Lewis Lowe

The Elixir of Ponyo

Published by MyPonyo Omni Media Copyright 006 by Lewis Lowe All Rights Reserved. ISBN 978--443-069-0 No reproduction of this book in whole or in part except where specifically indicated, or brief quotations for review purposes in relevant periodicals and newspapers in any form, may be made without the expressed written authorization of the publisher. Printed in the United States of America Fiction $14.00 US $20.00 CAN Contact: elixirofponyo@yahoo.com http://www.myspace.com/ponyo Cover Art: Chris House of INKOSI DESIGN STUDIO 34-36-3984 Permission in writing must be given for all quotations or reproductions.

Lewis Lowe

Lewis Lowe
Dedicated to a True Ponyo Michael Thomas

A novel by

The Elixir of Ponyo

The Elixir of Ponyo

Ponyos Theme Overture 1: Illumination and the Legend of Ugoma 2: Brotherhood: Orion and Michael 3: New Pleasures, New Excitement 4: The Psycho-Neurosis of Slavery 5: Higher Education? 6: Elixir: Love 7: Meritocracy 8: Quilted Genealogy, A New Constellation 9: Prophecy of a Gypsy Girl 10: Cryptographic Hieroplyphics 11: Vespertine 12: Elixir: Universal Awe 13: The Original Friend of Our Souls 14: To the East My Brother 15: The Okane Club 16: The Big Benjo 17: Positive Ego Elevation 18: Smile Sapporo 19: Hokkaido Haiku 20: 187 on a Rebel Sergeant 21: Yasiko Moon 22: Marifuana Mikado! 23: Life was Beautiful 24: The Silence of Goodbye 25: Beautiful Island 26: My Ponyo, Dearest Friend of My Soul

Lewis Lowe

The Elixir of Ponyo

27: Montgomery, Tao-Ying, and Vulture Peak 28: Tainan, City of the Gods 29: The Prophecy of Pi 30: The Secret of the Dark Girl 31: Sadia, Nona, and King Ponyo 32: Reunion 33: Orphaned by Fortune 34: Exit 35: Jikai 36: Illumination is my Home 37: Elixir: Oriental Magic 38: Two-Hundred Year-Old Baby 39: Brother From Another Planet 40: Charlie Red Aint Dead! 41: Sharon 42: Hypnotize Me 43: Elixir: Hypnosis 44: Lucky Ole Son 45: Afterglow

The Elixir of Ponyo

Lewis Lowe

Ponyos Theme
Consciousness is a timeline Display upon the screen of your mind a straight line. See it? Now, observe a line with waves, minute ripples that wave. Now see upon your mind screen a perpherated line, you know a line with a bunch of potholes, breakage. Now see an erratic zigzag line... Being honest, which of these said lines best describes your life? Ninety-five percent of the species is a living zigzag, a nervous wreck. Theyre erratic, discontented, disappointed, nonharmonic perpherated people with trapdoors in their consciousness. Lifes events and disappointments left unresolved and unforgiven. Someone hurt them here or they hurt someone there. Their father deserted them. Their mother locked them out of the house when they were seven. They believe theyre unattractive. All this static creates potholes in consciousness producing dysfunctionality in life disqualifying you for the Elixir. Ha! Now dig this. Even that wavy line cant go for the Elixir. You know that jet aeroplane that brought you out here today is lovely but how much turbulence did you experience? Science and the engineers of this present world cannot produce a smooth ride because the scientists themselves are narcissistic, confused and bumpy brained. The Divine Chariot of Universal Awe, that bird aint surfing on no waves up in the air. Its as smooth as my Brionni suit, man. That vehicle glides on a smooth slice of air with perfect harmonics, exquisitely balanced. Well, thats my life. My timeline is smooth. I have consciously removed the potholes. Anything that might damage the structural integrity of my mind, anything that might cause the ride of my life to be bumpy is gone. Every day of my life, from four years old to right now is perfectly clear. Its like looking down a bowling alley and seeing those pins at the end. When I drop my ball down the lane Im gonna hit all them pins. Every time. I havent deceived myself. I know who I am, I know who is God, and Im conscious of everyone else on the playing field. Theyre playing life on a lane of potholes wondering why their ball goes in the gutter every time. Then, theyve got to go sit down and wait for the next opportunity to deal. Well, you may never get another chance! Why waste time striking out? Why not bowl a perfect game?

The Elixir of Ponyo

Dont tell me its not possible. Any and every thing can be mastered. Its up to you if youve got the will to be a master of life. A master of your own self. Then again, theres grace, which we have nothing to do with. Grace is like winning the Divine Lottery. But like the fool who wins a billion dollars and loses it, one can receive grace and repel it by ingratitude. That parts totally on you. So here we are in the bowling alley of life. Im in the same boat as everyone else, but I never strike out. Youd think someone would come up to me and ask me how to deal? Everyones so busy making a game out of the game they dont even see me. Theyre too busy. Them seven dirty sins: pride, lust, haughtiness, arrogance and whatnot, all these impediments prevent them from asking me how to deal, how to bowl a perfect game. So maybe theyll buy my book and find out how to deal.

Lewis Lowe

Overture
If consciousness is a timeline, what then, is the theology of time? Why does infinity flirt with temporality? Could one dance outside and inside of time? Could one dance inside and outside human and divine? Why the dividing line? Maybe there is no line, could it all be in our minds? Eternity forcefully penetrated my concept of temporality in my seventh initiatory year in the Science of Universal Awe. Now I know there are real live men and women existing outside time, operating in a fashion some call divine. Flesh, blood, bones, and mind. The Great Halijee is one such man. He is my master. Not a slave master, but a master of circumstance, a master of life, now a master of death whose life is lived solely to give life. Heard of him before I dont suspect, but its possible, maybe youve be elected History has no need for him yet he can claim direct responsibility for many climatic shifts in global culture this past century. Hes been the starry star in many a dream All cosmogonic myths, folklore, fables, and fairy tales, hieroglyphics and Holy Scriptures have whispered about such mysteries, which sound like fantasy in present reality. Still we all are actors in this drama. The writers, producers and directors in the drama are called Lightholders. They are the light of the worlds. They are the matriarchal marrow of existence. They can easily look back 100,000 years and forward 25,000 years as present as they are now, there. They can communicate effortlessly across continents with thousands of persons at once while eating dinner (when they decide to eat). I know this sounds fantastical, but such fantasy, for me, has become reality. We call this reality Universal Awe. My name is Tabriz. I will be your host for this magical mystery tour, this quest for the Holy Grail: the elixir which sanctifies existence. Me? Im just a wild-mannered barbarian, a ruffian. I jest. Actually Im quite a cosmopolitan cat. The entirety of my brief life has been an exploration of the above mentioned themes. 1999. After returning from a lost weekend of debauchery in New York City I returned to my little loft in the plaza area of Kansas City. Even though I was a serious student in the Science of Universal Awe, I was going through a dark night of the soul. I had rebelled against all the moral tenets of Universal Awe, even developing a fondness for over-the-counter sedatives. I had flown back for a late-night recording session, but had absolutely

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no inspiration. After a telephone conversation with the woman of my dreams proved once again the delusion of daydreaming, I just wanted to drift away. Depression was seducing me. I popped three Nyquils, sighed to myself, Fuck it, and drifted off into the abyss. Now these Lightholders just love to disturb depression and self-pity. These are the moments they wait for. Once weve given up, they show up. I began to dream the psychological type dreams which serve the mind as the digestive system serves the body. I dreamt of New York City, the parties, the clubs, the women, the drugs. I went into a VIP lounge with one of my hip-hop friends to chat. The scene then shifted to a 1940s Honeymooners one room shack type of environment. Across from me sat a tiny dark-skinned woman next to the front door. I sat in a big comfortable chair, my hip-hop friend was in a chair to my right and begins to say excitingly, The Great Halijees coming, the Great Halijees coming! Okay, calm down, I say, thinking nothing of it. Sure enough, he bolts through the door. Hes moving in the most animated fashion, like a hummingbird or Charlie Chaplin. He hugs and kisses the tiny black woman, then moves swiftly over to the hip-hop star and hugs him. Then he comes to me. Now all modern students of Universal Awe adore this man yet only a few have physically seen him. Those who have, report back to the others what theyve experienced. So I knew from those descriptions and the giant palpitations of my heart who this was. We make eye contact. He stood about 54 and was slight of build. His complexion is like creamy coffee, beach sand, or very light cinnamon. He has exquisitely tender facial features, small nose, lips, and crescent shaped full moon eyes. He radiates an otherworldly beauty that is intoxicatingly hypnotic. Looking at him was like looking at the sun for it seemed that all the light in creation for it was emanating from him. He wore a light grey jumpsuit which resembled what an inmate might wear in prison. I looked down at his exposed chest and thought to myself, hes a little fellow, built kind of like me. Immediately he puts his hand on my chest and pushed. Like the chi master who can knock down ten students with the slightest tap of his palm, I was thrown back into my chair with gale-force speed. He laughed as I looked back up at him. Then he smiled. That smile and the light which emanated from him began to take on a life of its own. A soothingly centripetal force was pulling me into him. This light was alive and it was taking me somewhere. The most blissful feeling enveloped me. Yet I was frightened. This feels too good. And he just stared at me so tenderly, so beautifully, so lovingly. Then I realized I was looking at love itself. I was experiencing a capacity of love I couldnt have imagined possible. Yet I

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didnt want to go with him. The unknown was too unknown for me. Gently, I pulled away or maybe gently, he pushed me away. Soon I was back in bed, back in my loft, trembling with that tangible feeling of loveliness all over me still. I luxuriated there until I had to pee. Damn. Now if I get up will this feeling end? I contemplated this until biology took over. Reluctantly I arose to slowly, painfully reenter the real world. Back in bed I curled up foetus-style, reviewing the chain of events. There was no doubt in my mind that I had actually met my master. So why would he come to me now, when I was in Lucifer mode? I picked up the phone and called my dear friend and brother in Universal Awe, Roberto. It was three in the morning, one in Los Angeles. Excitedly I ran down my experience. T, call Ponyo. Write it all down and report it to Ponyo. He gave me the number. Apparently, Ponyo and Michael Thomas would be in LA to visit Roberto in a few days. Yes! I needed the beach. I needed to enjoy California, enjoy the ocean for a few days. That morning I left a message for Ponyo. Ponyo and Michael Thomas each had forty years under their belts in the Science of Universal Awe. They were highly respected and their legend had taken on mythic proportions. Currently, they disguised themselves as traveling salesmen and were making their way from Texas to California. Those highly advanced in the Science of Universal Awe cloak themselves by participating fully in the contemporary world, particularly sales or other endeavors which keep them untraceable. Theres no hermit trip at all. I flew to Los Angeles, rented a car, and drove to Robertos condo in Santa Monica. A bond was formed. Three days were spent with Ponyo and Michael Thomas. On the third day I asked Ponyo if I could write the story of his life. He laughingly explained that a psychic in Kansas City once predicted great wealth would come from the publication of his life story. Before we go forward, I must offer a brief description of the life of this party. Ponyo stands approximately 59. Admiring glances circle him like Cessnas. Hes a dashing figure, who imports the finest suits and watches from the East, so hes always draped immaculate. Occasionally hell transition into a hip-hop type jumpsuit with a baseball cap or simple silk pajamas when at home. He has a light caramel complexion and closely cropped curly black hair with natural silver highlights. All in all, if Ponyo were to walk pass you in a grocery store, youd notice something spectacularly unusual about him. Youd notice something magnetic pulling you his way, especially if youre female. Ponyo would charismatically greet your curiosity with a nod of the head and a twinkle of the



The Elixir of Ponyo

eye. His best friend of fifty years, Michael Thomas, is somewhat of a contrast. He stands a robust and stately 63. Hes what they used to classify as a mulatto, octoroon, or quadroon; he can effortlessly pass for White. He has neat straight black hair with a few silver strands. He has a long but attractive face and dancing greyish-black eyes. If MT were to pass you in the grocery store youd notice him and hed immediately engage you so disarmingly, so naturally youd easily divulge all your personal business even your mother wouldnt want to know, especially if youre female. After confirming that my experience with the Great Halijee was an authentic initiation, I dropped everything in Kansas City and began traveling with Michael Thomas and Ponyo. It took 5 years but finally Ponyo and I headed back to Los Angeles to write. Being morning people we usually began our sessions early, over coffee, rap all day long, then cap it off with a spectacular dinner cooked by Ponyo with a good bottle of vino. So here we are. Let the journey begin! The Elixir of Ponyo Elixir: Any stimuli which activates the divine attributes within human Ponyo: Dearest Friend of my Soul Universal Awe: Supreme Consciousnees Illumination: Enlightenment through grasp. Enlightenment: The ability to vibrate at any velocity, at any level.



