In My Arms

On March 5, 2014 By Terrapin - The JourneyIn Uncategorized7 Comments

Once I held you in my arms

You gave me such a rush

Filled with blood of happiness

With just one simple push

Once I held you in my arms

And let you come inside

Hope replaced my agony

Made misery subside

Then you held me much too tight

Imprisoned my every thought

Made me see you every day

The heartaches that you brought

How you got under my skin

Clutched tightly to my heart

Threatened you would never leave

Swore You’d never part

Then I broke free of the strangling grasp

Discarded all your charms

But memories here are scratched in red

From when I held you in my arms

I know for some of you it’s hard to understand why, but if you can imagine pains so totally encompassing someone feels compelled to sell a piece of their life for a modicum of relief you may begin to understand why many people turn to addiction in an attempt to validate their existence. Please don’t condemn them, too many close to me have lost to their addictions, and every last one of them was a beautiful but tortured soul. To all those who are falling, those who fell ,and for the few who have defeated addiction I dedicate this to you. PEACE

This Way To Egress

On March 3, 2014 By Terrapin - The JourneyIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

A satin switchblade dark evening moans

Bedroom dark and shady

Violet teardrops in shards of promise

No way to treat a lady

A distant echo of agonizing cheer

Acting like he bought you

Dreams of lace caressed in crimson

Not how Mama taught you

Circus message send painful rhythms

Pounding through her head

Cries flow soft through ears unopened

Yearning to be dead

This way to Egress written in the dark

Only one way out

Fading hope a dispassionate plea

Showering in doubt

Unsuspecting partners dance alligator tango

Squirming on the sheet

The pearl stiletto in and out

Flaming from the heat

Teardrops flow in restoration

Accompanied by moans

Breathless bodies lay in tandem

A shiny pair of bones

Lovely child in distress, come with me to find egress

Where Have All The Flower Children Gone?

On February 25, 2014April 4, 2014 By Terrapin - The JourneyIn Uncategorized5 Comments

The Decade That Was
Once upon a time, there was a creative thought, which blossomed into a fine young idea. That idea was nurtured and guided so it became a sound and just suggestion . As it grew it evolved into a brilliant well thought out concept. Because the concept had such universally beneficial implications it rose up into an action. The action was pure an meaningful and reached so many other open minds that it morphed into a movement, and it was the most glorious movement the world had ever seen. It was a movement dedicated to equality, world peace, harmonious existence, and awareness. Seeking a better world through music, inclusive lifestyles, positive politics, and the ability to question injustices perpetuated by governments. Like most good things authorities believed it needed to be compartmentalized so it was labeled a decade. The decade became turbulent and pushed our tolerance to the limit. The decade ended. Time passed, and the decade was reduced to a memory of drug induced youth protesting without direction, and the memory began to fade.

Only wanted to live in peaceful bliss
World peace love and happiness
Place the hate down a deep abyss
That’s the utopia we all should miss

No one cared about your race
Accepted all in loves embrace
We were in such a happy place
Until it fell and crushed our face

Now so many years gone by
Often times I wonder why
Did the movement have to die
Was the decade one big lie?

Looking back we had a goal
Drugs sex and rock and roll
Scuse me while I light a bowl
Get high on the grassy knoll

But in the end the dream is done
No more flowers in the gun
Flower power was on the run
If nothing else we sure ha fun

Quest for peace replaced by greed
The hell with what poor folks need
We all have our own mouths to feed
Don’t have time to hear them plead

But take a minute and reflect
At all the rights we keep in check
And thank a Hippie what the heck
For trying to make this world correct

PEACE….FOR EVERYONE..IMAGINE, NEVER STOP DREAMING

Hope I Die Before I Get Old

On February 16, 2014 By Terrapin - The JourneyIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

