced past without as much of an acknowledgment a foghorn drowned out the incessant croaking. An eighteen wheeler was barreling towards me not signally a ride but letting me know in no uncertain terms would it slow down or move over for me. A tense decision, either close my eyes and hope I’m not road kill or take a few steps into frogland. The thought of some Appalachian chef dicing me into human roadside stew swayed me and removed my fear as I stepped into the marshy terrain. With my eyes closed as tight as I could I felt the cold muddy substance on my feet and the most amazing thing happened. The fucking frogs clamed up! I mean like every last one of them.
It was downright spooky, the silence would have been laughable if I had even a scintilla of laugh hormone left in my body. The truck blew past me so fast it kicked up a wind that forced me to dig into the mud to maintain my balance. A header into Hellswamp would have been the end of my existence for sure. Feeling ever so slightly angered tempered with being scared shitless I decided to listen to the voices this time. To hell with it all! I stuck my middle finger up as high as was humanly possible while he blew past down the road and shouted out a resounding FUCK YOU! Even the army of frogs were taken aback and remained silent allowing only a smattering of croaks, mostly from deeper in the marsh where I promised never to find myself. It felt surprisingly good until my reality check bounced. I’m alone on Swamp Boulevard in the town of “Deliverance”, there’s a tavern back about a half mile that’s probably filled with inbred cousins of the gorillas shit kickers from Camden and their drunk ass selves would be piling out of that bar stinking drunk in a few very short hours looking for something, or someone, to do. Being a New Yorker would definitely not work in my favor under those circumstances. My pace tripled as I power walked down the road just hoping to find a somewhat safe area.
A new game for me, step off or become road kill. It took me a good two hours to get past this stretch of hopeless landfill and find at least a bit of road with some shoulder to it. Every time any vehicle came by I just stepped into the marsh and with my back turned with my thumb out to begging for salvation. Nary a ride. But I was past the worst, at least where I ended up had a hint of human civilization to it. Feeling completely exhausted, hungry and dehydrated, and having come down with a chronic case of hopelessness I spotted a tiny abandoned gas station surrounded by wood. I had little to no strength and the station offered at least a modicum of cover so I went around back to find the door open. I always try to see the bright side of things but this was really challenging. Well I can add hobo to my resume? Didn’t cut it, but there was a tiny sparkle of bright. The garage was empty, smelled a tad rancid but not overwhelming, and none of the local anarchistic militia truck drivers will find me. As unsettling as the garage was it was still a haven. I settled in, laid down and began to contemplate where the fuck I went wrong in life and how I ended up tired and starving in some tiny backwoods southern town where not one soul knows I’m even alive. Hopelessness came out in tears of self pity so I gently cried myself to sleep.
“Cold ground was my bed last night, rock was my pillow too.” A line from the Bob Marley tune “Talking Blues” that had become my reality. Not sure how long the burning sun had been shining the full force of its ultraviolet rays on my face acting on behalf of the alarm clock association but it was long enough to impart the slightest hint of reddening discomfort. I woke up with an aching body wishing I was home in bed, feeling dejected, tired, and hungrier than I ever remember. I found a water faucet in the back of the old store and gave myself a hobo shower giving some extra splash to my face to compensate for my lack of caffeine. I chanted a positive mantra to myself in the hopes it would renew my luck and perhaps withdraw a touch of good karmic returns from my good deed bank. I needed something.
I set back out on highway 22 convincing myself that the sleep and light of day would bring me fortune. The third car past me was a small Volkswagon Karmann Ghia with a young long hair college boy with a full beard and the idealistic life outlook that had been missing since I began this ordeal. He drove me all the way into Myrtle Beach chewing my ear off about politics and the southern “head up the ass” mentality that prevailed with most of the young robotic clones in South Carolina. It was like Karma jackpot, someone I could talk to and who understood, perhaps even viewed me as a sort of Kerouac’s Dean Moriarity type character. He claimed not to have much money on him but when he dropped me off on the outskirts of town he bought me a soda, or pop actually, and a buttered roll. Then he gave me the half a pack of cigarettes he had. “Well its sure been a pleasure chattin with Y’all JT, in I hope Y’all fine what it is yer searching for. I’m meeting my Mom and Pops up in Columbia so this is the end of our road. This here’s Myrtle Beach, that a way down there is Conway, a lot cheaper place than the beach and up that away is North Myrtle Beach which is touristy but more for camp like tourists. Make sure y’all check out the boardwalk and be careful.” I didn’t want to leave, almost suggested I go to North Carolina with him but this was my new path, I was going to find out what Myrtle beach South Carolina is all about.
What is it all about? Unfortunately Jonas the preaching sandwhich maker was right, it’s all about money. You can get whatever you want if you have enough money but if your looking for a helping hand its not here. Everywhere I went people tried to hustle me until they discovered my finances, then they would dismiss me with contempt. I was getting more and more hungry by the minute and was walking in circles. I could feel the dust had formed a film of dirt on my face. I was a mess, again busted disgusted and can’t be trusted. My stomach had gone from growling to downright snarling and I couldn’t barely walk any further. Weak from hunger and almost completely dehydrated I took a chance on a KFC.
My feet were filthy, my flip flops had flopped, and I was too exhausted to even formulate my puppy dog eyes but I knew I had to give it a shot, I desperately needed some water. I entered the Kentucky Fried Chicken getting in line behind one other person. When I got up to the counter a young African American boy looked at me curiously saying, “how can I help you sir?” I gave him the readers digest condensed version of my plight pleading, “Please, all I want is some water, this is my first time in Myrtle Beach, I’m trying to get back home to new York and I can’t even get a drink of water anywhere.” The young man gave me a look that said okay but he said, “one minute sir.” and started putting together an order for the drive through window. I was thinking he was dismissing me and was about to leave when he returned, looked me straight in the face and placed a box of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, a biscuit, and a large soda in front of me. “Thank you very much sir, have a nice day’” and then he winked at me. I could see behind his eyes, it was a genuine caring for another human being and he was likely going to end up paying for the meal himself. I grabbed the box and with tears of gratitude in my eyes and thanked him.
As thankful as I was gratitude had to be put on hold for a second, because at the moment I was a wild animal who had finally found his quarry. I found a patch of grass in the back of the building and crouched down with my kill, glaring back and forth from side to side ensuring no other hungry varmit was going to make a play for my fried chicken and bisquit. I ate like a starved vulture nearly choking on the bones as I was not going to let anything palatable remain in the box. If the napkins were edible I would have chewed them. When I had finished my meal, the absolute best meal I’ve had in well over a month, I sat like a sated lion, overseeing my parking lot pride as I leisurely finished my large pop. Time to formulate a plan now, where to go and what to do next but this time with a full stomach. I glanced through the window and saw the young man who had so selflessly given a total stranger, one who looked like a psychotic serial killer than a desperate human a meal. No, not just a meal, that young man gave me far more than mere food. He had given me a renewed sense of good, of the best that humanity can be, a renewed sense that there are things in this srtinking world that can rise above the stench of inhumanity and not only cover it up, but totally obliterate it, if only for a while. I promised I would never forget that young man, his face will forever etched in my memory, and every time I do any good deed, I will remember him and his incredible gift to me. The gift of hope! But for right now I’ll just have to settle for finding a friend ans getting back home.
TBC