Lewis Lowe

the Legend of Ugoma

The Black people of Illumination were never slaves. My brother did the research and no one from Illumination was ever bought nor sold. Monticello, Thomas Jeffersons trip, was approximately twenty-one miles away. They had slave records. We didnt. I grew up in a distinct culture free from the submissive fear and selfhatred still plaguing the Black psyche. I grew up in Jim Crow. We had clear lines drawn and there were consequences if those lines were disrespected. Hear me clearly, those lines were drawn by us. No one told the Illumination Blacks what to do, how to do, or when to do it. Just as we caught hell for stepping into the White neighborhoods, we exacted much hellfire on those unwelcome in Illumination, which was any White person. Obviously its different today, but back then everything was Black and/ or White. I grew up enjoying the sweetness, love, and unity of a very close-knit extended family. My dad, my mom, my granddad and grandmom, my brothers, my sister and cousins all were one big team within a team called Illumination. Like all indigenous cultures memory was the library, census bureau, and department of vital records. History was orally transmitted from generation to generation. My great-grandmother said she was a Malaglasy Indian. The Malaglasy or Malagasy are the people of Madagascar. Madagascar is an island on the southeastern coast of Africa, resting on the Indian Ocean. The Malaglasy are a mixture of Black Africans, Indians from the subcontinent of India, Chinese, and Polynesian. Thanks to the transatlantic slave trade we can add Portuguese, French, Dutch, and English blood to the mix. The folklore goes like this: A whole village was taken from Madagascar by slave pirates. This village was led by a mystic shaman named Ugoma. That may or may not be his real name but I know he was real because Im real. The richness of my life is a direct result of his wealth, his inheritance So when the barbaric slave traders came to this village, which well call the village of Nur, Ugoma negotiated with the barbarians himself. This culture lived in the subconscious, so Ugoma had already seen in night visions (precognition) the horrible intentions that these people had for the village of Nur, who were under his care. He saw through their lies and promises of

Illumination and

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wealth in some westward, far away land. This was a very sophisticated people and the slave trade was foreign to Madagascar before this. Were talking about the late 1800s, when slavery had already left a gaping hole in the heart of a ravaged and traumatized Africa. So at the first meeting Ugoma willingly agreed for his people to be taken to this new land. They had their purpose and he had his. Ugoma put the minds of the traders in his hands from day one. Simultaneously, he put his village into a waking trance to prepare them for the arduous journey beyond. The traders were taken aback by how submissive Ugomas people were. They didnt fight, they didnt resist, and they didnt stink. Ugoma had already removed the thought of rape or abuse of his people from their little minds so the pirates were just as docile and cordial as the Blacks. It must have been quite a scene. Still it was an atrocity and a great indignity for Ugoma to see his beloved people shackled and put in the stinking bowels of a slave ship for the most wicked of purposes. Yet, Ugoma was a Lightholder, he saw far into the future and knew what must be done to bring about that future. Ugoma did not have to go on the ship. He was the trader of his own people. Like most Africans who participated in the bartering of each other he could have taken gold in exchange for flesh. That never crossed his mind. He allowed himself to be chained with his people. So off they went to the port of Jamestown. Many strange and wonderful things happened aboard that ship. There was no resistance or attempted mutinies, no one tried to escape and there was an intoxicatingly sweet smell emanating from the bowels of the vessel. Ugoma held both his peoples and the pirates minds in his grip. Suddenly hed appear in the cabins with the traders and disappear just as suddenly. Sometimes at night hed freely walk amongst the pirates to their amazement. One cabin boy who threw the trash called food to the blacks saw Ugoma chained at the bottom of the ship then walked on deck where Ugoma was waiting at the top of the steps. That cabin boy and the other whites were the ones who went crazy on that ship. Occasionally the pirates would see a bright object floating in the sky miles above only to find with the help of a telescope Ugoma was shining like a star guiding their way. These were some way-out people! When the ship finally landed at the port of Jamestown the Whites swiftly disembarked. They left Ugoma and the village of Nur on board while they went to get some rest and respite from this most unusual odyssey. Early the next morning they came back to retrieve the Africans and begin the distribution of these strange niggers. Everything was gone. Their horses, their clothes, their gold, all their provisions! Gone too were Ugoma and the village of Nur. The booty had taken

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some booty for itself! They escaped 150 miles to the majestic Blue Ridge Mountains. There Ugoma and the village of Nur met and mixed with the Blackfoot Indians who populated those mountains. That marriage produced the people who founded Illumination, Virginia. A people who escaped chattel slavery. They were my ancestors. Now those Blue Ridge Mountains are to North America what the Andes are to South America. Or what the Himalayas are to Asia. I grew up at the base of those mountains. I speak from my own experience. As a child Id walk those mountains, ofttimes with my best friend Michael Thomas. Wed get into such a zone of clarity and inspiration I get chills just thinking about it. And that has not changed. You could go there now and youll know what Im saying is true. Little did I know as a boy, but those mountains were the setting for some heavy, heavy ashrams back then and now. Great Yoganandas, Maharishis, Buddic and Sufic masters got down in those mountains. I suspect we all were charged on the same circuit of power. We know that all-encompassing circuit of power as Universal Awe. I first was introduced (informally) to Universal Awe when I was four years old. It was an initiation of sorts, which set me out for the work I would do in manhood. I was born in 1941. My father, William Roberts, was in France serving Americas war effort. My grandfather was the head chef for the a prominent and fabulously wealthy New England family. My grandmother was the head housekeeper. My mother was a chambermaid. She was pregnant and decided to live and work with my grandparents at our benefactors mansion in a suburb north of New York City. I remember stables, horses, trees and more trees. I developed a fondness for one of the little heiress girls. Wed play up, down, and all around that estate. It really was some kind of wonderland for a child. The Vanderbilts traveled back and forth to Europe leaving my family in charge while they were gone. So we grew accustomed to the best that society had to offer. My grandfather, Mister Lushus, in particular lived that Great Gatsby lifestyle. He wore the finest suits with only the finest shoes, driving only the finest cars, socializing in the sweetest haunts with the sweetest company. Like most introductions to Universal Awe, I had to go through some type of trauma. In my case I had to damn near die. At four years old I was rushed to the hospital with inflamed adenoids and tonsillitis. Right now I can see the doctors working on me with my family in an adjacent room worried to death. It was serious. The doctors had to wrestle me down to put the anesthetic mask over me. Mister Lushus intervened to calm me down. Apparently, an ether-based anesthetic was given to me at an improper dosage. I do not believe this was intentional.



The Elixir of Ponyo

Shortly after the mask was put on my face I shot right out of my body and there I was on the ceiling in observation of the whole fiasco. A cloud of panic arrested the doctors. I could see the stress and worry all over their faces and on their minds. Now when one leaves ones body and truly sees oneself, this alone can be revelatory. One generally looks much more attractive than one thought. One identifies with and even has an attraction to ones body, even though one is no longer subject to that body. So I saw myself, my body jerking and going into convulsions before I went limp. I found myself sucked into a swirling energy current, an organic and very living plasma-like substance. Visually it was akin to riding in a kaleidoscope. It was pleasantly cozy and I experienced no panic or fear. This went on for a few seconds or a few lifetimes. Who can really say? Like awakening from a dream, I awoke within this experience and decided not to remain. Like the proverbial salmon I had to fly backwards, opposite the flow. From that moment on an indomitable will engulfed me. I took charge of the situation. I summoned everything I had against this force surrounding me. But it seemed like another force of power came to my aid as well. I was four years of age and a four-year old can be a little monster. I slipped into my monster bag and threw a cosmic tantrum. Never have I had to exert so much, never have I had to struggle like that. From the tips of my toes to the hairs on my head, my every atom went into monster mode forcing myself back into my body. I could hear Mister Lushus calling my name, which served as another rocket boost back to myself. Inevitably I won. After that nothing, no one could ever control or dominate me. I won against death, why would I play the fool for anyone after this? Im not being silly, Im just trying to describe the unconquerable spirit that was put in me as a result of this experience. Life has never been a struggle for me since then. And this new spirit that was in me became my new best friend, guiding me, helping me, showing me the bottom line on everything. Speaking nothing but Supreme Wisdom to me. Interestingly, no inflammation was found in my throat thereafter. Now I was a grown man waiting patiently for my body to catch up with the rest of me. From that point on I was just different. I saw into things while everyone else just saw the thing. Heres an example. I was a very diligent student in school, always at the top of my class. In fact, throughout high school Michael Thomas was the valedictorian and I was the salutatorian or vice versa. We had a white lady, Miss Odom, who taught a class on the bible. She seemed very sincere and well versed in the scriptures. She made me think. Id

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fire my questions at her, shed think a minute and submit a rebuttal. She was a very good sparring partner. I had already developed a negative attitude toward church because my grandfather, whom I regarded as one of the strongest men on the planet, would go to church every Sunday, pull out a handkerchief, break down and cry. Every Sunday! I didnt like that shit. Anything that made a man that strong break down and cry was suspect to me. My intuitional self was fully awakened by the aforementioned outof-body experience on the operating table, so I had to reconcile this religion, Miss Odoms bible class, and my own experiences in church with my mystical tendencies. I was a natural mystic. As a child I experimented with many powers of the mind: astro-projection, clairvoyance, clairaudience, and remote viewing to name a few. At night when I went to bed, a whole other world opened up to me, which I could initiate and navigate. I thought everyone did this. Maybe Mozart thought his little playmates could write magnificent concertos too. I had a little friend who never shared his funny books with me. In my night journeys I decided to stop by his room and read them anyway. The next day I told him what all the characters in his prized comic books were doing. I soon realized I was pretty much alone in this realm of things so I felt a little isolated from my family and everyone else. But I was not a loner, quite the opposite. I just could not reconcile my reality with the reality every one else believed. Never have I been a prospect in the marketplace of that reality. One night I felt very depressed over these things and I went to my mountains for solace and reflection. I was maybe twelve years old. I just sat there and cried. Then I heard a voice. Not in my head, but a clear, audibly masculine voice spoke to me. Get up! Get up and cry no more. Walk into the world. You will not have to worry about anything ever again because I am with you. Get up! I am with you. And what did I do? Man, I stepped off that mountain with such a sense of empowerment, such confidence in myself. I had zero grief and zero fear. And I havent permitted grief or fear into my life since. I developed a recurring mantra, which epitomizes it all, Somebody up there likes me. Back to this church thing. My whole family was involved in the religion known as Christianity. After my Mountain Experience and much contemplation I made a decision: I dont believe this. One Sunday morning my mother called me to go with her to church. I walked downstairs and told her, Mother, Im not going to church anymore. Not ever.