A Potsink Diary Reflection
Cooking at a rest home was not especially challenging but I’m still in a kitchen, at least sometimes, and I had fun working with Margie and Flo. Margie was not only the big boss but a favorite of the owner so she called all the shots and since we worked together much of the time we became fast friends. I got my kitchen responsibilities done faster and faster so I could have more time on the floor to hang out with the nurse and the aides. We laughed and joked a lot, I was one of only two males working there, but it just never dawned on me that nurses could not only tease with expertise, but they are also practical jokers.
One day as I was flirting with one of the aides Margie snuck up from behind and said to me “Jhay, you afinish so faust today dot we got spayshal job for a you.” A shot of adrenalin started coursing through my central nervous system because the sound of that had an eerily similar ring to it. It sounded too much like the “downtime” Chef Jimmy was so adept at. I thought back to all the mindless tasks the chef assigned me that not only bored me to tears but drained what little sanity I had left in me. In a sheepish voice I inquired if it was in fact anything like downtime but Maggie assured me it was just a small job and she needed help with an SSE. I started to feel a little relief, SSE didn’t sound like it was anything horrible. But an uneasy feeling did come over me when I saw the dastardly dog smile on the other nurses. “Meet us up inna Miss Lemcows room upstair. We meet you dare Jhay.”
When I walked in the room I began to get a tad concerned. After all, this place was loaded with some of the most extremely senile people to ever observe the Civil War. At the very least they read about it in the “Recent History” books. I was called into the bathroom where they had poor Mrs. Lemkaugh sitting naked on the toilet. It was an embarrassing sight for me but Mrs. Lemkaugh never even took notice of me. She wasn’t in control of her faculties and as I would soon find out not in control of bodily functions. I tried to look away but its like a car accident, the harder I tried the more I looked. I was depresses at how depressed the old woman’s body was. Any muscles or tendons in her breasts had long ago lost any of its substance and hung like deflated balloons. Her whole body just seemed so frail and wrinkled. I felt very uncomfortable, as though I were violating her privacy. I guess I was but she was completely unaware of my existence let alone my embarrassment at that violation. I looked away choosing to focus on my Jamaican boss who I was beginning to develop a crush on. In Margies hand was a metal can much like a flour sifter with a red rubber hose attached to it. “Here Jhay, I need a you hole dis can up over da heyd ofa Miss Lemcow.” Totally confused and wondering what the fuck was happening I stared blankly as I grabbed the can. Flo, the sexy forty something nurse leaned up to my ear and whispered “Is this your first Soap Suds Enema honey?” It took a minute for the words to sink in. Now the SSE took on an entirely dark aura. I had heard all three words before but never in the same sentence and certainly not as a single concept, but there it was. Soap. Suds. Enema. Innocuous as three words, I use soap, I bust suds, and I know what an enema is but how in the fuck can all three become one? Pondering the concept it can only mean one thing. I was holding a can of soapy water, so there’s the soap and suds, but where does enema fit in? I looked down at Margie grabbing the other end of the rubber hose and in an instant it hit me. Oh my fucking god in heaven that’s where it fit in, literally. She is sticking that hose in….in..oh my fucking god in heaven she stuck the end of the hose in Mrs. Lemkaugh ass!! “Okay Flo let off de valve.” Flo, the not so sexy anymore forty something nurse, shot me a smile usually reserved for Karmic retribution. She reached up and released the valve. In an instant the can emptied its contents of soapy water and went directly to Lemkaughs ass, which apparently mixed in the contents the Mrs. Lemkaughs gastro-intestinal system was holding on so dearly to. It made the stink carousel of decayed horseshit from my old landscaping days seem like jasmine incense. I gagged as I tried desperately not to breath. At least not through my nose although inhaling that stench in my mouth did not seem an acceptable alternative. I could tell they were enjoying my pain and Flo let out a chuckle. They had gotten me good on this one. “Am I done here?” After I managed to utter my request, I held my breath and very quietly offered a “Jesus shit” mantra “Of course Jayh, you canna go backs de kitchen.” With that I put down my soap suds enema can and left the room. I could still hear the ladies laughing and all kind of sloshing and flushing. I gagged once again as I considered a despicable thought. I feared this wouldn’t be my last SSE and my job around the nursing home was evolving a bit too rapidly.
I was to learn quickly that playing jokes was a way for the nurses to keep their sanity in check. Everyone says don’t get involved with the patients but you really can’t help it. It’s like being surrounded by your grandparents and all their alter egos and they are all so cute. One of the darkest jokes was when Margie sent me into Old Mrs. Carrols room to check on her because she never showed up for lunch. Mrs. Carroll was a staff favorite because she was funny and didn’t seem to have any family. At least none that came to visit. She was kind of in her own little world but she was funny as all hell when she got rolling on shit. “JT? What the damn kind of a name is JT? Whassa mattah, your Mom and Dad couldn’t afford a whole name so they just gave you initials? Where are you from anyway, N Y?” She would say shit like that with deadpan face and so sarcastically accurate it could make a sack of onions cry in envy. Anyway, I went in to see how she was and she was like motionless in bed with her eyes closed. It was eerily quiet in the room which smelled strongly of stale urine. Another aroma I had become accustomed to! Many of the patients, the old folks, had lost control of their body functions. Every room had a cloud of urine stink to one degree or another and the carpets had faded stains everywhere if you looked close. But today the urine cloud was unusually aggressive. It snuck out from the corners of the stained and worn carpet and like a stench poltergeist dancing about merrily in search of an olfactory gland to haunt. And haunt it did. With the unappealing fragrance of rotten eggs soaked in ammonia the cloud of stench creeps into your nostrils and looks for a place to hang out. Sometimes it teams up with the century old shit stink. After decomposing in a ninety year old set of intestines remnants collect in the bowels to congregate. I looked over at Mrs. Carrol who was just lying in bed. But I mean JUST lying! She wasn’t moving at all. I called her name and no response. The silence in the room was the most eerie silence I had ever felt and as I got closer to Mr. Carrol her face was purple and lifeless. I damn near shit myself. I began to shake and knew in an instant that the smell today was so strong because its the smell of death! Something I never ever want to smell again. I was overcome with emotion. Profoundly sad because someone I care about is lying dead in front of me, confused because what the Hell is death anyway, and angry because why did she have to die. I wondered who her family was, if they cared. Had she known love? Is there anyone from her life who’s going to miss her. Then I started thinking how I have to break the news to Mar….Wait! What!! Son of a bitch they knew when they sent me in here! My anger shifted its focus.
When I got back to the lounge they were all laughing hysterically like it was one big god damn joke. My emotions were boiling until I looked at the ladies. They were laughing, but they were crying too. They were trying to cope with the loss the only way they knew. I walked up to Margie, looked her right in the face and said, “Oh yea, laugh now, cuz when I get you back you gonna forget how to laugh at all.” She glared back at me then we all started laughing, and crying, and this weird hugfest started as we all tried to put Mrs. Carrols death away to somewhere. Deep in some mental attic filled with cobwebs so it won‘t effect us. Like I said, we’re not supposed to get attached but it sure is hard when you lose a patient you’re attached to. Real hard.
But that was life at Mimi Dee’s. A mixture of emotions and never knowing what the day would bring. I was cooking again, flirting tirelessly, but had become a fixture. Something had to give. All the young ladies, some from my school, some from other schools, and the nurses. I flirted like it was part of my job. And let me tell you I really dug it. I did feel some degree of guilt because Carrie and I were very serious about each other. Flirting wasn’t exactly cheating, but it wasn’t complete faithfulness either. But still I dug the shit out of so much attention from so many females. Margie would tease me relentlessly about taking me home to her ‘Garden Apartment” when hey boyfriend Bob was out of town. It felt so good but I worried a little if I would ever take it too far. I want to be faithful, but between my raging hormones and insatiable sweet tooth for dancing on the edges of life I had to consider I may one day get too close to that edge. On top of that I knew life was getting stale for me here. I knew I needed to get out of here and get back to proper cooking but I was just so comfortable here, and comfort isn’t something I’ve had much of in my short life. So what do I want to be, a chef or a cheating boyfriend with a job but no career. Something has to give.

Time To Settle Down.