Take The Long Road Home (by J.T. Hilltop) pt1

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hitch

I haven’t written any excerpts from JT’s great American novel about growing up in the 60’s in a little town of Centerlawn in awhile so the journey continues as he gets out of jail in the deep south.

Long And Winding

Thirty three days in jail may not seem like much but it certainly frees up your time to reflect on a good many things. What I had to reflect on in my final day at The Aikon County South Carolina Correctional Facility was the fact that Max and his junkie girlfriend left me down and out in bum fuck South Carolina with nothing but the clothes on my back and…..well tactually that’s all I had. I was busted, disguted, and couldn’t be trusted. No money, no extra clothes, food, not even any cigarettes as I left the half pack for my cell mates to fight over. I was dejected and alone, nowhere near home, and it seemed like I had not a friend in the world. But then a thought hit me, “JT my boy, what about Rhonda? Yea, that’s what I need, ‘You gotta Help me Rhonda, help help me Rhonda.’ Rhonda Harris. Rhonda was a friend from high school whose family moved to Myrtle Beach at the end of the eleventh grade. We weren’t what you would call close friends but close enough that she’ll remember me and right now I needed somebody, anybody to talk to. I mean we talked a few times probably even flirted some but the plain cold truth is other than Rhonda Harris the closest friend I could think of was some six or seven hundred miles away back on Long Island. Forget family, no one I could or would talk to about my failure here. besides Myrtle Beach was a mere one hundred and fifty miles from this boondock town of, of wherever the Hell I am. After a quick calculation and a group meeting it was decided that me and the new voices in my deranged head that had adopted me during the correction phase of my stay would hitchhike to Myrtle Beach and look Rhonda up in the phone book.
So we pointed ourselves in the direction of Myrtle Beach, stretched out the faithful old hitchhiking thumb for some digital exercise, and began walking down the highway feeling happy, free, and positive that a car would come along any second. Well maybe any minute. Any hour? In fact it was almost two hours before even one car came by going my way and it zoomed past like I wasn’t even there. I checked my thumb to make sure that it was still working properly and satisfied my hitchhiking digit was in order my thumb, the voices, and I plodded forward. Four cars, one bus, and a dump truck later my first potential ride pulled over. A nice pearl white Chevy pick up had stopped and the driver rolled down his window. “Where y’all headed man?” Comforting. The front cab was full with four hippie looking young southern dudes. He motioned towards the back as I called out, “looking for Myrtle Beach man, thanks for the lift. How far am I from the beach anyway?” Driver dude smiled, “We’re heading up to Raleigh but we can get you about halfway up to Camden man. Then Y’all only have roundabout another fifty miles east. Ain’t no more room up here Bro, jump in the back. We’ll let ya know when we get there, maybe an hour or so.” Feeling grateful and happy to have a place to sit awhile I jumped in the back with a big ass smile on my face. The voices were happy too.
After the third or fourth huge bump my huge ass smile fell out of the back of the truck and I wondered if I would ever see it again. My new metal palace was in constant motion as if I were a crash test dummy taking the shock absorbers out for stress diagnosis. I bounced up and down, rolled left and right, and every so often the side of my new surroundings gave me a body check into the wheel well. But fuck it man, I was free, I was on my way to finding a long lost friend, and I was grateful. Hungry as all hell, but grateful to be getting as far away from Aikon County South Carolina as possible. When my savior in the pearl white Chevy pulled over at a gas station an hour later to refuel he came up to me. “here ya go man, this here’s Camden.” I was almost disappointed. He continued, “If’n y’all take 22 East ya run straight on inta Myrtle Beach. Ain’t no more’n hour an a half away. We be headin’ on up north here. Good luck.” I thanked him profusely as I took stock of the many new bruises I had acquired during the ride. Ith a hint of sadness and some serious hunger pangs I watched them take off. Now if only I could find something to eat. I had come to a sort of small bridge, both literal and metaphoric. I equated it to Dorothy stepping out of the black and white house into a world of wonder and colors. Yea, the way I figured it I was heading to Munchkin land, Utopia or Eden, but halfway across I looked into the slow moving rivulet and a stinging wake up call shook my very foundation, and when I answered it said, “No yellow brick roads here in River Styx, just a crickfull of danger. ” Sloshing around in the water beneath the bridge was a congregation of razor toothed alligators. Apparently congregation is what you call a group of alligators and this congregation was holding high mass, or maybe even celebrating baptisms. I was impressed with the smoothness grace and speed with which these parishioners swam and regardless of the fact that I was up here and they were down below a wave of paranoia swept over me. I ran across the metaphoric bridge as if they were chasing me to the other side. I made it over without incident but slightly disillusioned. Nothing changed, but at least there were no wicked witches or alligators with ticking clocks in their bellies. The other side of the bridge was nothing more than the other side of a bridge. To make things even worse, the running only made me more hungry.