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Orion, what do you mean? The whole family is going to church. Not me. I will not be attending church today or any other day. Now Crystal Roberts was a tough cookie. My grandparents had given her a very cultured upbringing. She had that classic kind of glamorous beauty Lena Horne or Dorothy Dandridge were famous for. She also was an intellectual giant and had probably never met her cerebral match in a man until she had to deal with me, a little boy. My father, William Roberts grew up on a farm but had a real entrepreneurial spirit that sparked my mothers interest and her loyalty. She was an excellent helper to him in his fledging businesses. As a result, my formative years were spent mostly with Mister Lushus and my grandmother. My mother didnt really come strong into my life until I was nine or ten. As I said, I was already a grown man in a little boys body. This caused some tension between my mother and myself when shed address me as a child, as if I didnt already possess a fully developed intellect, a strong individuality. Excuse me miss, is there a problem here? Im a good kid. Theres no need for any upper handedness here. You can skip that. This was my conversation to my mother as a boy. Is there some neurosis somewhere? Lets address this problem now, because I dont want it. With all due respectfulness, dont put your problems on me. And I was respectful. I did not speak with the feigned intelligence, sass, or know-it-allness of recent generations. I simply addressed her as my equal, not my superior. Shed shake her head, Boy, where did you come from? So I was a fascinating challenge to her. That day my mother was in a hurry so she said wed address the church matter that night at dinner. Dinner was a ritual at my home where we discussed everything that was going on in the family and ironed out any problems between us. Inevitably, we got around to my decision not to go to church. Orion, tell us why you refused to go to church this morning? I had thoroughly gone over this in my mind, so I presented a rock-solid defense of my decision. I began Number one, I do not believe that a deity is sitting up in a cloud somewhere, peaking through some trapdoor, waiting to punish me for every little infraction of a law. They have telescopes now that can see billions of miles away and no deity or heaven has been detected. Second, I dont believe a two-thousand year old man is up there somewhere with this God, and hes God too and also the Son, and the Holy Ghost as well. This is a mathematical impossibility. And how could this twothousand year old man assume responsibility for the wicked deeds of others? Every man pays the price for his actions, thats what every parent tells a child.

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What incentive would anyone hace to try to live a good, moral life when someone else already died for your indiscretions? Thats ludicrous. Third, a woman cannot have a baby without a man. Thats common sense. So my intuition is telling me this is not right. There are many different religions in the world and I will go on a search for one that fits me. I will do a comparative study of religions and choose one for myself. But this one I dismiss as fantasy. I went a little further. Look at the reverend, hes messing around with all these women and everyone knows about it but says nothing. When I go pass lovers lane, hes winking at me like hes one of the guys when hes supposed to be a moral example. And all the other affairs going on in church What does this have to do with religious worship or a Higher Power? I dont understand. I went on and on until my mother threw up her hands and excused herself from the table. The room was quiet. She returned with desert. When she sat down I gave my closing remarks. Until its proven to me who or what God is, Im God. This was my response to anyone who attempted to proselytize me. Weve been praying to Jesus to save us all these years and still got lynched, still got our feet, ears and privates chopped off. Still the nigger got boiled in a pot. Why cant this Jesus help us? If he does come back and knock on our door Ill whup him for being such a chump not to answer my peoples prayers from slavery on up to now. Besides how can the slave and the slave master have the same God, the exact same religion? Hes thanking God for all the wealth these niggers have given him while were praying to a God that will kill him and free us. How can both parties be Christians and if hes such a Christian wheres his Christianity towards us? This was in the 1950s in Illumination, Virginia. You sound like a hophead. Are you smoking something? Where did you get all this outlandish stuff from? Never had anyone critiqued and analyzed her religion. She had no defense. Personally, church didnt make me feel holy but it did make me feel lustful. Seemed like all the fastest girls in town were all in the church. Whyd I have to go someplace dedicated to a higher power and get a hard-on? The whole church thing had an undercurrent of perversity to me. My psychic antenna was wide open and I felt the lust in the room. Maybe that halfnude fellow on the wall aroused these girls cause I felt their heat all over me. I had no problem with that at lovers lane but in a church? No, somethings wrong here. And the preachers daughter was the wildest of them all! I didnt share those arguments with my mother but never again did she

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ask me to go to church. Now, Mister Lushus did understand and encourage my quest for knowledge. He was a super-sophisticated gentleman. He stood about six foot. He put the I am in immaculate. Glances of admiration constantly shot at him like soft arrows. He wore the most expensive shoes with the most expensive suits, and drove the finest, late model automobiles. If youve ever seen the movie Lady Sings the Blues, my grandfather could have schooled Billy Dee on a thing or two. Thats how polished he was. His social circle extended up and down the East Coast. When he did travel up north I noticed my grandmother never accompanied him. I remember plenty voluptuous ladies vying for his attention. They all had this sexual aroma I picked up on right away. He was a tough dude and a deep thinker. Hed drink coffee, smoke cigarettes and discuss the world situation with me like I was an adult. He called me his brainchild. He wasnt a punk either. I once saw him knock a man unconscious with an open palm. He had these huge chef hands and was very crafty with a knife. All in all, no one messed with my grandfather. He encouraged my psychic talents. During dinner parties hed call me out to interpret the dreams of his lady friends. My grandmother dressed me like a Philadelphia lawyer. I wore tweed sport coats and British Walker shoes. I was a dap little dude. Go on, Orion, tell them their dreams. Hes my brainchild you know? Id lay it on em. That little clairaudient voice in my head would start rapping as soon as someone spoke. Id know their whole life. Id name parents, lovers, dead people. Id mercilessly air all their business. But I was simply repeating what the voice of the soul was telling me. It was addition not plane geometry. Hes just a boy! How could he know that! Lushus! My grandfather loved every minute of it. Maybe thats how he kept his edge on everyone. If you play with me Ill sick my brainchild on you. After my psychic work out, he put me to bed and who knows what went on after that.

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Lewis Lowe

Brotherhood: Orion
and Michael Thomas
I first saw Jack Johnson when I was maybe six or seven. Hed slip into town, without observation and set up at Rosewood. Rosewood Academy was quite famous in Virginia for both its sports and dramatics departments. Our entire educational career from the third to twelfth grade was at that school with a class of twenty-five or so students. We had a very dynamic auditorium, which Jack Johnson utilized each fall. His production began with a theme song hed put on the phonograph: Lucky ole son, Give him nothing to do But roam over heaven all day That was his theme. Jack Johnson was a small wizard looking cat who didnt have a race. He could go amongst any group and fit in. He always wore a dark grey suit, white shirt, and tie which never got soiled; an achievement since hed always be seen walking out of the mountains. He looked like he was in his thirties and despite his small frame was strong as an ox. He was a very unusual looking cat who spoke in terse riddles youd have to rewind a few times to decipher. He had this sweet smell about him too. Hed walk out as Lucky ole son wound down. Hed look up and dramatically shout Amarjah! Give me power! Amarjah, give me power! Then hed run across the street to a graveyard with everyone chasing after him. There a six-foot shallow grave would already be dug with a pine box at the bottom. Jack jumped in and called for two people to put the lid on the box and nail it shut. Dirt come to breath, cover body! His words mumbled together in a dialect of English unique to himself. The two helpers climbed out and shoveled dirt back atop the crypt. A big mound covered the grave and hed be down there nailed shut. Just as we made our way back to the auditorium a helper cued his theme song Lucky ole son, Give him nothing to do, But roam over heaven all day Amarjah! Give me power! Out comes Jack Johnson walking gingerly up the aisle to the auditorium stage. Next hed have someone else tie him up in a barber chair with huge double-knotted rope around his feet, legs, waist, and chest. After the helpers tightened the ropes Jack Johnson looked up and



The Elixir of Ponyo

closed his eyes, Amarjah! Give me power! Hed slowly rotate his arms under the ropes like a fledgling baby bird discovering its wings. Suddenly, his arms rose and cut right through the ropes. Hed make his stomach revolve, inhaling and exhaling until he broke the ropes round his waist. Hed grunt and vigorously open his legs releasing the ropes. Then hed jump up from the chair to our applause. He also was known for a whirling dance hed do in the dark. Hed balance several kerosene lanterns along his arms and twirl til we were dizzy to Lucky ole son. Hed stop, crack the lanterns and eat the glass before drinking the liquid. To our horror and disgust, hed barf up the bloody contents into this bucket sitting on the floor. Everybody was freaking out. That was Jack Johnson. What it was all about I dont know but I felt something more than a magic show going on. My grandmother said she remembers him coming to Illumination when she was a girl and he looked exactly the same then as he did now. Still, most looked at him as just a sideshow freak. After the pyrotechnics, hed gather everyone around him and do a genealogy of all in attendance like the Book of Numbers. Hed give warnings and advice, then dismiss us. After Michael Thomas and I left Illumination for college he was never seen again. In fact, he sometimes stayed with the grandfather of Michael Thomas. MT was from Moppingtown, which was the hood part of town. The roughest, cutthroat, terrorist cats lived over there. These were men who walked around in t-shirts in a blizzard and picked up a car to change a tire with one arm. Michael Thomas was born quite dramatically. His mother, rumor had it, was on the run for killing a white man who might of been his father. She gave birth to him on the run. There was no birth certificate, no hospital, and no medical supervision. He was a very sickly child. Before disappearing without a trace, his mom gave him to her mother who was a conjure woman. He was in bad shape. He couldnt hold down any food or liquid, his skin was peeling off, and he was barely conscious. Conjure woman gathered some herbs and whatnot and worked something on the brother. It obviously worked. We first met in the second grade. We were in class and the teacher asked everyone if they had gone to church Sunday. Everyone raised his or her hands except MT. Now this lady seemed to have it out for a brother, maybe because she was a very dark-skinned woman and Michael Thomas looked like a little white boy. He was tall and lanky with unkempt, shaggy hair. Why werent you in church, young man? I had to work, he responded. Work! Youre too young to work. She went over to his desk and asked again.



Lewis Lowe
Why werent you in church! Lady, I had to work. This went on a while longer until she threatened to throw him out the window if he wouldnt tell her the truth. He was telling the truth. She didnt care or didnt believe him or both. She grabbed him heading for the window. He cuts loose running to the back of the room, leaving her by the window. He picks up these empty milk bottles and began hurling them at her. Mop! Mop! Mop! Who is this dude I wondered? She didnt bother him anymore. That winter I noticed him again. A devastating blizzard hit town. We were in the middle of a test; he comes in late with nothing on but a little Tshirt, raggedy pants and a pitiful excuse for shoes with no socks. He had no paper, pencils, or school supplies and his hair was wild, long and curly. He just sits down unassumingly like this was the most normal thing in the world. I had a big notebook and plenty pencils, so I got up and gave him some supplies. He thanked me. Ten minutes later he gets up and turns in his test. He got a perfect score! This with no books, no supplies, and apparently, no study. So we struck up a friendship. He had nothing while I had it all. I adopted him like a play-brother. My fathers businesses were beginning to take off and Mister Lushus was a legend so I enjoyed a kind of prestige in the community. Being from Moppingtown, MT enjoyed a kind of infamy, so we made a good team. All the Moppingtown boys worked at the Virginia Country Club. Thats where MT was that Sunday he had to defend himself against that crazed teacher. The country club catered to all the upper crust white bread of Virginia. When Mister Lushus moved back to Illumination he was the obvious choice to take over the kitchen. He worked all the big affairs, weddings, fundraisers, etc. Id accompany him and help in the prep work: cutting onions, carrots, selecting choice cuts of meat, anything he needed. When I became a teenager I wanted to hang out with MT and the Moppingtown crew. They were the caddies at the club. Like any fraternity, one had to prove oneself prior to admission. One day I walked up to the caddy shack where they all were. MT and all the fellas were sitting around a fire. What the fuck does this yellow nigger want! Get your yellow ass outta here! I aint going nowhere. Who you think you are? You know what you bout to get into? Look, I aint scared of none of you. Im gonna work up here this summer and I aint going nowhere. The leader, Lee Lee, puts a poker in the fire and holds it up. Michael Thomas is grinning. Aint no punks up in here. You gotta take the brand. I aint taking nothing.