Out Of The Frying Pan Into The Mire (From The Potsink Diaries)

On January 26, 2014 By Terrapin - The JourneyIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

It wasn’t that I wasn’t used to the fecal matter hitting the rotary oscillator it‘s just I wasn’t thinking the fecal matter would figure into my life. The closing of Cumberland restaurant was a lot to deal with and frankly the furthest thing from my mind was me needing a new job. No longer was I an apostle to a culinary madman, no more waitresses to flirt with, no more free beers or paychecks. I was now saturated with disappointment and disillusionment believing the universe had let me down. Maybe I needed to seek another avenue of employment, to shed the dry snakeskin of the restaurant industry and molt to another field. Actually field sounds right I should get as far away from any kitchen, knife wielding Chef or teasing waitress and do some fieldwork. I need a sacrificial rack of lamb. I should do what Ken suggested and go work landscaping for cash. As fate would have it and timing being everything my brother’s ex boss was in need a laborer. I can labor! So it came to pass that I had became the new landscaper laborer for Munsons Field and Dreams. More accurately put, I had become the new lawn mowing leaf raking topsoil carrying shit spreading go boy. I had chosen to become a hard working laborer having my skin scorched everyday by dermal burning threats the sun makes good on while also enjoying the hearty aroma of freshly decayed organic shit. Not just any old shit, but class A number one horseshit Munson got from the stables. Enough about the perks though, there’s also a downside.
Every day ended the same, my arm and back muscles pounding out a rebellious beat building to a painful crescendo.I try and cool the aches and pains with an ice cold beer but it seem as though all my muscles tightened up into ball of overworked subdermal tissues and tendons screaming at every movement. My skin radiates a pinkish aura from hours spent unprotected by those relentless threats of the harsh sun. It left my neck and shoulders feeling rug burnt adding to my misery. As if that weren’t enough there was an omnipresent stench of decaying crap implanting its neverending carousel of stink deep into my nasal cavity. Deep! One of my less enviable jobs was to take compost, decayed animal shit and who knows what and spread the malodorous mixture across a field. At first the smell of evaporating morning dew so earthy and rich comes up off the ground like a wisp of warm steam in a pleasant tease just waiting for its replacement. Breathe deep and enjoy that nature while you can because within seconds the dank aroma of compost rises triumphantly up the nasal passages. Its a blend of some of the most offensive smells I could ever imagine, if dogs smelled that stench when they sniffed another dogs ass the species would go extinct. The steaming stench of a mountain outhouse combined with a quarantined fraternity bathroom joining forces with week old spoiled milk creating a cacophony of disgust that slowly creeps up my nose making an all out aerial assault on my entire being. The assault continues for hours even after my work day was done. Like pigpen the stench takes on an identity of its own following me everywhere even stalking me all the way to the shower where it finally meets it’s match and scurries defeated into the drain. A small portion of it sets up camp in my clothing as a rank reminder of my newly acquired hopelessness that was eased but never eradicated by the cold beer.
I began doing diet pills every morning to keep me awake and give me the energy to bust my ass out in the shit fields. An expensive proposition because on days that it rained I would be sent home making no money for the day, needing beer and weed to calm me down from the pills. Between the pills, beer and weed I went through all my savings after just one week of solid rain. Penniless I was gloomily staring out Munson’s tool shed listening to the rain wondering how the fuck I got here. As if on cue fate suck its fat foot inside the door forcing its way in. Out of the blue my friend Patrick came by with an offer to become an assistant groundskeeper for a local dude who owns three nursing home properties. It’s a full time job despite weather and Patrick was quitting. The job was open and he promised to recommend me. Think how cool it would be to be able to use my newly acquired skills on three locations where you get paid even if it rains. That’s how it was that I became something different. Now I would be a shit spreader with a title. The assistant groundskeeper of the Vieros Health care facilities. I was still in charge of manure movement but now I can add garage cleaner to my resume. Whatever, I was working and making money on a regular basis again. Besides the work wasn’t nearly as exhausting so life was good again. Adios Munson, now I can concentrate on saving up money to get the Hell out of here.
I found myself spending most of my time at one specific locations, Mimi Dee’s. That was the nickname used by the staff at the Miriam Deegan Adult Home owned by the Vieros one of the richest families in town. They also owned two other homes but I only worked at each once a week. Vieros Ault Home was a full scale nursing home, and the Lighthouse was a health related facility, which is a fancy name for old folks home. The only difference in the two being that about eighty percent of the “patients” at The lighthouse and Mimi Dee’s could care for themselves. Those at Vieros couldn’t even wipe their asses but that was already too much information for me. My concern was making sure all the properties were well kept, trimmed and mowed so the families of the patients would believe that no expense was spared in the upkeep of their parents dwelling. Mimi Dee’s was sort of their flagship home so most of the attention was bestowed on that property. But I was happy mowing lawns and raking leaves, even trimming the shrubs which I knew by name. Not the Latin names, the names I made up for them to keep me sane while spending hours alone caring for properties. Big Zebra, Burning Bush, Sticks, just weird names to entertain me. One great benefit was not having the shit stink hanging around me all day and night.
So here I was in a quaint little Long Island community called Cool Springs working on a property of a former Pratt Mansion turned Rest Home. Tending to the chlorophyll producing zoo of colorful organic plants and flowers busy enjoying their days photosynthesizing away and looking pretty. My boss, Fred drove from property to property and left me alone most of the time. He drove me to Mimi Dee’s, gave me daily chore lists, and went about his business. A questionable bonus was being invited inside for lunch everyday. Not the taste bud tingling foods Jimmy made but it was decent and best of all free. Maybe that wasn’t the best part that would have to be the company at lunchtime. I sat around the table with two other guys, six cute young nurse’s aides, and two nurses. On most days I was the center of attention and I dug that. The free meal was back, the flirting was back, and the paycheck was back. What could possibly go wrong?

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

On January 22, 2014 By Terrapin - The JourneyIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

(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.