I had often heard the phrase “There’s no such thing as a free lunch”, but to tell you the truth when you have dirty clothes, long stringy wind whipped hair, and a Yankee accent down south there isn’t a free anything except for advice! Most of the advice consist of things like Y’all should jess git yer Yankee ass back to new yawlk, woncha git that thar girly hair cut like a man, or take a bath hippie, y’all stink like a got damn angry polecat in heat. I was definitely not feeling the love of that southern hospitality I heard so much about, and frankly I would have preferred a bottle of Southern Comfort right about then. I was walking down highway 22 when I spotted an oasis in this backwoods hell, a small Salvation Army building. I walked inside and poured my heart out relaying my story of misuse, abuse bad luck, abandonment, incarceration, dehydration, damnation, degradation and to top it off getting scoffed at asking for a morsel of nourishment. The young man, Jonas, listened intently, offered me some apple juice and a peanut butter sandwich, told me I could take a shower and then we could talk some more. I accepted happily and even though I put a clean body back into those dirty rags I felt like a new man. Feeling fully refreshed and ready to talk more about my trials and tribulations I joined the young man in a sort of guest room.
The talk he referred to was not about me but about a much higher power, the lord. I was the beneficiary of a two hour lecture on God, Jesus, sins, repentance, and scriptures. It was all I could do to keep my eyes open but I remained grateful and awake. At least I wasn’t in jail anymore! When Jonas, finished his sermon he asked me why I was going to Myrtle Beach. Not wanting to get involved in anymore lectures I opted to explain how I had heard so much about what a wonderful city it was and wanted to experience it. Apparently Myrtle Beach was either the Sodom or Gomorrah of the south because I earned myself another thirty minutes of lecture which ended in advice to cut my hair and go back to New York because Myrtle Beach is about nothing but money and sin. I refrained from saying “My kind of town” and instead thanked him and meandered back out onto highway 22.
When I was a kid I loved playing neighborhood games, especially tag. Hitchhiker tag however isn’t quite as much fun and a lot more one sided. With the sun going down and dusk setting in another pick up truck pulled over, but this one was an old beat up rusted out model with three boys in the cab. Being a fast learner I ran up and started to climb in the back but instead of asking me where I was going the dude rolled down his window and snarled, “What the Hell you think you doin’ boy?” He then proceeded to pull the truck up about ten feet as I fell to the ground. I stood up noticing the rifle rack in the back of the cab and the Deliverance image made a brief reappearance inside my head. The loud guffaws of condescending laughter riled me a bit. After a second time the voices said to me, “ Fuck them, lets kick their asses, we can take them” Fortunately I paid the voices no heed this time as the funny truck driving asshole yelled back at me, “Hawhawhaw, I’m sorry man, we was jess kiddin’, c’mon git on in the truck.” I weighed my options, didn’t want to piss them off and certainly didn’t wanted want to get fooled again so I moved forward with some trepidation. Slowly I moved towards the truck and that’s when the game of tag ensued. After four more antagonizing times I just said “Nevermind man, I don’t need no fucking ride.” He slammed on the brakes and both doors swung open. I gulped and thought, “Fuck me! No wait, I don’t mean like literally I meant please don’t fuck me, please!!” The three amigos walked towards me and I felt like this was gonna be even worse than the beatings I got from my favorite jailhouse guards, Billy Boy and Jimbo.
“Whatchoo mean Y’all done want no ride, we aint good enough foe yo dirty stinkin hippie shit ass? Maybe you needs to learn a little manners ya pig fucking longhair.” I tensed up to brace myself for another order of southern fried ass kicking when an authoritative voice broke through, “Now come on boys, Y’all know better’n at stomp this young lad fer no reason.” I opened my eyes and walking behind my three wannabe ninja’s was a huge figure of a man with an impressive trooper looking hat. The boys looked disappointed as they had been forced to reseal their cans of whip ass. Having feared the cops for most of my immature adult life I wasn’t sure if I was being saved or enslaved. I had visions of being taken to the basement of a police station naked and hogtied with a red ball strapped inside my mouth while some huge half witted yokel prepared to jam his self amused hard on up my digestive aperture……. Sorry, I’ll give you a sec to get the image out of your mind.
After a few minutes of the boys apologizing to the sheriff and swearing they “Was jess gonna have them a little fun, wasn’t akchully gonna hurt im” the would be assassins got back in the truck and the sheriff came over to get a closer look at me. I braced again, this time for handcuffing or Billy club enlightenment but the sheriff must have been a follower of Jonas from the Salvation Army because he spoke with the same God preaching condescending tone. “Praise the Lord I got here in time here boy. Now son y’all really need to watch out for yourself in these parts, where you from?” I took to telling him most of my story, leaving out the jail part but telling him I was abandoned in the night by my one time friends and was just trying to get back home to NY. He listened politely and then began practicing empathetic lecturing on me and leveled some tried and true southern advice on me, to cut my hair, take a bath, and go back home. He offered to take me to the town limits on 22 where he was sure I would get a ride. I told him I was much obliged and I actually praised the lord out loud for his coming around when he did. Like I said, I’m a fast learner.
TBC