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Okay, yella, then you gotta fight Bumba. This big Paul Bunyon looking white boy steps up to me. Hes the only white caddy there and hes got the brand protruding from one of his huge lumberjack arms. Him? The only thing I love more than kicking somebodys ass is kicking a white boys ass. In those days you had to hold your own, a man had to be man and I loved to fight. Long ago I had elaborately choreographed my moves for any situation. Bumba steps to me, laughing. I warned him, You may be bigger than me but you cant get as angry as me. I was a little dude. I styled myself after the wolverine. The wolverine is a vicious, crazy animal thats very small but even a bear wont mess with it. That was me. Id summon my psychic strength and go berserk on a mammajamma. This white boy had no idea what he was in for. Bumba lunges towards me. I took his arm and jumped up around his back, wrapped my legs around his waist while locking my arms onto his neck. I tightened all four limbs and took him down. Boom! He had underestimated me. I squeezed my legs tighter around his waist and clamped my arms hard round his neck. His wind was cut off. He aint breathing. The Moppingtown boys jumped back. I looked up at Lee Lee and all the terrorist cats,Should I kill this cracker? Hes got a few seconds to live yea or nea? Bumbas flapping his arms like a fish. It was a Mexican standoff. Drop him. I let go. Bumba drops to the ground curled up in a ball, gasping for air. Michael Thomas looked at me, I wouldve killed him. After that, nobody messed with me. A few days later they saw Mister Lushus dropping me off in his sparkling gold Oldsmobile and everyone made the connection. No wonder Orions crazy. Now the Moppingtown boys were treacherous but Mister Lushus would take them all on at once. He was not to be played with. That sealed it between Michael Thomas and myself. We were brothers for real, inseparable. He was the valedictorian and I was the salutatorian. I was the class president, he was the vice-president. I was the track star and he was the basketball star. We had our pick of the ladies. MT was a treacherous cat in his own right. Word round town was that MT dont fight, that mamma-jamma kills. He was damn good with a knife. One day were up at the caddy shack and hes throwing knives into a tree stump. Here comes Bumba again.

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Bet you aint gonna throw no knife at me. Swap! MT threw it right into his thigh. We had no fear of anything. Once a white boy called him a shaggyhaired yellow nigger and ran. Michael Thomas shot off like lighting. He caught up with the dude by the lake and took him down; bashing his head against a big rock. Then he put the boys head underwater. Another Mexican standoff. O, Ill kill him unless you tell me to let him go. Kill him. The poor boys mumbling bubbles through the water, his body trembling. Go on and let him go. MT lets up. The boys all blue. This is just the way we grew up; rough and tough manhood 101. Back in the tenth grade I had a teacher who for whatever reason did not like me. One of my fathers businesses was a funeral home. At that time, an ambulance service was a part of the funeral business. Occasionally I assisted him in driving an ambulance after school. I was scheduled to drive a patient to the hospital for cancer treatment immediately after class. But this teacher wanted to discipline me by having me stay after school. Im sorry but I have a very important appointment after school. Youll have to schedule me for another afternoon. I was very polite. I said you will stay this afternoon, Mr. Roberts. Pardon me, I do not want to repeat myself but I told you I cannot stay this afternoon and I dont want to say it again. When that bell rings Im walking out the door. You do what you got to do but Im gone. Another Mexican standoff. Here comes the principal, When one of my teachers gives you an instruction, you follow his instruction Mr. Roberts. The wolverines coming up and Im getting angry as a hornet. One last time, I told him, now Im telling you I have important business to attend to after class. Ill gladly stay another day but not today. Thats it. Mr. Roberts, youre staying here. Well see, cause when that bell rings Im walking out the door. Now hes standing over me to block any movement on my part. Damn! Why do they want to fuck with me? The bell rings, I get up. The principal grabs me. I snatched him by his shirt collar and his crotch, picked him up and body slammed him to the ground. I ran over to the bookshelf and one by one began hurling the books at him. He crawled out the room on all fours, bloodied and bowed. Im banging him all the way. Youre expelled Roberts! Youre expelled!



The Elixir of Ponyo

Im so mad Im crying. When I got home I was still raging. I explained the situation to my dad. We went right back to the school to see the principal bandaged up like a bomb hit him. I raised Orion as a man. Ive never put my hands on him and I taught him never to allow anyone to put their hands on him either. You were totally out of line with my son. If you dont apologize right now I will prosecute you to the fullest extent of the law. Reluctantly, he gave me an apology.

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New Excitement
New York City has always been a playground for the biggest egos. Mine could climb the Empire State and eat airplanes with a fine Harlem debutante in my arms. Mister Lushus first exposed me to the wonders of the city as a youngster. In those delectable summers, Michael Thomas and I would take the train into Grand Central Station. The whole world would seemingly be there; buzzing, busy little bees. At LaGuardia Airport wed watch the planes take off, imagining ourselves landing in some exotic locale wet for adventure. Id even accompany MT to the symphony where hed play air conductor to Beethovens bravery or Mozarts magnificence and wake me when it was over. Not to mention Coney Island where wed gorge on the worlds best Rueben sandwiches and Nathans Hot-dogs. Like a bashful baby-sitter, New York turned into a scandalous temptress in our teenage years, ready to give us new pleasures, new excitement. I worked at the summer boardwalk at day then rose with the moon at night. My cousins and friends were all players in Harlems early sixties renaissance, i.e., club owners, drug runners and pimps. Jazz was recreating, rebirthing itself; exploding across New Yorks skyline in extraordinary sonic fireworks, thunder announcing lightning. Americas Mozarts, Beethovens, and Bachs all held court in Harlem. (Einsteins, Shakespeares and Platos too.) Not only did the best artists, musicians, and writers matriculate here but the most brilliant thinkers thought and the fiercest revolutionaries fought through megaphones there in Harlem. You could catch James Brown and the Famous Flames tear down the Apollo Theatre twice a day then walk outside where Malcolm X was mercilessly slaying devils on 125th Street. Have you ever heard My Favorite Things? Not until you heard Coltrane rip out its guts, then perform delicate plastic surgery on the wounds for 45 minutes straight. That man could turn Mary had a Little Lamb into an epiphany, and probably did. The Village Vanguard, Birdland, The Baby Grand, Smalls Paradise: thats where it all went down. Castro held court at the Teresa Hotel, calling the comrades to Cuba to fight la revolucion. In Greenwich Village you could philosophize with the Beats joyfully molesting the English language.

New Pleasures,

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The Elixir of Ponyo

In the Bronx Tito Puentes, Mongo Santa Maria, and Celia Cruz brought all the African out of Afro-Cuban salsa. Every night Id clear the dance floor, my body visualizing each tap of the congas and timbales, each stab of the horns. Oh! And the women! Concrete curdled when these glorious babes strolled by. Refinement was the norm, so these ladies were adorned in fabulous dresses with sparkling accessories, pearls, and luxurious chiffons. These were the pampered and privileged women of the city. And the men would not be outdone. Wed arrive in three-piece gabardine worsted-wool suits, Stacy Adams shoes, and a brim to match. Go watch Eddie Murphy in Harlem Nights to get a feel for what Im talking bout. At a Times Square hotel, Id hail a cab with a chocolate beauty on my arms; wed attempt experience all the above said before dawn. That was a time that never will be again. Harlem, U.S.A..

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Psycho-Neurosis
No sugar, no salt, no alcohol, just rice. Brown rice that is. There is a wisdom tradition that adheres to a diet centered on brown rice. Apparently the brown rice provides all the nutrients and amino acids needed to bring the body back to a state of equilibrium. Obviously, alcohol dulls sense perception and stunts electromagnetic receptivity, paling the chakras. Sugar is a straight up poison producing static in the subtle body, in ones thinking, inhibiting Supreme Consciousness. Salt taints ones bodily fluids producing a high acidity, again blocking the ability of the human to receive and transmit light. Every cell of your body is a receiver. So the brown rice diet was part of an effort to cleanse and stimulate the human body, to reverse the atrophy. As there is a bleaching process turning brown rice into white rice, brown sugar into white sugar, and a fermentation process to produce liquor, there was a process which turned noble, proud Africans captured during slavery into a Negro, a necro, a zombie with no will of his or her own. Lynching, quartering, tar and feathering, all the sadistic torture techniques were just bulwarks to enforce the damage done. Thus producing the psycho-neurosis of slavery: deeply embedded morays, habits, ways of thinking, acting, reacting and not acting at all cemented firmly into the collective Black American psyche still evident today. One of the many outgrowths of the psycho-neurosis of slavery is a matriarchal society among Black folks. Black men were totally demasculinized, physically and psychologically; our innate masculinity robbed. The X and Y chromosomes functioning only biologically. Watch a male hawk. The male organically searches for a mate, a female hawk. Hell present her with gifts, maybe a mouse, showing his ability to hunt. Hell successfully fend off any would-be suitors, showing his ability to protect and defend her. Then hell take some twigs and grass, fly to the highest point of a tree or mountain and build a nest, a little home for the two of them. They consummate the union. When the babies come, the brother hawk goes to work triple-time to feed his children while simultaneously killing any would be aggressors to his family. Then papa hawk teaches his children how to fly and fend for themselves, imparting all his hawk-knowledge passed down hawk-to-hawk

of Slavery

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The Elixir of Ponyo

since dawn-time. But here are grown men among us that cant do any of that. What happened? A mass lobotomy was performed on the mind of the Black male. But the spirit, unconquerable by nature, never dies having never been born. The fact that I can articulate this to you (and you feel me) proves that another Power greater than the power of the oppressors was present. Im coming to something. For hundreds of years we had no rights over our own bodies; man, woman, nor child. Pedophilia, as American as apple pie, was the norm. Every orifice of any man, woman, or child was poked and prodded by the oppressors from the moment of conquer. The sadomasochistic abuse, degradation, and humiliation of the Negro was a recreational sport complete with souvenirs and postcards to commemorate the festivities. Now imagine a female hawk having to take on the role of the male. The male hawk reduced to a breeder who just fucks her and hangs out with the other males on a tree stump. (Not in the sky.) Imagine if this role reversal occured in all of nature. The entire ecological integrity of the planet would be thrown off. So this matriarchal thing sprung up where women play both roles. Shes got testicles, the mans got a vagina, and the little boys look to mama for an example of manhood. This is a sad and tragic thing. I wish it were a fairy tale but we know its very real. Universal Awe awakens the masculinity innate in a man and reawakens the feminine in a woman. I had it naturally. All the men around me were super strong. Weakness was not tolerated. If you spent a week around Mister Lushus, William Roberts, Michael Thomas, the Moppingtown crew, or myself, any punk in you would disappear, be beaten out of you, or youd have to relocate somewhere else more befitting your condition of punkaphila.