Transcendental Medication (Exploring philosophy through drug enhanced acupuncture)

On January 19, 2014January 19, 2014 By Terrapin - The JourneyIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

Previously on TM
A tear trickled down my cheek, a tear of pure joy. Ambrosina was here! I turned to absorb her soul swearing I would not let this be our last time. I don’t care what Kha, Shea, or anyone says, Ambrosina is not leaving me this time. There she stood, arms stretched out waiting for me.
Episode 8
The Garden Of Truth

We embraced so tight, neither of us wanting to let go, my body was shaking. “Ambrosina, tell me this is all real, it has to be.” I was burning with desire for her, but this time it was emotional desire. Don’t get me wrong, I also wanted to make love with her, like forever, but I wanted her to fill me, to fill my soul with her sweetness. “Lets not talk about that now JT, come take a walk with me.” I let her free from my bear hug and we held hands as we strolled along the garden path. “Where are we going?” Ambrosina seemed conflicted, both happy and sad. She lightly squeezed my hand, “This way baby, I have something to show you, just follow me along the stream.” We walked along a running stream filled with large rocks, I could hear the sound of water crashing down on the rocks up in the distance, “Are we going to a waterfall?” She looked at me smiling, the most beautiful smile ever, eyes sparkling and full of love, “Just come with me JT, don’t ask so many questions. I’ll take you where you need to go.” I silently obeyed walking along this utopian path upstream simply overjoyed to be with her, not caring anymore where we go as long a we’re together. A strange thought hit me. I almost asked her if she was God right then but thought better of it. We walked along the stream in silence, our souls intertwined.
The pounding of water got louder, Ambrosina let go of my hand. “We have to cross here baby, jump across on the driest rock you can find. When we get to the waterfall you will be almost where you need to be.” She pranced off jumping from rock to rock crossing the stream to the other side so I followed. I hadn’t noticed much because I had been looking at my feet trying to stay on dry rocks when she stopped, “What do you think?” I thought I had seen more beauty on this island than possible until I looked up at the falls. Sheets of crystal clear water rolling off the top of a forty foot mountain, reaching out in a glasslike cascade into the stream. Sunlight beamed down off the arc of clear water and shot out in shards of energy. The water bounced of the pool on the bottom of the stream and spread cool mists of fresh water vapor over us. I couldn’t speak. “There is a special place at the top of the falls I want to take you. From there we will be able to see everything. Everything the Garden has to offer, including truth.” I had no clue what she meant but I followed as she climbed up towards the top, using the greenery as a stepping ladder.
We climbed without words, our labored breathing getting shorter with each advance. Twenty minutes of hiking through natural splendor, being refreshed by mists of water, listening to its pure force crackling through the air. The natural wonder was putting on an audio and visual spectacular just for us. At the very top the view offered a completely different perspective. We were on top of the world, nothing but beauty below us. Ambrosina pointed to an alcove off to the right as she stepped in the water towards it. She waded waist deep in the water heading near the falls which worried me. Was she thinking I might like diving down the water? I hope not, I’m definitely not ready for that, but she stopped right at the edge. Carved into the rock was a perfect tub, the water rushing around it and the tub filled with warm still water. Ambrosina removed her clothing waiting for me to do the same. She held out her hand so I joined her, both of us naked in a natural hot tub looking over a waterfall into utopia. “Isn’t it beautiful JT? We can see the world from here.” And we could, the sky was vast and tangible, a deep cobalt sheet of pure air painted with clouds. The clouds were a vibrant white in perfect positioning, huge billows of cotton animal shapes with stretches of fibers stretching across the horizon. We sat together in the warm water up to our chests and attempted to take it all in. My island now seemed so much bigger, full of life. “Ambrosina, this I the most remarkable place in the world. Do I have to leave here? Can’t we stay like this forever, this moment frozen in time?” She placed her head on my chest circling her arms around my waist. I wrapped both arms around her willing to protect her from anything, not wanting to let go. “I’m sorry JT, but once we’re done here you must go back. But you will have this moment and all of our moments together in your heart forever, the memory is real. And you will find another one to share this feeling with.” I felt blood leaving my face, “I don’t want anyone else Ambrosina, I want you. I love you!” I held her tighter to my body, “What is love my sweet? Have you learned from me what true love is? We had lust filled sex pledging ourselves to each other. Is that what love is?”
I knew what she wanted to hear but I was afraid if I told her I knew now what true love is her time with me would be done. But I did love her, so I couldn’t lie to her, I have learned that that’s part of what love is, trust and honesty. “No, that’s not love completely but it is part of what love is. Love is total surrender and total commitment. When you dominated me I surrendered myself to you sexually, but also emotionally. It wasn’t an unpleasant surrender, I wanted to be consumed by you. Yet when I dominated you it was you who surrendered and I enjoyed that more than I thought I would. Not to rule you, but to have you care so deeply for me you were willing to be whatever I needed you to be, as I was for you. Love is a mutual surrender and a mutual acceptance. Not a surrender of defeat but a surrender that gave me strength I didn‘t realize I had. I know sex and love are related but of that I‘m not sure exactly how.”
Ambrosina glided across the a water embracing me warmly. “Sex is a physical feeling , a tangible expression but love is a concept my dear. We have sex in order to alter our biological evolution, to force mutations so we may move forward as a species. We fall in love to stabilize our emotions, which spin out of control with each evolutionary advance because of the mutations, the co-mingling of cultural emotions. Look down at those beautiful flowers, each one is programmed through evolution to have an inviting look and aroma to attract an insect, like a bee. The look and smell of that flower determine if an insect will come courting which is crucial to the existence of them both. Neither the insect nor the flower have a clue of how significant their intense love making dance has been, they only know its enjoyable so they do it. In that respect nature fools them using the enjoyment of sex to increase the number of sexual encounters upping the odds of their progression. Much like us. The more enjoyable sex is the more often we have it, resulting in more children to grow and repeat the process. Without passionate love making we would be emotionally weak and have less opportunities of offspring. It has come to represent an expression of how deeply we are committed to each other, that’s why you burn with desire, not sexual desire but the desire to express your love far beyond words to ensure it stays. Unfortunately love doesn‘t stay all the time, sometimes we progress differently in our emotions and that makes us unhappy.” I ready to ask her the one question I needed an answer to.
“Ambrosina? ….Are you God?” Her smile embraced me, “No JT, no I’m not God, you have yet to speak with her. Think of me as a substitute teacher, I’m here to shine a light so you can see the dark truths better. Maybe I shouldn’t tell you this but I’m a manifestation of someone in your time stream, someone in your future. You won’t recognize me at sight, but there will come a time when you will be aware of me but you mustn’t say anything, she won‘t be aware. The time is almost here baby, soon you need go down the mountain to Shea. You still have the four truths and the cosmic truths to learn. I’ve completed what you need to know, you have understood much. It’s not many who have the opportunity to understand love at the quantum level. Come let’s make love to me one last time.”
Without a word we stood up and Ambrosina lead me to a clearing at the top of the falls and we made passionate love, both of us giving and taking throughout. I had never before understood the true meaning of unity in love but Ambrosina and I had become one person, one concept. Love is bliss, a joy expressible in words. I have no idea how long we made love, or how many times, when I’m with her time doesn’t exist. But it does end, and like the previous times it ended with us collapsed tightly in each other arms until we closed our eyes, our bodies, our minds, and slept. The shouting of my name woke me up, the familiar voice of Shea, “JT! Comer on buddy, its time to go.” This time I wasn’t angry, I wasn’t panicked, I was okay with it, with everything. My huge smile and I walked down the mountain oblivious to our surroundings.
“Well someone is sure happy.” Shea was correct, I was happy, I was ready for the next step. “Yes Shea, I am. I understand it now, its not about possession, its about unity, full and true unity. I’m ready now, what’s next? God?” Shea’s eye’s revealed instantly what was next, “I’m afraid this is it for this visit JT. I have to bring you back to Kha. But remember this my boy, we all have the ability to alter our present. Our opening scene and final scene are set, but if you want it badly enough, you can alter the act. Change your plot JT.”
That was the last word spoken on the trip. I was physically and emotionally drained and followed Shea like a sheep as he led me back to my row boat. Once I got in the boat Shea began pushing it out into the river. I took one last look back at my paradise island smiling. I’m really going to miss this place! The boat moved with the current and was picking up speed. Before I knew it I was moving at a very fast rate caught in a rapid. The boat was taking on water and I lost my balance. From the bottom of the boat I could see the water rushing in over me covering me. I feared I was going to drown. Suddenly the boat was lifted up and the water cleared away. It took me a half a minute to realize I wasn’t in a boat at all, but I had been lifted from Kha’s deprivation tank. Oops there goes gravity, back to reality!
TBC