Kaleidoscope Joe and His Amazing Psychedelic Jean Jacket (Act I)

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joe K

(Dedicated to Deadheads and music lovers around the world)

In the attics of my life
Full of cloudy dreams; unreal
Full of tastes no tongue can know
And lights no eye can see
When there was no ear to hear
You sang to me

-Attics of my life- Robert Hunter/Grateful Dead

The storyteller never tells you what to think, merely observes and reports the facts as he or she observes the world around them. Every once in awhile if a storyteller is extremely lucky they are afforded insight into stories that predate paper and shed light on mystical ancient occurrences, like looking through a kaleidoscope into a scattered view of history. This storyteller had the great fortune, or misfortune as some may call it, to have worn the coat of past truths and peered into a life that has so long ago finished its tale, and attempt to formulate them into a narrative in such a way as to enlighten the listener. The day I put on the psychedelic Jean Jacket I viewed the tale of Kaleidoscope Joe, son of Jacob the Ganja man from Canaan. My duty is to shed a light on that which I saw and allow you make of this tale what you will. No need to pay me off in silver, I offer this up as a storyteller, a humble servant of the universe. Let me just say this though, if ever you find yourself in the position to don the jacket an open mind and little weed of wisdom will make the journey much more colorful and far easier to understand.
How I came across this magic jean jacket is not a special story, just a bit of luck while clearing out the attic of an old acquaintance that recently passed over to the next realm. In a small cabinet marked “Peyote Pinechest” was an assortment of smoking aids and implements designed for inhaling intoxicating fumes of various mind enrichment products. Folded neatly at the bottom was a jean jacket of rainbow dayglo pigments, a “coat of many colors.” A rather unexciting and mundane find although steeped in fond memories of the days Kevin and I ruled the world. But then I tried it on. From the moment it covered my shoulders I knew I had inadvertently stumbled on to something unique, not only in look, but in attribute. You see, anyone who wears this visionary jacket begins to see past truths, ancient occurrences that have long been forgotten and stored away in the attics of the mind. This is the storytellers account of just such a leap of faith.

Act I
The Music Never Stopped

All I know is something like a bird
within her sang
All I know she sang a little while
and then flew on
-Robert Hunter-

As I opened the peyote pinechest it made an unusual sound, a sound that seemed to have been waiting forever to escape its pinewood confines. The sound was followed by an aroma, one not altogether unfamiliar. It wasn’t a musty mothballesque aroma nor a musty mold laced scent one might expect, but rather a sweet woodsy smell, reminiscent of an excursion of mine back in ‘73 to Jamaica. I was in Ochos Rios when I met a Rastafarian, Herbie. Herbie had long ago thrown away his comb so he sported long matted locks of hair almost to his waist which he called dreadlocks. He looked to be all of 25 years of age though his eyes betrayed a life long and hard, an old man with the eyes of the world. He sized me up, a white American youth with very long hair and a semi full beard. “Welcome my friend, I am a Rasta, cool like you Mon. My name is Herbie, man of the Herb, please come into my hut.” I would later learn that the early Rastafarians fancied themselves the equivalent of American Hippies, a generation of rebels who took a stand against government and borrowed the term “cool“ as a bonding statement. The hotel I was staying at had warned me about dangerous Rasta’s and scams in town designed to have Americans incarcerated. Bunny, the banjo player at the hotel explained to me that in Jamaica they believe all Americans are rich, and some corrupt cops set up buy and busts with phony Rasta’s expecting the young Americans to call home and send money to avoid jail from illegal possession of Ganja. I ignored the warnings because Herbie was cool. Like me. Once inside the hut my ignored fears disappeared completely because my instincts were correct. For a change. Inside Herbie’s hut a small boom box rumbled out some obscure reggae tunes. An Ethiopian flag was hanging on one canvas wall and posters of Bob Marley and Haile Selassie scattered on the others. An assortment of pipes and rolling machines in a makeshift bookcase was propped up on the back wall. Sitting on top of the bookshelf under a knitted cloth of red green and yellow stood a small Buddha statue with a trail of smoke emanating form its head. Inside the statue was not incense, but fresh Jamaican ganja that actually smelled of sweetness. It was that aroma this chest invoked and that’s where my vision begins.
I breathed in as if I could get a hit of that sweet smelling ganja as I examined the contents of Kevin’s peyote Pinechest. A spectacular looking jacket reached up and grabbed me by the eye. I vaguely remembered my best friend Kevin wearing it back in our youth. It was a Lee Rider jean jacket his girlfriend Bonnie had customized for him. Bonnie was a Native American young woman with an exotic air about her. Her long straight hair was so dark black it earned her the nickname Onyx. Onyx came from somewhere in Arizona part of a Yaqui Indian tribe who were known for their spiritual pipe smoking out of body practices. It was rumored they often used hallucinogenic herbs and roots of cacti in their rituals which explained the peyote pinechest. Onyx was skilled in various art forms having air brushed a number of vans in town but her local claim to fame was art of silk-screening. She had a fine business making extraordinary psychedelic looking tee shirts of rock bands but she silk-screened Kevin’s jacket for him special as a birthday present. It was magnificent, bright color in an intricate design that that would make peter Max jealous. I tried it on which put me in a trance.
There I was back in Herbies hut, Herbie rolling a stick of ganja in paper coated with oil essence of hashish. We shared the joint which was even tastier than the smell from Buddha’s head when a very old man entered the scene . The old man looked as though he walked out from the Old Testament, dressed in tattered rags and sandals and sporting a long scraggly grey beard and long thin white hair to his waist. He motioned to me come over which I did. In his hand he held a three foot long pipe made of human bone he was filling with something. He lit it, took a long inhale and passed it to me. “I am Joseph, from Carlisle in the land of The Canaanites, perhaps you know me better as Kaleidoscope Joe.” I took a long hit from the pipe, it seemed like it took all my breath to get the tiniest hit of smoke all the way from the bowl to my lungs. I shook my head to let him know I had no clue who he was. He handed me an old photo of a very sad looking man perhaps from the Middle East staring at a strikingly beautiful woman. “Well then, finish this bowl of ganja, I’ll tell you a story.”