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Higher Education?
Michael Thomas and I graduated high school at the top of our class. MT scored a full college scholarship, academic and athletic. We were linked by an umbilical cord of intuition, sharing an entirely freelance view of the world. We despised religion, particularly the Jim Crow Christianity mumbojumbo. The civil rights movement was completely insulting to our sense of self. Why would I permit someone to beat me upside the head in a march? Why would I sit down and demand to be served in a filthy restaurant or sit on a nasty toilet? We considered ourselves superior to white people. I had my own toilet and I could go to the store and buy my own food to cook in my own kitchen. The civil rights agenda of integration was complete foolishness to me. The burgeoning black power movement was still very abstract, but we totally agreed with the kill my dog, slay your cat philosophy. Damn right. But in the main nothing was a challenge for us, nothing was hip enough. We considered ourselves the masters of it all, probably the sentiment of most twenty-year olds. Going into college my self-confidence verged on ego mania. New York City had sharpened all my life skills, my power with women, and my street knowledge. I was a dashing aristocratic cat. I was walking in my grandfathers footsteps, always immaculately dressed and smelling like paradise. I styled myself as the swashbuckler who miraculously showed up and took charge, vanquished the evildoers and ran off with the girl. College was a hell of a disappointment. My parents businesses were taking off so I could go to any school I wanted. I chose a historically Black college in the state of West Virginia. Integration was all the rage, but this college was integrated in reverse. White teachers and students had been slowly migrating there for years. As a result, the accreditation standards were far above the standards of other Negro schools, it had quite a prestigious reputation. The entry exams were elementary to me. I aced all of them except English. I was put in a remedial course called Bonehead English. That hurt me. Im Orion Roberts. What the hell do I look like in a class called Bonehead English? What could I do? The first day the instructor gave us an assignment. We were to write an essay on our life experience. Growing up in the South, I wrote about Jim Crow and my contempt for southern society. That paper saved me the embarrassment of being a bonehead. Immediately I was put in a college level

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The Elixir of Ponyo

course. Right after enrollment that voice within, that intuitional guide thats been with me since I was four, asked me a very pointed question, What are you doing here? It hit my mind like an ice pick. You dont belong here. This is the voice of the soul talking to me. So I began to doubt my decision to go to college. But Im here, my tuitions paid so I might as well make the best of it. Back in my little dormitory room Im contemplating this when Im disturbed by a ruckus outside. My door bursts open. Three guys storm in with beer bottles in their hands and insanity in their eyes. Were looking for faggots! Im so pissed I cant speak. One of them grabs a broom from the side of the room and comes toward me. Between his eyes was this dent, some type of deformity. You see this dent in my forehead! When I was a freshman, an upperclassman bust into my room, pinned me to the floor and with the dull edge of a knife put this here dent in my forehead. Every year I pick some little punk to do the same thing to. This year its you! Im gonna whip your ass so bad, your dead grandmothers gonna shout in her grave! Is that so? I carried this small knife on my belt that resembled a letter opener, but it was sharp as one of my grandfathers steak knives. In a split second Id sliced that broom in half, threw him down on the bed and put the knife to his throat. Are you crazy! Dont you ever come up in my room talking shit; youll end up a dead nigger with a dent in his forehead. In fact, let me carve some new designs in your ugly mug right now! I pricked his forehead enough to draw some blood. You never know who you might meet in this world. Theres psychopaths, murderers, sadistic monsters... You dont know what I might do. Do you? His friends start pleading with me, Hey man, were just playing! We dont mean no harm. Come on, man, were sorry. Do I look like Im playing? I should kill all three of yall mammajammas. Man, I was just playing, all us upperclassmen do this. The poor kids shivering like he stepped into a cold shower. I released him. You got ten seconds to get the fuck out my dorm. Man, where... where you from? Illumination. Illumination, Virginia. You got three seconds. As they ran out my knife struck the door just barely missing them. Maybe I dont belong here. Next day I went to the cafeteria for breakfast. All the freshmen were wearing dog tags around their necks that said I am a dog freshman, with a little beanie atop their heads. When upper class men approached them they

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went down on all fours and started barking. All the freshmen did this. Except one. I took a seat to have some breakfast and watch this foolishness. An upperclassman comes up to me, Are you a freshman? Yes, I am. Another guy interrupts him, Hey, man thats Louie, hes cool. Leave him alone man. Word had gotten around, dont mess with Louie from Illumination. That was their nickname for me. Everywhere I went I heard it, Lou! Lou! Hands off Louie. Damn right. I developed a real bad attitude towards every aspect of that school. A contemptuous boulder was growing on my shoulder. The college seemed to have two classes of people: the athletes and the bourgeoisie with the athletes dominating. I blocked myself off from both groups and developed a real intense, no-nonsense attitude. I had a hair-trigger temper. If an ant stepped to me wrong, Id shoot the ant into the ground. But I had a real comic side too, like a little Richard Pryor. That helped mask my contempt for these fake-ass people around me. I had a hawk on one shoulder, a dove on the other. The women loved it. Ive always been strong with women, thats inherited. But at that sissy college it was magnified. I was the only lion amongst a bunch of pussycat men and duncical buffoons hugging a football. Soon the finest women either belonged to myself or Moms. Moms was a notorious bull dagger with a string of drop-dead gorgeous ladies but Ill be damned if any woman is gonna outdo Orion Roberts. Shed stroll through with her harem of lovers and I rolled out with mine. She respected me because I was in reality what she could only pretend to be: a man. She flaunted her power over her lovers, but I already knew the pimp game from my cousins in New York City. The pimps I knew in New York were some glorious cats who decorated themselves like boxes of candy housed with a lot of bitter chocolate (women). I befriended many of them usually at the pool table where I watched the game unfold. From time to time in my life, women have approached me to be their pimp. Graciously Id decline. No, darling, Id have to beat your ass. Id have to mistreat you, you know youll need that to really be effective for me. Im a lover of women and the pimp has no authentic love for his women. He takes a womans fascination and distorts it into an ugly thing. I could never manipulate someone like that. Ill take that fascination and plant a botanical garden where the pimp always leaves the same land barren and withered. When Id travel back to the city, Id ask my cousins about New York Slim, Chicago Brass, Little Joe the Mighty Mo; all the top pimps. One by one, Id

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hear it. Orion, they rolled over. What? You dont mean... You see the pimp can indulge in all the sickest sexual fantasies he can dream up. His women are licking him up and down like a dog, poking him with a dildo; hes watching them have sex with one another with a finger up his ass. Sooner or later he just rolls over and lets another man in there. Since hes already made an erogenous zone out of his behind he just rolls all the way over! If thats the end result of the pimp game, count me out. So I never glorified the pimp. To me they were just weak-ass perverted mannequins that eventually lost all relationship with the essence of their own manhood. So I peeped Moms and her game. She was in good company. That whole school flaunted homosexuality. The dean of admissions, all the department heads and the majority of the professors were homosexuals. Im from Illumination, Virginia. I drank strength from the nipple and to me this was the ultimate weakness. Professor Stewart was a predatorial fag. He was a big, ugly monster looking man. Hed bust into dorms and just take men. Several other professors were having sex with athletes in exchange for a passing grade. It was a silent code they had amongst each other but I could smell the stench in the air. This cat from North Carolina named C.J. had the dirt on them all. That was his edge. We made a pact that if any of these crazy professors tried anything wed take them off the planet. It might take both of us with a big goon like Professor Stewart, but Ill be damned if hes gonna put his sticky fingers on me. Hardly any one in the schools administration was sane. Another extreme example was the sociology professor. Ill call him Mr. Pompous Asshole. He was a skinny red Negro. He looked like Lon Chaney, the wolf man, and Dracula all rolled into one. He was a hideous, sinister looking cat. But sociology was an interest of mine. The first day of class he sashays in and turns all the lights on bright. Let there be light, he pronounced with a nasal lisp. Even his voice was wrong: all nasal, no bass, no soul in there. His was an early morning class, eight A.M. or so. For some reason it was difficult for me to make it on time. Mr. Roberts the next time youre late in my class Im flunking you! No matter what I did I just couldnt seem to make it on time. Fine. Ill just ace the class. I did. Straight As all semester, nothing near a B. My report card arrives and sure enough His Pompousness flunks me. How the hell can he flunk me when I aced the class all semester? This aint right. I confronted him. Mister Roberts, did I not tell you I would flunk you if you ever were late again? Did you think I was blowing smoke out of my ass? He begins to laugh aloud in a Vincent Price mezzo-soprano timbre. I dont know about smoke, but my foots about to contact your ass,

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you freak of nature futherfacker. I went completely ballistic. I whipped his ass in three languages. I ended up locking him in the closet of his office and threw the key in the dumpster. Pompous Asshole was hospitalized and it became the scandal of the year. The dean called me in to kick me out of the school. I aint going nowhere! Mr. Roberts, you are to leave the campus immediately! No Im not leaving the campus. But I will go to the faculty and tell them about I called the role on all the athletes he was screwing. His lover was the Head of the Dramatic Department; but he didnt know his lover was fucking half the football team. Ill expose you to the world you perverted ass mamma-tamma! I was excused with a passing grade and went about my damn business. Word quickly spread of my successful vanquishment of the evil, pompous one. For the next week the campus chant was Lou! Lou! Lou! People thought I was superman. I say all this only to say that college was diametrically opposed to the natural mystic Id cultivated since childhood. These were weak people (the Negro elite) whose only goal in life was to fit in with white people. To get a good job in some big corporation, to integrate a neighborhood, to stay in your place, and dont cause any waves in white peoples sea. Well I was a self-power, a self-entity. These were people to be pitied. College was just another way to turn brown rice white, an indoctrination making well trained, modestly paid slaves; making you forever a subordinate. Even if youre vice-president of this or C.E.O. of that, you will always be looking up to the real power signing your checks. Like pilots who can land only where air traffic control clears him to land. I saw that clearly then and even clearer now. Around that time I took an excursion up north where I saw an Indian (subcontinent) man running a marathon. He was a fakir. This man fell and sliced his leg open on the side of the road. With my own eyes I witnessed this man put himself into a trance and clot the blood until medical help arrived. Thats the kind of knowledge I wanted. Why cant they teach that in college! Fuck being a pawn in the hands of the blue-blooded overlords. Toilet water blue that is. Every day of every semester I was in college that intuitional voice of dissention grew stronger, What the Sam-hell are you doing here! In fact in my junior year the voice told me if I didnt get out of college at once, he (my intuitional voice) would cease communication. All I could do was soak up all I could, anything that would be of some benefit to me. I wanted to learn everything about finance, so I got straight As in economics. Mathematics intrigued me, and of course, the mind so psychology was a real passion of mine as well.

3

The Elixir of Ponyo

I did have excellent teachers. Miss Whitehurst was a brilliant woman who wrote a book on experimental psychology. She taught her class out of her own book. I never opened her book or any others. I didnt actually study any subject. I took excellent notes and I guess it all echoed back to me by osmosis. She was an ultra-voluptuous high-yellow woman and we had a real seductive ebb and flow between us. After class wed engage each others minds on entre upon entree of intellectual delicacies. Orion, I hate to admit this, but the material youve been reading is really superior to mine. Im always embarrassed when you raise your hand in class. It seems you should be up here and I should be where you are taking notes. Boy, Miss Whitehurst, I just say whats on my mind. I havent read anything on the subject. Her beautiful light amber eyes grew sky wide, Youre a natural! She wanted to take me under her wing and guide me into a psychiatric career, to work with her, maybe even open up a practice together. The thought was intriguing but that would be another eight years of my life! Psychoanalysis is the bedrock for any real work in psychology. I greatly desired this process. In order to take someone into psychoanalysis one must have undergone a thorough analysis as well. Miss Whitehurst, brilliant as she was, had not yet done this critical work. At that time there werent any prominent Black psychologists. I couldnt see myself pioneering such uncharted terra firma. Repeatedly shed offer her luscious self to me but Id never take the bait, only heightening her lustful curiosity. She stuffed her conversation with double and triple entendres. Id sit there with a full-on erection halfway down my leg, hypnotizing myself not to use it. I was a man with a small frame so my size was an unexpected surprise to her. One day she could no longer hold her composure. She broke down and grabbed it. Miss Whitehurst! I cant give you this hammer. Id totally ruin you for any other man you meet in the future, a husband. Youd never be the same. Frankly, I had too much respect for her, and I never had sex for sexs sake. I loved pursuance, the dance between the sexes, that tango, that ebb and flow. There was one other memorable teacher, Mr. Stevenson, who was a biology professor. He was a well-traveled man whose advice to me was timeless. He said, Orion, in order to succeed in America one must think of something no one else has thought of, then execute it in a way no one has previously thought of. The only constant here is change. He took me under his wing and even wanted me to marry his daughter. I enjoyed his daughter. I enjoyed many daughters. I was a confirmed bachelor. Marriage was a pathetic thing to me, a crutch. I loved the women in my life deeply though. Real love is an inexhaustible fountain and I had more than enough to drown all my ladies.