I’m Coming Home I’ve Done My Time

On January 12, 2014 By Terrapin - The JourneyIn Uncategorized2 Comments

“Yo turnkey! Hey oh, today is day 30, I’m supposed to be getting out of here!” My words echoed off the jail cell bars so I tried again. “Hey! I did my time I want to get out of here!” Maybe yelling louder will help. “HELLO!! I WANT TO GO HOME!” But no guards came by and even if they did they would probably just stare at me with utter disgust and distain, the one thing they’re real good at. It was beginning to feel hopeless, like I was destined to be Lifetime TV movie about a young dude who gets locked up in a South Carolina prison for thirty days then ends up doing a life sentence in a prison run inbred cops. The other prisoners, most of which have never even seen me but traded insults with me all the time, had a sudden change of heart and supported my cause. When the cops fuck with one of us they fuck with all of us. Nothing like a little injustice from authorities to break down barriers creating a bond between the oppressed. Someone else started yelling on my behalf, “Yo, let Yankee boy out.” Another voice repeated the phrase and then another. Before long it was an out and out chant of a brotherhood of wrongly ain’t gonna incarcerated inmates enjoying any opportunity to piss of the guards. An ear shattering chorus of “Let the Yankee go!! Let the Yankee go!!” now shook the iron bars.
A loud clanging of a billyclub on prison bars brought a momentary silence, long enough for a guard to raise his voice. “HEY! Alla y’all better shut the hell up right now! I ain’t hearin no shit from y’all today the Braves is playin’. Y’all bess shut up right here and right now! Whicha Y’all started this mess and done ruined my game?” Just my luck, my old pal Billy boy, always ready to rumble with a man in handcuffs and a big fan of kicking Yankee ass. Fuck it come hell or high water I’m getin outta this shithole, “Me, I started it officer Billy. Your favorite long hair Yankee. I done finished my time and I want outta here now!” Billy walked up to do what he does best. He stared me down for a few seconds then spoke in his own special bran of condescend, “Now listen here Yankee boy, if’n its time to kick yaw stinkin’ long haired ass out this jail I be happier an a pig in a New Yoke City shit puddle but I ain’t no judge or no record keeper boy. So you bess shut your mouth now an let me get back at mah game. I’ll check with the warden bout your claim. Tell ya what though, if’n you done ruin my baseball game fir no reason I’m likely ta kick yaw ass sideways to hell boy! So yawl bettern be right son.” His dissertation contained the usual amount of greasy spit that accompanies his attempts at using the English language. I wiped my face, “Listen here turnkey, I beena counting every day here and the judge done give me thirty day and its been thirty day. Great day in the morning how much longer I needa stay here? I wanna git outta here.” Jesus shit, I’m starting to talk like them now!
I stood at the bars waiting patiently for Billy boy to return but he didn’t come back for over an hour. He walked up to me smiling, “Seems ain’t no one here today can look up to check yer story son. Now lookie here boy, heres what we gonna do, yew done gun shut yer trap an get on back to yer little home there and we’ll check it out first thing come morning.” To make sure I understood he put one end of the billy club between the bars pointed at my chest and slammed it right into my diaphragm causing me to gasp. The pain was a not so gentle reminder of how mean an sadistic he could be, especially with people in no position to fight back. He smiled triumphantly, gave me a sarcastic “Y’all have a nice day” and walked away loudly lecturing the lot of us on keeping quiet so he could enjoy the game. The rest of the inmates now stared calling the guards names and offering words of comfort to me. I’d gone from dumb shit dirty Yankee asshole to a prison guard whipping boy martyr and it wasn‘t comforting.
I paced my cell as the time passed slower than any of the past horrible thirty had. Dinner came and then lights out all my protesting in vain. I was here until tomorrow. Our living quarters were six tiny cells with a hallway so we could talk but not see each other. We amused ourselves many a time by “fishing” which was throwing cigarettes, or matches, or a candy bar in the hall and everyone else whipping their bed sheet from the little food hole at the bottom of the cell. The first to snare or fish the prize wins. Most nights I would sing a song by Taj Mahal, and old bluesy number about “I’m going fishin‘, yes I’m going fishin’ and my baby go in fishin’ too” It was stupid but our entertainment was kinda limited and my cell mates thought the song funny. I didn’t fish or sing that night as my mates tried unsuccessfully to cheer me up. They finally tired, offered words of support but I was already falling asleep.
First thing that wakes you up in prison is a breakfast, or a reasonable facsimile of a breakfast passed under the door. I wasted no time in letting the breakfast deliverer know I wanted out but he explained he was just a “trustee” a prisoner who kissed enough guard ass to get special privileges and easy work details. He had a rolled up magazine in one hand and he passed it under with my cold eggs, cold grits, and embarrassed toast “Here Yankee, its an EZ Rider magazine. Its contraband so if you get caught you on your own. Cain’t get ya outta here but leastwise y’all have something to pass the time. Errybody here is pullin fer ya boy, ain’t no one wanna spend no more time here’n they should.” It was small consolation.