Lady With A Fan
His name is August West, and he was in love with that lady there, Pearly Baker, the lady with the fan. Unfortunately Old August had a pension for wine, but not just any wine, his homemade power burgundy. Pearly was beautiful, a wonderful woman an August loved her true, in fact I was in love with her too. You see, August there is my brother, and Pearly Baker came between us forcing us to choose. August, drunk though he was, had a fierce determination and wasn’t afraid of anything. Pearly pitted us against each other with a challenge. “Which of you to gain me tell will risk uncertain pains of hell?” She tossed the fan into a pit of vipers, “The first to retrieve my fan from these snakes shall have me in every way you wish.” I sensed Pearly enjoyed the power of having us fight to be the one to bed her. I weighed my options, will having my way with Pearly justify what I would need to o to my brother? Even if I could beat August what kind of a wife would Pearly be? I doubted that challenges would ever stop, her desire to challenge too great but August wasted no time at all. He pushed me aside, reached into the pit of vipers risking venomous snake bites grabbing and offering up her fan as proof of his devotion. The old man paused looking at me. “You saw it didn’t you? You didn’t hear my tale you experienced it right? It’s okay, I know, this pipe is filled with wisdom which has entered your soul. You will see things you probably should not see many years from now. We will meet again my friend, when you are ready.” The man left so I turned to Herbie, “So Mon, you lika my ganga? Twenty bucks for you because your cool like me Mon.” I handed Herbie the twenty dollar bill and he gave me an ounce of preamo weed. He had been doing something with a razor on the table, I asked, “Did you know that old dude Herbie?” He smiled, “No Mon, no old man was here. But many strange ting happen in my hut, have a taste of dis before you leave Mom, make sure you come back.” Hernbie handed me a mirror with two long line of a whitish yellow powder and a short straw. I sniffed the coke an walke3d back out to the street. What Herbie had for sale was so good I knew I would be back tomorrow for more. As I walked down the street I heard someone say, “Strategy was his strength and not disaster.” Kevin would never believe me if I didn’t bring some back.

With that I found myself back up in the attic all by myself remembering how I smuggled ganga and cocaine back for Kevin in a container of baby powder . Apparently I was sweating and had removed the psychedelic jean jacket snapping me from the trance. I folded the jacket and put it aside trying to remember if that ol man was a real memory or a hallucination from the peyote pinechest as I explored the other treasures inside its confines . Kevin had stored quite an assortment of smoking utensils, a few chamber pipes, a meerschaum pipe, a cob pipe, a half dozen bongs, two hookahs, and at the very bottom of the chest was his prized chillum. The chillum was a ceramic straight conical pipe which you hold between your fingers in a fisted hand and smoke through the thumb an index finger essentially making your fist a bowl of smoke. We both loved that pipe, it was so unusual. Reminiscing I lit up the chillum to smoke any remnants from resonated bowl. I thought back to when he first bought the chillum, as usual in those days Kev and I were together. We had set out on a mission to Woodstock NY to get a tattoo at the Shooting Star Tattoo Parlor. The owner/artist, Country Paul, had gone to the original concert and never left town. Along with his artwork of potential tattoo’s he had a showcase in his shop filled with various pieces of crystal and a few small pipes. Kevin spotted the chillum right away and had to have it. It had an Indian Hindu inspired design, a very cool looking concentric design of geometric shapes Country called it a Chakra, or wheel. Of course Kevin had that design tattooed on his bicep while I viewed some of Country‘s other works he had on the “wall of choice.” Being in a dark period of my life I was drawn to a picture Country Paul called The Redeemer and the clay. It wasn’t like Christ the redeemer it was an old man with long hair and a long beard in a long red robe walking with a cane with a human skull on top. He was pulling an old wooden wagon filled with clumps of clay. It looked so cool I had it tattooed on the inside of my forearm. Those were the days, when we believed ourselves indestructible. As I smoked whatever remnants I could scrape from the chillum I stared at my tattoo. As I exhaled the old smoke I realized the redeemer pulling the wagon was the same man I had seen, or maybe not seen in Herbies hut so long ago.