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They all were special. Tanya Hanyes was a jet-black goddess; she was ninety pounds of pure sensuality. Olivia was the polar opposite; she looked like a White girl. In between were many whose names Ive forgotten, they came tall and short, every hue under the sun but I loved them all. One was my party girl, my dance partner. One was my carnal delight, another was my intellectual stimulation, and yet another was my soul mate. They each fed all the various compartments of my self. They all knew about each other. Why lie? If you get tired of this arrangement go about your business but know this: nobody will love you like me. That was and still is my guarantee. One day my dad asked me how many girlfriends I had. At that time I had three. He didnt believe me. If you bring all three to dinner at the same time Ill let you drive my Fleetwood. That was his challenge and I loved driving his brand new Cadillac. So the next night I invited all my girlfriends to dinner to my dads enjoyment and my mothers disapproval. Afterwards I drove them all home in my dads Fleetwood. That being said, only one made me contemplate marriage.

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Lewis Lowe

Elixir: Love
June Donahue was my first major love affair. Her father was a juvenile court judge in West Virginia. The Donahue name easily tipped the scales of influence and prestige in the state of West Virginia. June was a vision of ultra-feminine mystique. Like a young starlet in the glossy pages of Vogue or like Elizabeth Taylor in National Velvet, she possessed an equestrian refinement that would easily magnetize even the queers at college. She was a young socialite, a debutante, a miss this and a miss that. Shed host elegant affairs at the home of her father, the judge. She had a younger, equally adorable sister. C.J. scored an invitation to one of her spring socials and invited a few friends to accompany him. Always open for adventure I decided to go. We drove into a stately, gated mansion encompassed on all sides by lustrous automobiles of status. Being the swashbuckler, I stepped in all continental swagger, like a young Errol Flynn. I wore a tan turtleneck, a mahogany blazer, black pants, chestnut shoes and cap. I sat down to assess any prospects and there she was, this slender, dark cinnamon diamond with huge doe eyes. She wore a low-cut cucumber-green gown, which offered a glimpse of two delightfully plump breasts, her accouterments translucent enough to invite your eyes down the curvature of her body - the intelligent arch of her behind, the subtle sway of her hips. We made eye contact and the earth ceased to revolve. I observed her greeting each guest, playing the genial host to this suarez. While all the bourgie boys made their plays, she graciously flashed a heartbreaking smile my way. Patiently, I waited for the perfect opportunity. As she made her way through the crowd I stood up and introduced myself. Sweetheart, Im the best dancer in all of Virginia. May I treat the lady of this affair to a dance? Again, she flashed that heartbreaking smile. The chemistry between us exploded on the dance floor. I picked just the right song to show off all the latest moves Id mastered in New York. It was Cotton Comes to Harlem in Virginia. I threw her up in the air, round my back, between my legs, the works. All eyes on me. The lights went down and the slow jams began. She was melting like caramel fudge in my arms. My phoenix rose and softly we merged, gently grinding, right there on the floor. It was nonverbal seduction; Id hardly spoken a word. I simply displayed my machismo; she simply wanted nothing more. Valiantly, I threw down the gauntlet. Look, its you and me now. Lets

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dismiss this party, everybody else can go home. Its you and me right now Like a pro, she bid them all ado and we dove back into the fire of foreplay. And we played... She was a senior in high school. I was a college freshman. Even though she was extremely popular, the brightest star in the socialite constellation of the whos who set, she was under the dictatorship of her father. He strictly supervised his girls to the point of abuse. She never was allowed a boyfriend and her social life was regimented around the important functions all well-bred girls must attend. Yet, she had an unquenchable appetite for sex. She was light years from a virgin. Our lovemaking hit some plateaus that frankly shocked me. Thats when I knew The judge was an absolute asshole with me. Once I realized the secret I absolutely despised him. Quickly, he forbade June to have any contact with me. She sent the big lettermen up to my college to sequester me to some hidden place where we could meet. No. I wasnt about to sneak around for her sick bastard of a father. If we couldnt be together in the wide open we wouldnt be together at all. All the bourgie boys, the top athletes, all the ones who couldnt have her, begged me to reconsider. Dont you know who she is? Dont yall know who I am! Theyd tell me how she just cries all the day long. She wont leave the house. She swore shell kill herself if she cant be with me. It got so bad until one day an unexpected visitor knocked on my door. It was the judge. He was a nasty, arrogant bastard but humbly, he walked now through my door. Orion, my daughters sick. Shes bedridden. She wont go to school, she wont even speak to me. All she asks about is you. Please come see my daughter. Get on your knees you sick bastard. You caused all this. Youve been so nasty, so arrogant towards me. I know everything. What kind of man would sleep with his own children. What kind of judge are you? You should be in a jail, you perverted ass nigger! Get on your knees and beg me before I call the law on your sorry ass. The bastard broke down in tears. He didnt admit my accusation, but he didnt deny it either. He begged me, on his knees, to please come see his daughter. He begged and begged while I tortured him with all my psychic strength and might. I couldnt bear the weight of leaving June in that kind of condition. When I arrived at the residence it seemed the whole street was in a deep blue funk. Looked like winter in early fall. I walked into her room as she slept there, pale, like a vampire had sucked all the life out of her.

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June, its me. Its Orion. She looked up and the sun it seemed dawned in her face, her beautiful cinnamon hue begun to glow again. Orion! She jumped into my arms. We held each other for maybe an hour, no words were spoken but volumes were said in the silence. From then on, the house was mine, the car was mine, the bank account was mine, and June was mine. The judge became a little boy around me. Never did I reveal to June my knowledge of her and her sisters dark past, but thats what it was now, the past. Her sick father would never again go near them. She was free.

4

The Elixir of Ponyo

4

Lewis Lowe

Meritocracy
Crystal Roberts shook her head. Orion this is your senior year. Youve gotten excellent grades, the tuitions paid, were proud of you. Youve have a bright future ahead of you. Why would you dropout of college? Why not complete your education? The crux of my argument was this: Ive got two good legs to explore this world, college would only break one of my legs and give me a crutch, a degree to limp around with. Then Id go limping through life depending on that crutch to get ahead. Thats not me. These college people are the fakest, most pretentious bunch of pogoniggers Ive ever encountered. My father and your father both made their way through this world on their own meritocracy, not with a worthless piece of paper. Im going to make my accomplishment through the mastery of my own genius. Youll see. Crystal Roberts just shook her head. Around that time General Electric began cracking its doors a little for Negroes to elevate above custodian status. One of the executives clued Mister Lushus in who, in turn, clued me in. I went up there and completed a battery of tests. As always I aced it. The hiring officer was this Northern cat, Allen Goldberg. Everything about me, my dress, my verbiage, my background, my attitude, just bedazzled him. Goldberg made me an offer that day. I would be the first Negro in upper management. Shall I do a little buckdance for you? The money was good and the work was lite. I bought a sparkling white 1957 Chevrolet. Six months down the pipe I go to the doctor for a routine checkup. Im diagnosed with high blood pressure. High blood pressure? Im twenty-two years old, in tip-top shape. What the hell am I doing with high-blood pressure? The doctor asked me if Id made any major life changes recently, if Id been doing anything different. Nothing, except maybe my new position at General Electric. My intuition kicked me in the ribs. If this job has given me high blood pressure after six months, Ill be dead by twenty-five. This is the advancement were marching for? Michael Thomas came down for a visit. He was facing a similar dilemma. College is bullshit. So what you gonna do Bo? I dont know. If you catch something clue me in. If you catch something clue me in!

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I will. MT, being very light-skinned, could easily cloak himself into the confidence of white folks, especially with his affable personality. Ive always admired him because he could have gone his entire life as a white man but never did. Anyway, he struck up a conversation with this military man from Arlington outside a museum. Whats the best way to break into the military? Intelligence, communicational espionage. You look like you might be cut out for it. Been to school yet? Im in school now. Its boring, not a challenge at all. Its too easy. Really? Maybe you should look into this. Communicational espionage involves spying with electronic equipment. Its a wonderful opportunity. Youll travel all over the world, Tokyo, Taiwan, Panama, Germany, New Zealand After you complete your military assignments if you decide to work for the National Security Agency, you would start as a GS5. With a top secret military cryptographic clearance, youll be listening in on the Kennedy boys. You can retire young and wealthy if you like. Besides, somethings brewing in Southeast Asia. Im advising all my young friends this way, to avoid the draft. Mike, you seem very bright but only the best and brightest need apply. Youll be competing with grads from Yale, Harvard, Princeton and you have to pass very, very difficult tests. I think you might have a chance. The man passed him a card with a contact persons name on it. When he ran it down to me I was sold. Sign me up! Travel round the world and listen to all the secrets of white people! Theyre gonna pay me for this! Sign me up. Again, integration was forcing America to crack its doors of opportunity a little, so wed be some of the first Negroes in the Army Security Agency. Michael Thomas and I went down to the office to apply. Never have I seen tests like these. I had to send my mind beyond the ozone to come up with some answers. After completion I had my doubts which I confided to MT. Man, we passed. We amazed these people. They thought wed give up, punk out. They were testing us. Well, we were some supremely confident cats and sure enough we passed. I told General Electric to go fuck yourself. Goldsberg couldnt believe it. Orion, you cant quit. We have big plans for you. Youre the first Negro Im the first Negro to quit your ass. Bye!

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A New Constellation
Cryptographic hieroglyphics: computers speaking in tongues a multiplex of information. Words are numbers are symbols are signals. As psychoanalysis strips away layer after layer of ones pysche until the real you is laid bare, signal analysis unravels layer upon layer of information, purposely encoded to obscure its core, its secrets. I would be trained in radio telemetry, signal analysis and wave propagation. How appropriate! My hearts desire was to strip myself bare of all artifice, until the genesis of me, that voice of the soul that loves me, is all there is of me. To strip away all the bullshit until I am tabla rasa, a clean slate, a clear mirror, free of dust. Transmitting and receiving radio transmissions is a facsimile of the process of mental telepathy. So why not learn the art and science of radio telemetry which is akin to the art and science of the mind. Why not uncover the secrets of the world? Why not listening in on the secrets of nations, governments, all the power players on behalf of the biggest power player America? I wasnt under any delusion of patriotism. No. I wanted to understand Americas position in the world. How the white people kept their edge over the planet. Information! Whoever has the information has the power. This is why, as well later discuss, Universal Awe is the only true power. The Lightholders have no need for electronic surveillance to unveil whats been veiled. No telescopes, televisions, telephones, wiretaps, etc. are needed. Just a pure heart and mind! Ha! These so-called powerful people with all their equipment are nothing to the Lightholders of Universal Awe! But Im getting a little ahead of myself. MT and I gingerly entered this new phase of our journey in Vista, Virginia. We went through another battery of intense physical and psychological examinations. Sure enough, we were surrounded by the best and brightest young men from around the country. Geniuses in mathematics, computer programming, engineering, and linguistics, senators sons and whatnot. And now two hotshot niggers out of Illumination, Virginia had crashed the party. Immediately we took charge. All the candidates were addicted to gambling, so we took them for everything they had.