When the cells opened into the common area my hopes were renewed. I called to every guard within earshot that I was supposed to get out but they absolutely did not care. This went on for two more days until I finally got a guard to listen in the afternoon. A young Christian man came to my aid in a twist of irony. “Jesus loves you boy. Whats yer name, I’ll check it out fer ya?” I gave him my info and as he walked away I wondered why he took this job. Maybe it was a family thing because he sure didn’t fit the mold of the rest of the turnkeys in jail. No matter, at least someone was listening, maybe my nightmare will end.
About an hour and a half later Jimbo, another law approved sadist came to our block. “Hilltop, Justin! Step forward.” It was here, it was over, I was getting out. Time to pretend to be a rehabilitated member of society. “That’s me officer.” He shot me an angry glare, “I know who you is Yankee boy! Get yer stuff, we gowin see da warden.” What? Warden? Did he say warden? I swallowed hard hoping this was only a formality, it’s not like I have a lot of experience being freed from a jail. I went to my cell, rolled up my excuse for a mattress, and said my good byes to my mates. Oddly bittersweet.
I sat in the wardens office with his secretary, or maybe grandmother, but Warden never showe up. After another 2 hours of processing the old woman finished my paperwork then handed me a big manila envelope. “There y’all go Mr. Hilltop, this is everything you done come in with.“ Inside they had stuffed all my worldly possessions, my wallet, an Oakland Raiders cap, and …..an that’s it? “UM, excuse me maam, where’s the rest of my stuff?” I was missing my sneakers plus about thirty dollars and change. Aunt Bea stared with deadpan eyes, “Cordin tar records Mr. Hilltop, this is allya come in with. Course if y’all like ta stay awhile an tawk at the warden bout it yer more’n welcome.” Sarcasm from Hooterville, the last thing I need. “yea, ah, I get it. How do I get the hell outta here?” Aunt Bea pointed to a hallway, “Ain’t no need fer cussin son, jess foller that hallway to the exit.”
It was seven PM, sun was going down, I was in the middle of Mayberry with no clue which way to go. Where the Hell is the scarecrow when you need to decide this way or that way in a strange world? I opted to go right, figuring it wouldn’t matter because either way there’s nothing but one long ass road anyway. Not even a street sign. Well, hope New York is this way, its away from here anyway. Even with the sun down it was hot. I crossed a small bridge and heard running water. I stopped to collect myself. Its getting dark, I have no idea where I am or which direction I’m heading. I have nowhere to sleep or eat. I am lost in Deliverance, South Carolina looking out over a stream and watching…OMFG.. Alligators! Can it get any worse? On cue, a cop car pulled up.
My mind was racing. Alligators below me, cops coming up to me, and jail not more than an hours walk behind me. Oh well, maybe They’ll put me up another night, better than being eaten by a gator. To my surprise it wasn’t cops, but cop, singular. The bigger surprise is it was the one who helped me get out. “You look lost son, whatch dewin here fer?” Not sure what he wanted, I answered politely, “Truth is officer, I had difficulty getting out and I have no money, no shoes, and I’m not sure if I’m heading in the right direction to get back home to New York. The cop chuckled, but not a mean chuckle, a friendly chuckle. “Well on if ya keep onna headed this away Y’all be in Georgia in bout an hour. But I tell ya what son, you want to git outta Carolina, we sure don’t need no New Yokers here, so Ima give Y’all a ride to the border, to Augusta Georgia an I’ll drop you off at the Salvation Army there. They likely to put y’all up fur the night an you can head on back to New Yoke tomorrow from Georgia, not South Carolina.” I stared at him contemplating the fact I had no other option. “Look son, y’all don’t look like a bad guy, and I’m a man of Jesus. I heard they let ya go late an it ain’t right, so the Christian thing to do is to hep my fellow man. Git on in the car and take my offer.” What could I say. A long way to home, starving and tired, much like the gators, and clean out of options “Yessir.” What new adventures am in store for now? I guess hitch hiking back to the city it is.
TBC

Transcendental Medication (Exploring philosophy through drug enhanced acupuncture)

On January 10, 2014 By Terrapin - The JourneyIn Uncategorized2 Comments

TM VII

Previously on Transcendental Medication (Exploring philosophy through drug enhanced acupuncture)

A bright flash followed by an excruciating loud crack bristled across the lake. As I turned toward the sound and flash standing on the water was the shape of a human but it was aflame like a flickering candle wick

“I am here to talk to you about free will. You’ve already seen God, later we will help you to remember her.”