What shall we say, shall we call it by a name
As well to count the angels dancing on a pin
Water bright as the sky from which it came
And the name is on the earth that takes it in
We will not speak but stand inside the rain
And listen to the thunder shout
I am, I am, I am, I am
-John Perry Barlow/Grateful Dead-
The Wind And Rain
Jacob was a good man, a successful man living in a place called Canaan. A farmer who plowed the fields in which he grew the sweet mind bending tobaccos which afforded him a fine home for his wife and family. Jacob was happily married to his second wife Rachael and an outstanding role model to his twelve boys. His first wife Leah was Rachael’s older sister and the mother of eleven of the boys. Jacob and Rachael had only one son together, Joseph, who was shown special favor by his father. While the other boys worked the fields that supplied Sativa and opium for the royals of the Orient with their father, Joseph stayed behind to help his Mom. Joseph was an amazing cook who had a natural talent for making hashish cupcakes. “You must knead the hash in softened butter first before adding it to the batter. That’s what makes them so special” He often entertained himself by spending hours looking through a cylinder of changing colors and shapes. This earned him the nickname Kaleidoscope Joe, and the jealous wrath of his siblings who simply called him Clyde.
“Why are we out here busting our asses while that little priss Clyde lounges in the kitchen staring through that stupid cylinder of his?” “That wimpy Clyde never worked a day in his life.” The grumbling never ceased. As always Jacob stood up for his favorite son, “Come on guys quit complaining, we have fields to tend to afore all that’s left is the wind and rain. Joseph is the best cook ever and his cupcakes are to die for. You guys all enjoy the food so he works the kitchen while you work the fields. Now lets finish up here, there’s a barn dance Friday and I understand the woodcutters daughter will be there. They all turned to look across the field to the riverbank where the woodcutters daughter often knelt down at to gather water. A beautiful woman with dark skin, as brown as the bank. It’s said she knows secrets the water has told her. She wasn’t there today, only the sun sparkling off the reeds into the sea. Jacobs son August was especially smitten with her. “Oh man, she has the sweetest voice, her song is the latch on the door to my heart. I live to follow her as she walks the path to the river shore come the morning sun.” The other boys began chuckling as Jacob shook his son from his daydream, “Okay poet, enough of that talk we have fields to plow. The work of day measures far more than the planting and growing alone. We must let it grow.” August was still dreamy, “For the time I shall break ground to reap bushels of cannabis and poppy meal, but Friday I shall dance with my lady in circular motion, just me and Pearly.” Jacob laughed, “Right now you can dance in the furrowed field my son, you only reap that which you sow. Tread lightly with your lady friend, if you plant ice your gonna harvest wind my son”

Did you ever waken to the sound
Of street cats makin’ love
And guess from their cries
You were listenin’ to a fight?
Well, you know…
Hate’s just the last thing they’re thinkin’ of.
They’re only trying to make it through the night.
-John Perry Barlow/Grateful Dead

Excitement had been building all week so when Friday finally arrived the air was ripe with anticipation. Jacobs twelve boys would be out on the prowl and the ladies in town stood no chance. As usual it would be refusal and then surrender, the boys eager to sow their wild oats. Jacob was concerned for his son Joseph because Joe didn’t posses the strength and experience of his older brothers so before they left Jacob presented him with a special coat, a coat of many colors. Now Joseph would no doubt be the sharpest dressed man at the dance and have a much needed edge. While Kaleidoscope Joe was overjoyed, his brothers were angry and grew ever more envious of how Joe was shown so much favor from their father. Joe was oblivious to his brothers envy and openly admired his good looks in the mirror. “I can’t believe how great this coat looks, I am gonna get me a fine woman tonight, a woman I can cook for.” August sneered, “You just hang around Loose Lucy little brother, save the real women for men who know what to do with them. And stay far away from Pearly, she’s mine tonight.” Joseph teased, “I don’t see no ring or no name on her brother, but I’m not interested in hr anyway.”
At the dance Joseph was strutting like egotistic peacock flashing his baby blue eyes and full on smile at all the ladies which only added fuel the burning flames of jealousy which crackled within the boys. Especially August. When Joseph began flirting with Pearly Baker the mule shit hit the fan. Livid and pumped with jealousy August rounded up all the brothers and formed a cabal outside the barn. “Guys we just can’t have this anymore. Something needs to be done about Clyde and it has to be tonight. Even after I stuck my hand in a pit of vipers he flirts with the girl of my dreams. I have a plan to get rid of Clyde forever” They were all in agreement, each hating their little brother for differing reasons. August continued, “There this guy Jack Straw who smuggles slaves over to Egypt and not only will he take Clyde away, he’ll give us s few bottles of whiskey on top of it. We can dip that hideous colored coat Dad gave him and coat it with goat blood. Then We’ll tell Pops he was killed at the point of a knife. We can rid ourselves of that nuisance and get on with our lives. We can share the women and we can share the wine.”
So it was, Kaleidoscope Joe was smuggled out as a slave, the boys telling Jacob his favorite son had been jumped for his ring, kaleidoscope, four bucks and change outside of Delilah Jones brothel. Jacob cried for nights wishing it weren’t true but he had the coat of many colors all covered in blood. The next thing this story teller saw was Joseph dragging a cart of clay. I realized I was no longer looking at my tattoo and the chillum was gone. I shook my head back an forth with great force in an attempt to regain some reality when I heard a voice from the past. “JT that coat looks beautiful on you, you should keep it. I have no doubt Kevin would want you to.” I knew that voice instantly. Smiling I turned, “Onyx, my god how are you? How long has it been? You look fantastic.” That’s when I realized I was once again wearing the jacket Onyx had fashioned special for Kevin. I removed it and found myself drenched in sweat. I folded it up, “No Onyx, you made it for him you should have it. I’m not even sure why I had it on.” To my dismay I was alone in the attic, no Onyx, no Jamaican Rastafarian, no Joseph from the old testament. I took the coat flung it over my shoulder. Time to get a drink.