Quilted Genealogy,

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The Elixir of Ponyo

Having graduated from the illustrious pool halls and backrooms of Harlem, I was an accomplished and notorious pool shark. Michael Thomas was an ace with a deck of cards. He dealt seconds, thirds, from the top, middle or bottom of the deck. We both had a masters in gambling with an emphasis on hustling. I almost felt sorry for these white boys we punished them so bad. (Not really.) Between the two of us, we jacked our comrades out of at least a few grand in a few days. Our quilted genealogy fed their natural fascination with all things black. Racially no one could place Michael Thomas and I, being a few shades darker and ever the swashbuckler who just didnt give a shit; we both were automatically held in awe. There were a few other brothers. But, being raven-black, they received much harsher treatment. Fuck that, we jacked these Harvard and Yale boys on their behalf. Gambling was our weapon. Taking their money was like a small down payment on reparations. We were in our element and couldnt wait to leave the country, to conquer the world. This was too sweet! I was quoting Descartes, Spinoza, Nietsche; all that bullshit I learned in college was another weapon in my arsenal. None of these Harvard and Yale boys could beat me in a debate, Id throw all their learning right back at them. Its all guesswork. The whole Western paradigms just, at best, a hypothesis. They admit that in college. Why should I take your guesses as gospel? Should I base reality on your theories? Should I really believe Im a product of natural selection, evolution, or that the first man miraculously appeared on the planet six thousand years ago? Please! The entire canon of Western thought, philosophy, and religion was suspect and I loved nothing more than poking holes in its seemingly impervious armor. So I took these boys money with one hand and their minds with the other. Instinctively I knew there was an elixir, a fourth dimensional reality beyond anything taught in the universities of the West. Instinctively I knew everything in nature has its opposite or opponent. Instinctively I knew that the goose that laid the golden egg was simply and more accurately a vulture eating the carcass of the ignorant. Having grown up in the unique milieu of Illumination, Virginia I saw the Western people and America specifically as my natural opposite and opponent. Our oral folklore stated that a great Black king would rise up from among us, that we would rise and rule the world. Maybe it was just folklore and fairy tales but MT and myself bought it hook, line, and sinker. Our quilted genealogy was a camouflage, a cover, to slip in and out of

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the racist society of America without getting picked off like a daffy duck. The black people were so meek and humble, so good that the majority of us felt all people had that same sweet and humble disposition. A fatal mistake. We felt you had to have some white blood in you to comprehend their game of oppression. If you look at most of the bold leadership in North America, from Fredrick Douglas to Adam Clayton Powell to Malcolm X, they all had that quilted genealogy. Later, I understood scientifically the nature behind the game. That will be coming in a few more pages. Just before we were to begin basic training we got some bad news. Michael Thomas did not pass his physical examination. Even though hed aced the academic and psychological tests, the health problems that had plagued him since birth eliminated him from military service. His kidneys, in particular, were in bad shape. The wind was knocked out of both of us. Go head man. Ill find a way in there. Well meet up in Tokyo, New Zealand, somewhere. You go on. I hated to leave my partner behind but what else could I do but go forth with our plans. So we parted. I was formally inducted into the army then took off to Fort Jackson, South Carolina for basic training.

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The Elixir of Ponyo

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Lewis Lowe

Prophecy of

a Gypsy Girl

Basic training was a joy to me. It was designed to train the mind into taking orders and strengthen the body to go beyond its threshold of pain. I loved the challenge of pushing my body as far as it could go and beyond. Military life suited me just fine. It sharpened me up like one of my grandfathers deadly steak knives. I was beginning to embrace a measure of freedom now from my depressed uncertainty, from the Negro drama of college and the high blood pressure of corporate America. The military looked like a perfect vehicle for me to work the full extent of my magic. Basic training put me in a high where my physical body was humming with the same intense vitality as my mind. I was under no delusion of patriotism though. On the weekends, Id enjoy the exceptional female citizenry of Southern Carolina. There was this bowling alley not far from base where every Sunday I found myself surrounded by the most sumptuous ladies in town. This dance between the sexes, that romantic ebb and flow (as by now you know) has always been my great passion. It wasnt about sex, although occasionally Id lay it on a few fortunate ones, it was about capturing a womans love and imagination. Enjoying the admiration and fascination of a woman truly is one of lifes greatest pleasures One Sunday I noticed a big gypsy man polishing an older model Cadillac around the corner from the bowling alley. He had a distinguishing air of friendly openness that was quite intriguing. He waved me over, an invitation. I walked into the yard and introduced myself. He looked like an olive-colored santa with an old corduroy fedora instead of a beard. He was an enormous man with his britches pulled high up over his gigantic stomach. Come, my son, let the sisters pray for you. Pray, for me? I wasnt interested in no shit like that. But I was intrigued and my intuition gave no opposition, so he led me inside his humble little abode. There, on the couch sat this gorgeous gypsy girl. She was small of build and wore loose, flowing clothes probably made with her own hands. She was the epitome of a stereotypical gypsy: a haphazard blend of all the best racial features, swarthy skin, and long, thick hair like mink framed her face, flowing down to her back. I heard her thoughts jump into my arms as she looked up at me. She liked what she saw, as did I. I get to do him?

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Yes, darling, do me. She arose with a Mona Lisa smirk and beckoned me into a back room behind a black curtain. Incense or something refreshingly aromatic clouded the air. She sat and held my hand, looking deeply into my eyes. An electricity mischievously danced between us. If this is prayer, maybe Ill convert to her religion. Suddenly she became an oracle. She ran it down about my childhood, my hometown, my mother, my outlook on life, my ambitions, everything really. She saw my desire to travel to Japan and indeed, she said, I would go to Japan. Everything will be easy for me because I was born under an especially lucky sign. Yes, I would fulfill all my highest aspirations. I would experience a little difficulty in Japan but it will pass, just trust my instincts. The well-wishing was welcome but I was a little skeptical. She picked up on it. I see that you are doubtful so Im going to give you a confirmation. Listen carefully, something that you are very good at you will not be able to do, and something youve never before done you will be able to do exceedingly well. She repeated it. This will remove your doubts. Would you please give something to support the sisters? I had a fifty-cent piece in my pocket, I put it in her hand and left somewhat perplexed. What kind of prayer was that? I put it out of my mind and went straight away to the bowling alley. Every gorgeous lady in South Carolina had to have been there that day. Long ago I had mastered the icebreaker, so I could cut in and dance with all the various degrees and hues of womanhood. Ive always enjoyed strength with women, but today I couldnt get a second glance. I might as well been invisible. No smiles, no conversation, nothing. For the first and only time in my life I was experiencing the bitter pill of rejection from the opposite sex. I washed up, checked my breath and underarms - what the hell is wrong here? Im as devastatingly handsome as ever. Being a professional I reappeared with a new determination yet still received that bitter pill. I was in utter disbelief. I got so frustrated I picked up a bowling bowl, put on some ridiculous looking shoes and made an attempt at bowling. I had never bowled in my life. How difficult could it be? I glanced to my left and right observing how to pick up the bowl, bend your knees, observe the pins ahead of you, and let the ball roll down the lane. I just mimicked what I saw. Strike! I tried it again. Strike! One more time Strike! Everytime I threw the ball down that alley I knocked down all the pins everytime.

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Lewis Lowe
I asked my fellow bowlers about the game, how I was doing, how to score myself. No one believed it was my first time. Are you sure youve never played before? Never. Whats the significance of ten pins? I became a sensation. Everytime I was up to bat a larger crowd would form. I went into my little stance, concentrated on those ten pins and let loose. Strike! The crowd cheered! Inevitably, I bowled a perfect game. The owner came out and took my picture to put up on the hall of fame. All those gorgeous babes who acted deaf, blind, and dumb were surrounding me now. Thats when the words of the gypsy girl struck me down, Something youve never done you will do extremely well, and something you do extremely well you will not be able to do at all. Now I believe you young lady. My confidence shot to ten once again. Japan, Im coming for you.



The Elixir of Ponyo



Lewis Lowe

Cryptographic
Upon completion of my basic training I was off to Fort Devin, Massachusetts to be trained in signals intelligence, which is intelligence information derived from the exploitation of foreign electronic emissions. Now I was getting into the nuts and bolts of my training. The Army Security Agency is the military branch of the National Security Agency. The ASA can be split into two distinct branches: information assurance codemakers and signals intelligence codebreakers. Information assurance secured all internal means of communication from fighters on the frontlines to the executive branches of government up to the President. Critical intelligence can be freely discussed without fear of the communication being compromised. The other side, my side, was the exploitation of foreign adversaries communications via signals intelligence. This encompassed the collection, processing, and analyzation of foreign signals. It became immediately clear that this is how America kept its decisive edge in the world. The poor African countries and the third world nations forever are at a disadvantage because theyve got outdated, eight-track tape level equipment compared to the technological breakthroughs of America and (at that time) the Soviet Union. The ASA constantly was developing its own hardware and software to be used on supercomputers more expensive than the debts these little countries owed for the theft of its resources. Dont ever believe something has gotten past the NSA or someone cannot be found or something is not known. Everything which can be communicated on a terrestrial link was known forty years ago on the primitive equipment I was trained on which is obviously obsolete today. Morse Code is the most basic of communications. I began listening to morse code transmissions at a typewriter. Each combination of blips translated into letters Id key into the typewriter. This required extreme hand-eye coordination and a laser beam-like focus. The proficient ones would automatically decipher the codes as quickly as they were transmitted. Teletype was a little more advanced and much less stress on my mind. Id simply place the transmissions into a computer which read the decoded information back for me. I hurried up and mastered that one so fast I was placed in an advanced course in signal analysis and wave propagation,

Hieroglyphics

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The Elixir of Ponyo

which is the science of radio telemetry or the study of how radio frequencies are transmitted and received. Only a small group was selected for this advanced study which required yet another secret clearance. After going through all the new paperwork, pictures, fingerprints, eye scans, and whatnot, two hundred of us entered the classroom for induction. The presiding officer stepped up to the podium, congratulated us and gave us his song and dance culminating in our first assignment, an essay on the topic, Why I love America. I picked up my pen, wrote my name and the subject title. Goosebumps and chills shot up my back, I knew my intuition was kicking in. Then came the thought, why the hell should I love America? I was off! The essay wrote itself. I ran down my childhood in Illumination, segregation, Jim Crow, hand me down books in inferior schools, pot boilings, lynchings, the Ku Klux Klan riding on us every weekend, 400 years of slavery, criminal injustice systems, I went on and on. The pen didnt leave the paper until I had exhausted myself and couldnt write another word. Immediately I stood and submitted my paper. I was the first one done. As soon as I sat back down I felt ill. Id blown it. Im just about to indulge all my fantasies, go to Japan, escape America and learn all the secrets of the world. Have I just written my walking papers? If they dont court martial me Id probably be sent to some DMZ and never be heard from again. A week or two later we came back to that same room and the same officer steps to the podium. Mr. Roberts, stand up! Let yourself be seen and known. My heart sank but my body managed to stand. Mr. Roberts, I must commend you on your essay. It was excellent. Be seated. I was shocked. But I told the truth. I could have played the pogonigger and buck danced but I told the truth about my experience in America and there was nothing for me to love. Telling the truth meant I could be trusted. I was the only person acknowledged. There were only two Blacks in the entire class of two hundred, Lamont Freedman and myself. One day I misstepped while marching and fell down with a pebble lodged in my knee. Lamont visited me at the infirmary. He was another maxicat from Los Angeles. Naturally, we hit it off. Lou, you get high? All the time bo Id never done anything like that in my life. My cousin in San Diegos sending me the best shit youve ever had in the mail. We can go half, a dime a piece. Just tell me when it comes in Jim. A couple weeks later Im shining my shoes and feel a tap on my

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shoulder. Its Lamont with the package from his cousin in San Diego. I already rolled you a hindinberg. We walked out into this open field camouflaged by trees and lit up. I took a long drag like Lamont and felt the sharpest pain strike my chest. My throat stopped up; I dropped to my knees in a coughing fit. I thought I was gonna die. Lamont cracks up. I pulled myself together and took another pull. And another... We walked to the movies. I sat in that theater for two hours and saw my own life on that screen. Every significant and non-significant event was played out on the silver screen. Those intuitional forces, my angelic guides were taking me on a tour down the timeline of my own consciousness. The marijuana was a catalyst for my own psychoanalysis. So Id get high and walk all over that one-horse and buggy town, in an altered state of consciousness, until I could see clearly down my timeline. I deciphered all the encrypted codes of my psyche, all the potholes, all the perpheration, all the disappointments and dilemmas were resolved. I walked a straight line from my earliest memory til that moment. Everything Ive shared thus far played out until I had put it all in its proper place, until I was at peace with it all. Under the umbrella of pharmaceutical enlightenment I had undergone a psychoanalysis more thorough than any psychologist could have possibly given me. The boundary between the mundane and the realm of revelation, the mundinus imaginus, can only be penetrated after such self-examination. Only when one is free from oneself can one truly transcend self. I was not oblivious to the irony of my training in electronic espionage, radio telemetry, and the breaking of encrypted codes. This training loosened the gravity and grip of the mundane on any self imposed doubts or limitations.