If You Choose To Snooze You Lose

The man stared as though I should fear him but having Ambrosina taken from me I was filled with rage, “Free will? Pardon my ignorance here but what the fuck does free will have to do with anything? Kha dangles Ambrosina in front of me like sexual carrot then pulls her away leaving me empty. He tells me he will explain the reason there is something instead of nothing, and how I’m gonna meet God. So far I haven’t learned shit except that I know what love is and that medicated acupuncture makes everything weird. And you come here babbling some shit about free will and how I’ve already met God and he‘s a, he’ a fucking SHE? This is pure bullshit man, bull shit!” I knew my rage was showing but I didn’t care. The strange figure looked concerned, “ Okay JT, I see you’re angry, let me start over. My name is Shea. I’ve been sent here by Kha to help enlighten you. I didn’t want to do it like this but I see now I must. Ambrosina has taught you more than you know and you’ll have one last meeting with her. You’ve learned so much more than you believe JT perhaps you just haven’t processed it all yet, but there is more to learn before your journey ends. You need to learn about free will and multiple dimensions and universes before you can have a full quantum understanding. Believe me it will all be very clear to you by the end of your journey. But you are impatient my friend and I understand that so I will introduce you to God again but you must not talk, only observe. Once you have acquired quantum completion we will return and you may converse with God. Come, lets have a smoke.” He walked past me and sat down where I had just recently made love to Ambrosina. I followed quietly my anger subsiding slightly. We sat across from each other as Shea lit a long pipe and inhaled. He passed it to me but I wasn’t as enthusiastic as I had been previous times. I inhaled the smoke which was sort of licorice flavor, “So Mr. Shea, what is this we’re smoking?” he accepted the pipe back an inhaled, “This is dried anise jimson, a rare herb. Take a long puff, hold it in and close your eyes JT, this is what you must do if you want to see God. Remember, not one word, only observe. A disruption can cause a tear in the time stream and we sure don’t want that! We’ll go back once you’re enlightened.” He blew the smoke out at my face in rings of blue and green, handing me back the pipe. I did as instructed, took a long hard pull on the pipe filling my lungs. I closed my eyes and held my breath.
I waited as long as I could then tried to make smoke rings like Shea. No smoke came out . I opened my eyes to a huge balloon like cloud, a kind of fuzzy out of focus cartoon balloon. A figure began coming into focus, an overbearing mean looking guy with greasy black hair and a gangly long beard. He looked strangely familiar though his image was still grainy. He was sitting on a bright red throne as he bellowed loudly, “Those shit Romans will pay dearly for this.” People scurried around and a soft voice slipped out from somewhere, a woman’s voice, “It’s okay Vasudeva, that’s exactly what we want, they‘re playing right into my hands. Everyone will believe this Yahweh they worship to be God so I can continue my work undetected. Have them scribe a codex and call it The Bible. My God swindle will be complete and we will rule from the shadows.” The haggard bearded man looked out of place sitting on a luxurious throne appearing more like a homeless man than an assistant for the voice of the woman. His voice was much calmer, “Of course your right my love. The pomposity of those humans anger me but in the end you are correct, that is what shall take them down. As always Matrona Ruga, I shall follow your instruction.” I blinked and the image was gone. I looked to Shea, “Did you see that or was it just for me?” Shea exhaled more smoke rings toward my face, “JT, that was the husband and God herself.” What? I never saw that dude in my life! “You’re telling me that Aqualung look alike is what? Mr. God? And that voice was Mrs. God, a woman I met before? You’re as fucked up as Kha is.” Shea chuckled, “Aqualung, that’s funny JT, never heard him called that before. Reality is not always clear my boy, that’s why it was important to develop quantum eyes. You must be patient, I told you that you had met God before and you have, you just don’t remember. That will come in time. What you witnessed was not from your timeline, it was from mine, a turning point in forgotten history when the Romans convinced people God was a man named Yahweh, or Jehovah.” My thoughts were spinning. “I see you are skeptical that God is really a woman. Think about it JT, what is the one thing we all have in common, aside from seahorses that’s is?” I now knew what he meant, “Okay, I see where you’re going with this, we all came from inside our mothers, no matter what animal, all of us from females. But fucking A Shea, that doesn’t mean God is a woman.” Shea smiled condescendingly, “That’s where you’re wrong JT, if we read any of the ancient scrolls they all agree that we are all the children of God yes? And who has the children? Hard though it may be to admit as a man its not a mans role that matters my son, its always the woman who nourishes, who gives birth. So who better to give birth to all of life than a mother? A slight of mind a very long time ago led humanity to believe it was a man who create all things, but a great leader lead form behind, not arrogantly in front and that’s exactly what Matrona Ruga did. Perhaps it would be less confusing if we call her The Creator instead of God. She didn‘t create only humans JT, in fact she created many life forms in all the different universes” I puffed on the pipe without even noticing, “That would be fine Shea, if I even believed. Wait… What? All the different universes? Shit Shea I’m not ready for that yet, lets just stick to this world where I don’t believe in God to begin with. Even if I did, every religion in the world believes god is a man.” Shea shook his head, “Yes JT that’s wise, you will learn of other universe when ready so let me stay in this one for now. Its true that most religions believe god to be a male, but there are many religions which assign no gender whatsoever. The truth is she prefers to be thought of as a male and that is part of her plan, to kind of masquerade as what men consider the weaker sex. It gives us all a false sense of just how powerful she really is.” Remember, when you view with quantum eyes you see reality. Do you think you can chose your reality or is your reality chosen for you?”
At first I hadn’t realize how cleverly he switched the conversation to free will but it wouldn’t have mattered because I was intrigued. I accepted it as a challenge, “Well I’ll tell you what, as long as I’m high from this anise weed and whatever Kha put on those needles I have no choice because I am not in control. There is no choice for me because I’m stuck here instead of where I choose to be.” Shea passed me the pipe and despite it’s effect, or maybe because of it’s effect I accepted as he spoke. “Where do you choose to be JT? With Ambrosina? Do you think that she is all that exists?” He looked at me slyly, I felt like we were playing mind chess so I planned my response two moves ahead. “No, but with her is where I choose to be this moment, we weren’t finished. Uniting with Ambrosina was like uniting with the wind itself.” I glanced at Shea, “Remember JT, the wind blows soft fog in the dark and it is that dark fog that rises when the sun shines down.” He’s fucking with me right? Okay, I’ll play, “Yes but the fog pleases the soil and allows the grass to reach up to its full potential.” Shea smiled wide, shook his head lightly, “ The fog may please the soil my son, but the rain will fall on your shoulders and that will displease your back.” I stared at him for three seconds before we both broke out laughing. Was it the smoke or did the clever Shea get me loosened up? I didn’t care, he came to tell me about free will so let him talk.