Two Teachers, From Sir With Love

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two teach

How did I end up here? So many years spend meandering through paths ,so many detours, and now I sit with a handful of accomplishments that have long ago worn out there welcome and a plethora of stories to tell. Not much else. True every once in a while I get another flicker of brilliance, a new recipe here, a great idea for a short story there, but overall nothing lasting. Now instead of looking to see what’s up ahead in the path I find myself peeking backward noting where I may have chosen a path better to have avoided, or another better to have taken. That’s the lament of aging, reflecting on where we’ve been and where we may have gone, and how we ended up where we are now.
The times I do look in my rearview mirror the most inspiring image I see is two teachers who attempted to direct me along a path they believed not only was I suited for, but a path that was suited for me. During my hours of reflections of my life I often pause and take some time to consider these two women, two adults during my formative years, that were perhaps the only ones who truly believed in me back then. I don’t dwell on what may have been but I do often regret I hadn’t given them as much consideration as they gave me. I can’t go back, no redo, but what I can do is seize the opportunity to give props to two extraordinary teachers. Mrs. Kirshenbaum, and Ms. Kitty Lindsey, though I never showed it you were both a major inspiration to me. This then is for you, with much love from me.
While in the sixth grade my teacher, Mrs. K., told me I had a creative ability and I should consider pursuing a career in writing. But it was sixth grade, I had recently discovered that not only do girls not have cooties, but kissing them was pretty awesome. I had my first steady girlfriend and career was the farthest thing from my mind. Not to be stifled Mrs. K published an essay I wrote in the school paper, The School Bell. The Bell was a four to six sheet newspaper that went to every household. Mrs K. asked the class to write an essay on what we expect of the move from elementary school to junior high school. I titled my essay “Great Expectations”. I hadn’t read the book but saw it in the library and I dug the title. Although filled with misspellings and grammatical miscues it was an intense view of what I expected when we left the confines of elementary school and braved the new world of junior high (middle school to you younger readers) Nothing about Mrs. Habersham, no Pip, that would become required reading much later, but in my Great Expectations I explored the benefits and dangers of going from the comfort of a single classroom to the unknown experiences of numerous teachers in numerous rooms, in a huge school with way too many dark nooks and cranny’s. Not to mention big kids! Mrs. K was blown away, the principal agreed, even Mom liked it, but no one other than Mrs. K mentioned anything about a future associated with writing.
When seventh grade came it was even more of a challenge than I expected and I learned even more about girls which became an obsessive distraction. My writing career was quickly forgotten and remembering locker combinations and girls names became far more important. Halfway into the year I was introduced to another distraction, marijuana. I had been drinking the occasional beer, hanging outside a store until someone of age could be finagled into buying some for beer or Ripple wine for us, but weed opened up a whole new culture. New skills had to be acquired, cleaning the pot, rolling it into joints, getting the red out of our eyes, self control when something seemed so funny I wanted to burst, and maintaining in class. That meant putting my best face forward to look as straight as possible so nary a soul could tell I had smoked weed. Now I had two major forces in my life, girls and weed. Not to brag but I was getting pretty good at both. The school itself performed its expected task, to prepare me for the world I would be thrown into after school is over. They hired guidance counselors to talk to us in 9th grade that would help take our recently shaped minds and steer them towards the area that we were best suited for in “real life”. Good theory, but in practice they met with our parents to discuss where they wanted our fertile minds steered. “He seems to be pretty good in math, maybe a career in the stock market” “Maybe he should take business math, lots of work for accountants.” After tossing around a few ideas they finally asked me what I wanted. By this point I had been smoking weed and was no longer a virgin. I was obsessed with rock and roll, as well as its subculture of Hippiedom. At first I mistakenly believed my parents cared about what I wanted, “Well…..I think joining the Peace Corps would be cool”. The counselor stared blankly, Dad glared angrily, but dear ole Mom was in denial, “Oh he’s just kidding, aren’t you honey? Tell us which of the careers we chose you like the most.” The time had come, “What I want is to choose my own path, not have you guys tell me which way to go. I want to help people, I like being with people and the Peace Corps does great things and helps lots and lots of people. That’s what I want to do. I’ll keep a diary of my travels and maybe someday write a book about it.”
This was the first of a long string of awkward silences I would share with my parents. Finally my Mom laughed, “Oh JT, stop now! That’s not what you really want.” Dad weighed in quickly, “Don’t be a fool JT, there’s no money in the peace corps, just a bunch of dirty hippies, Mr. Gunther has given you some great ideas of what you can do and you’re going to listen to him and decide which one you want!” It was clear I wasn’t needed in the conversation anymore so I just sat there and listened. They proceeded to shape my life for me as I daydreamed, wishing I had a joint in my pocket. When the meeting was over they were all feeling very positive of my future and I had been instructed to read the stock market pages of the newspaper each day. I went back to class discouraged.