“I’m sorry to say my son that all that seems real may not be. Before you go back to Ambrosina hear me out for a short while, I promise you it will do you no harm. For years philosophers and scientists have grappled over whether or not we as humans enjoy choice, or free will. More often its an argument of semantics because of our perception of what free will means. You can choose Pepsi over Coke, but you can’t choose to whom or where you are born. Many life forms can exhibit apparent free will, a squirrel when chased by a fox chooses whether to flee and which way to flee. Is its fate pre-determined no matter which choice? If a tree senses the soil drying up it can’t very well pack up and leave yet an animal can. Does that mean animals have free will but vegetation does not? So free will you see can be fitted to the definition which fits your need. I want to talk to you on a more idealistic level.” I was starting to lose him a little, “You mean like is there Karma or something? Cause believe me I know of many people who Karma seems to overlook!” Shea paused to smoke from the pipe before sharing, “Ah yes, Karma. So many of you these days believe karma to be your personal avenger, but that is far from what Karma is. Karma is like the gravity of spirit, originally a religious concept of the Brahmans. It was the hand of their god that issued the punishments of poor behavior and often would not occur until future reincarnations, so if you truly believe in Karma those people you speak of may indeed face the consequence of their actions in another life. They in fact had no choice in who or when the sentence of repentance would be given. Tell me JT, what is freedom to you?” I took a long slow hit from the pipe and filled my lungs, this is one deep mother of a question.
As I let out the smoke it formed rings, first red smoke, then blue and orange. I heard a slight buzzing in my head actually sensing movement inside. My head began vibrating imperceptible to the eye but I felt it, as if my brain was shaking. The last smoke ring left my mouth in a rainbow of colors forcing my mouth into a huge grin. I felt great! “Freedom? Let me see Shea, freedom I think is the ability to make my own choices without interference. It’s not having anyone tell me what I must do, telling me who or what to be, how to act. I am free to think whatever I want. If I think you’re and asshole that’s my option. If I chose to believe you have something to tell me that’s important I’m free to listen. I’m also free to tune you out. Freedom is the power to make my own decisions. That’s what I want Shea, to be free, to do as I please when I please and with whom I please. That sound good to you?”
“I’m afraid you cannot be free in that way, you are bound by the decisions your brain makes for you, you do not control all of your choices.” I thought for a second, “Maybe so, but its my brain so I’m in control.” Shea smiled and stood up walking a few step away. He turned to me and without warning tossed a small red ball at me which I caught. “Why did you catch the ball JT? Did you think look, here comes a ball, I must raise my arm and place my hand where I believe the ball is going to be then clamp my hand on it when it arrives or did you simply catch it without thinking?” I shook my head, I got it, “okay, so my brain can act on its own sometimes but when I have time I think things through to make a choice.” Shea was smiling, the pompous ass, “Are you sure JT? Maybe you make the decision or maybe your brain has already chosen for you. So here is my question, are you programmed to follow a predetermined life or are you really making choices?” He’s good. “There’s no way to be certain.”
“Yes JT, that exactly right. Even with quantum eyes there lies uncertainty. The path you are on is a path of discovery, but is it you who chose to go down the path or was it chosen for you? The truth is you cannot chose, because you have already gone down the path, you have already been enlightened, and you have already moved on.” I was certain he was talking shit, “Shea, what the fuck are you saying, that I’m already dead?” Shea exhaled slowly, “Not in those terms JT, but you still look at time as beginning to end, a line from point A to point B, but time exists differently. Everything that has happened in what you call time has happened and is over, you are merely experiencing your role in it in your own concept of time. Your life has been lived completely but you haven’t caught up yet. People experience their own times in their own lives, believing it to unfold every second, but its a force that never stops. You can understand history because you can read about it, but someone has read the history of your lifetime, and the lifetimes ahead of yours. You have no choice because time has already come and gone for you, you are watching it in what you perceive as real time, almost as a play with you in the lead role in. In this sense JT, your life is pre determined, or actually, post determined”
I got up an walked away toward the wooded area of my paradise island, “I’ve gotta go chill and process this shit Shea, I need to be alone for a bit.” Shea merely smiled a grandfatherly smile, “Of course JT, take your time, I’ll be here when you need me.”
I walked and tried to clear my mind so I could process what Shea had told me. Is this Island my manifestation? I mean its all that I would love, my perfect escape. Utopia! I love being around nature, especially water, and this is just jam packed with beauty. I walked a path between huge green bushes with little red berries, butterflies and birds scattered across the plants and tree’s. I came upon an opening that actually made me stop breathing a second. “Whoa, check this out.” It was a large circular clearing with the most beautiful plants and flowers I ‘d ever seen. The colors, bright red, blue, yellows, pink, orange, purple all surrounded by ornate green leaves and shrubs. Flowers of every shape, funnels, trumpets, bells, tubes, tongues, some in clusters, some in bunches, and some just out on their own letting all their beauty hang out. It was amazing, colorful butterflies and birds singing and dancing among the flora, little animals bouncing about, like I was living in a botanical wonderland. Again I spoke out loud to no one, “This must have been what the Garden Of Eden would look like if there was one.” A familiar voice rose out over natures chatter, a voice I wanted to keep in my heart forever. “In a way it is JT, its our Garden Of Eden. Isn’t it breathtaking? Come over here and let me hold you.” A tear trickled down my cheek, a tear of pure joy. Ambrosina was here! I turned to absorb her soul swearing I would not let this be our last time. I don’t care what Kha, Shea, or anyone says, Ambrosina is not leaving me this time. There she stood, arms stretched out waiting for me.
TBC

Two Teachers, From Sir With Love

On January 7, 2014 By Terrapin - The JourneyIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

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.

Terrapin – The Journey

Tag: writing

In My Arms

This Way To Egress

Where Have All The Flower Children Gone?

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Out Of The Frying Pan Into The Mire (From The Potsink Diaries)

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

Transcendental Medication (Exploring philosophy through drug enhanced acupuncture)

I’m Coming Home I’ve Done My Time

Transcendental Medication (Exploring philosophy through drug enhanced acupuncture)

Two Teachers, From Sir With Love