For me Senior High started in tenth grade. After three years of building schoolyard creds and being king shits, we were thrown back at the bottom to be tortured and humiliated by the juniors and seniors. Even the janitors picked on us. I learned quickly that my skill of acquiring weed was a fantastic equalizer, and within a month I was accepted into the fold of the older kids who bought weed from me. Also in tenth grade I met the one teacher who, had I allowed her, would have hand led me down a path of writing. In her English class she had us write a short story without boundaries, whatever turned us on. I had two idea’s I wanted to do so I handed both stories to her. The first was a kind of science fantasy, in which the biggest traffic jam in history caused a dome of carbon monoxide killing near everyone. A post apocalyptic before I had a clue what that meant. The second was a tragic love story, kind of my hip version of Bonnie and Clyde that starts out with a young couple in love waking up after a night of heavy LSD tripping outside a stolen cop car. They wake up confused and still stoned at a reservoir that supplies the town below with water and planned a scheme to fill it with liquid LSD. I then went into a few households and described the effects of tripping It was crudely written with not much finesse but jam packed full of twisted imagination. I had drawn on my recent experiments with LSD which at that time had amounted to a half dozen trips. I wrote it in a somewhat rebellious attitude. Mrs. Lindsey, or “Kitty” as she had her students call her asked me to stay behind after reading it.
My original fear was she would chastise me or turn me in for writing about drugs, but to my pleasant surprise she praised the concept and creative spirit and implored me to sign up for her creative writing course. The second influential person in my life assured me I had a talent. I was pretty blown away, I have a warped imagination, but that’s not a talent, that’s a personality trait. Regardless, Kitty felt if I was given instruction I could write, all I needed was to learn sentence structure and grammar, and for someone to unleash my creativity. I thought it was worth a shot so I promised to sign up. Writing was the one thing I had always enjoyed. I had a spiral notebook of poems, observations, and story concepts I titled “Ramblings.” I never let anyone read the notebook because I had the self esteem of an earthworm. Still, I couldn’t wait to get home and give Mom and Dad the good news.
One persons good news is another’s persons complete waste of time. “What the Hell do you mean become a writer? Writing isn’t a real job, you want a real job.” “Dad, you have no idea what I want because you never listen to me. I hate the godamn stock market, I hate business, and I am never going to be an accountant, that’s not what I want.” Mom just cried but Dad wasn’t finished, “I know exactly what you want JT, you want to sit around on your lazy ass all day and watch TV. You think anyone will pay you to do that? No! I’m telling you what you’re gonna be and you will listen young man. You WILL read the stock market everyday, and you Will take business math. I don’t care what this teacher of yours says you do not have any talent and even if you did you’ll never make a living from it. You can tell this Mrs. Lindsey of yours you won’t be in creative writing you’ll be in business math. Kitty! What the hell is this teacher doing having her student call her by a nickname anyway, what the hell are we paying taxes for, for your teacher to be your friend? You will take business math and get this writing crap out of your head now!” That discussion would define my relationship with my father for the next 30 years. After that day I didn’t miss any opportunity to piss him off. I grew my hair, I wore an American flag bandana, I bought red whit and blue sneakers, I spoke of protests and rallies, signed petitions, attended sit ins, and let him know where I was during those anti American moments. I read very profound books, Aldous Huxley, Herman Hesse, Ayn Raynd, Kurt Vonnegut. I read political and hip books by Abbie Hoffman, Jerry Rubin, Jack Kerouk, Tom Robbins. I defiantly took creative writing and went to class high.
A little too high, with an imagination that did not connect with any of my classmates. I was too “out there” for them, they wanted to be serious writers, Steinbecks or Dickens, and resented me an everything I stood for. I was in a class loaded with hitters, or straits, kids who followed every rule, seldom took a chance, and only saw the principals office on official business, never for disciplinary action which was what I went there for on a weekly basis. I was alienated and withdrawn in class, then started cutting. First a day here or there, then a few in a row, until I stopped attending altogether.
From there I took a myriad of path turns, none of which involved writing. I went from pot sink suds buster extraordinaire at a local restaurant, to line cook at Windows On The World, worked my way up to a B level chef in NYC, then ultimately a chef/owner. I left my dreams of writing packed away in an obscure box gathering dust in the attics of my youth. Until now! I have literally turned a page and gone head first into writing, a blog here, a published story there, an hopefully before my flame of creative energy gets to too dim will have a collection of short stories or perhaps that great American novel that has been hiding out for so long. Never give up on a dream, don’t let other people define your limits. Your imagination never rests and loves exercise, so exercise it daily. No matter what you enjoy pursue it before it passes by you. I work every day now on writing something, an I truly believe I have at least one good novel in me to finish. If I do, I know exactly who will be in the dedication, my two teachers.