The Elixir of Ponyo

6

Lewis Lowe

Vespertine
With my signal analysis/wave propagation training almost complete and my head blown off by the glories of pharmaceutical enlightenment, I was more than a little anxious to get on with my journey to the Orient. Advisors from NSA Headquarters were preparing us for the precursor to our official assignments,which was an internship in radio telemetry. Once again we were sold on all the benefits, privileges, status, honor, and financial rewards to look forward to upon completion of our assignments. Well, I had absolutely no plans for retirement and absolutely no allegiance to anything or anyone but myself. Before entering the military I had virtually no interaction with White people except the anonymous Caucasian whod end up on the opposite side of my fist, those who fell victim to a brick, bottle or knife thrown their way or mine. I knew very well that White people yielded sanctioned privilege over Black people at every bend in the road. Every pursuit in every field of endeavor was limited; our ceiling appeared to be merely the floor of White people. Now I found myself in all relative terms the peer of the children of the countrys most privileged white people. I was the spook sitting comfortably inside the door I wanted to study this thing. I wanted to master these people. Quiet as it was kept, the wise and privileged White power people knew Vietnam was about to break out. They placed their children in the intelligence wing of the military; the most advantageous position to avoid any possibility of seeing combat. The draft was for the poor and the ignorant. Its 1962. The countercultures rising in wonderbread like yeast. The power peoples children are flirting with rebellion, marijuana, and most shocking of all - the epicurean wiles of Negro culture: our jungle music, the lascivious grind of rock and roll and the heroin blue of jazz. Id peeped these privileged youngsters in the dark corners of the Baby Grand and the Village Vanguard like pure white salt in a jar of spicy pepper that multiplied slowly every week. I decided to take my White classmates on as guinea pigs. I wanted to strip them bare, to peek into their pysche and see what made them tick. Obviously, through the inheritance of their collective unconscious, they saw themselves as the benefactors of the globe, the architects of civilization, the goose that laid the golden egg; the ones who first stood upright and went forth as the great discoverers, the great explorers. Okay. I had their little minds spinning round in circles. I challenged those fairy tales everytime I saw one coming.

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My natural intensity, my spiritual inheritance, the independent atmosphere of my hometown, along with the uncompromising role models in my life made these aristocratic white folks very easy to dominate. Being the heroic representative of all things hip, dangerous, and black they begged me to show them all the nocturnal delights of New York and Boston. As I stated previously in our journey I had plenty cousins and uncles in the game up North. My favorite cousin was a young man a couple years my junior named Vesper. Every family has their free radicals, their black sheep. In my family Aunt Carla was the blackest, freest, most radical of all my relations. My granddad had three daughters: Crystal, Camille, and Carla. My grandfather, as you already know, was a very high brow, supersophisticated gentleman, a respected member of society. My mother Crystal and her sister Camille were the golden apples of eyes. Carla was the rotten egg. She drank, gambled, cursed, partied, and ran the devil back to God with her hell -raising. She was the bipolar opposite of everything the Roberts name represented. My family was Beverly Hills, she was Compton; she had a palace upbringing but preferred the projects. Carla packed a knife and kept a souvenir of a mans ear she sliced off in a gambling dispute. She was a tough, tiny woman with a mean, mean streak that would caution even the terrorist cats of Moppingtown. She had two children, a daughter and a son. As Mister Lushus entertained the upper crust people, Carla partied with the crumbs and burnt ends. Her little house was a nonstop juke joint. Sex, drugs, and blues were the order of the day. So Vesper was overexposed to all the trappings of that lifestyle, the sexual aspect in particular. It was black caligula at Carlas house. Vesperd wake up at night with people screwing right in front of him. When the women passed out drunk, hed pull their panties down and steal a free hump. In the first grade Vesper got expelled when a teacher caught him having sex with a fifth grade girl in the back of the cafeteria, in the middle of lunch. Our entire childhood was one episode after another of him trying to entice me into his libertine engagements. Vesper, like myself, always had a natural strength with women. The difference being that I really was a good guy in bad guy clothes while Vespers bad guy persona was only the tip of the iceberg. Up into our teens Vesper was the Hugh Hefner cat that turned all the young ladies into freaks. His dad was a hustler/con artist extraordinairre from Boston. His front was a job as a bellhop in one of the posh hotels in downtown Beantown. Hed steal jewelry, fur coats, cash, suitcases; anything not nailed down. Once, he jacked some mob boys out of an entire suitcase of cash. The mafia cats abducted him and dangled him off a penthouse balcony. His dad didnt budge. He gave no confession. He feigned innocence

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until they believed him and ran off with the money while maintaining the confidence of the very mafia cats he jacked. Vesper and his entire gangster family moved up to Boston where his pops thoroughly schooled him in every hustle of the street: the dope game, the pimp game, and every con known to man. By the time Vesper was twelve years old he was operating on the renowned plane of Iceberg Slim and his ilk. I had not seen him since high school. I now had three years of college under my belt and my own reputation in Harlem and Boston with an internship at the National Security Agency with a top secret clearance. I had a posse of rich white boys who idolized me and hung on my every word. But everytime I went out to party I missed him. He wasnt at any of the haunts he typically would haunt. I decided to look up Aunt Carla. Orion, Vespers changed. Changed? He aint no born again Christian; cause if he is Ill kick his ass! No, no, nothing like that. But Orion, if I could give up my cigarettes Id be right there with him. Im just too set in my ways. Aunt Carla! What are you talking about? This is his address, Ill let him tell you, but watch out Watch out? I hang up the phone beyond perplexed. Vespers changed and Aunt Carlas too set in her ways. Id better watch out. No, somethings definitely wrong here. Vesper was more like me than anyone else, except for him being a bipolar sex fiend. Besides that he had enormous physic strength and intellect. Maybe Ill have to rescue him, bring him back around from whatevers changed him. I had a taxi take me straight away to his address. I knocked. Yes? Ves, open up, its me, Orion! When the door opened it was him, but it wasnt the him Id known. Vesper, like Michael Thomas was tall and lanky. He was a shade darker than me, caramel-colored. But now his head was shaven. He looked like a young, beardless Osama Bin Laden. Sunken face, deeply set crescent eyes. He looked high, but a different pedigree of highness. He always had a relaxed manner but he was now so low-key he almost couldnt be seen. It was unnerving. Orion, welcome. Come on in brother. Vesper! Whats shaking man? Dig it, I got these John John Hyinasport white boys downstairs. I told them all about you. Get your rags on, we gonna get some dope, some chicks and hit the Baby Grand No. Ive never heard a no like that, said so soft and firm it stopped my train of thought. Then he flashed a peculiarly radiant smile and sat down on his little bed.

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Ves, Aunt Carla told me something about you changing up on me. Now you know that Billy Graham shit is bogus Vesper had always looked up to me, so I was ready to unload a mack on him to outmack whoever had macked him into this strange bag. Yet I saw something attractively different, something newly bottomless in him, a depth, a serenity, something else. I ran down my military hustle to him, trying to impress him. Orion, be careful. Thats designed to break the strong of will. Id hate to see you broke down, Orion Broke down! Look Im king with these people! Im learning all their secrets. They asked me why I love America; you know what I said, I told them to go fuck themselves. No, theyll never make a punk out of me. But whats up with you, man? You dont party, you not hustling, you not pimping, what happened? Are you married? I know you got a woman under the bed right? No. That word again! Orion, Im fermenting. Excuse me? A period of gestation. Im going through a period of evaluation in my training. Training? What are you training in? Universal Awe. What the hell is that? Everything. Its everything besides which is nothing. Silence. Im getting pissed. Before I can go off on him he speaks. You remember the legend of Ugoma? Of course I do Ves but You remember whod visit Illumination every summer at Fernwood. Jack Johnson. What does that have to do with Why do you think our hometowns named Illumination? Ugoma, Jack Johnson, the strange ones whod appear out of the mountains every so often; they were Lightholders. They were masters in the Science of Universal Awe. This is our inheritance, our destiny, yours and mine. I sat down. And the fakir I saw up North who clotted the blood gushing out of his leg with the power of his mind, he came to my thoughts as well. Maybe he was a lightholder too. A good feeling parted my growing anger. My intuition had always adorned the folklore of Ugoma with pride. As for Jack Johnson, only Michael Thomas, Vesper, and myself thought he was something more than a circus freak. Yes, Orion. He was. Now hes reading my thoughts!

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Theres thousands of stars now... were a living, human constellation. The Black people, the Indians, the Mexicans, thousands of us. Thousands? Why am I just getting this? I prided myself as the hippest, coolest, most in the know cat around. How could there be a movement of thousands I havent peeped. I knew about Malcolm X and agreed with him. The apologetic methods of the civil rights movement were an utter joke though. All those weak-kneed Negroes begging white folks for crumbs were utterly pathetic. But Blacks, Mexicans, and Indians in a movement called Universal Awe? How could I not know about that? Its underground, just below the surface, like the blood flowing underneath your skin animating the whole person. Many Ugomas infiltrated the Americas, from Chris Columbus on down. They seeded both the atmosphere and the populous with light. Orion, how long does it take for light to be born? What? How the hell should I know? Humbled, I shook my head and threw my hands up unable to come up with an answer. They didnt teach that in your little college did they? They sure aint gonna cover it in no NSA either. You know why? I shook my head negatively. Because we have the knowledge. Lightholders seed the sphere of atoms, they impregnate ideas into the brains of geniuses or gifted people while they are still in the womb. Every advancement in the recorded history of the externals, all their inventions, every bright idea, the thought came from us. It may take a lifetime or it could take hundreds, sometimes thousands of years but that idea, that advancement, that light will be born. Ugoma and the other lightholders idea survived through the horrors of slavery, the genocide of Meso-America and the trail of tears. Now we are that idea. Something new and beautiful is cracking out of its egg. This is why youve always felt different, apart from the others. We all know instinctively that something here is off but you were never equipped with the tools to investigate that knowing. I knew youd eventually come here. Now the choice is yours. Vesper, Ive got a fist full of dollars in my pocket. A drivers downstairs waiting for me I came here to see whats happened to you. Youre my favorite cousin but I dont need you to score dope or pick up women. I can get into any spot in town on my own merit. I was just worried about you. But Im gonna send the driver away. Ill cancel all my plans on one condition. Youve got to tell me everything about this thing youre into. Take your time, tell me everything you know about this Universal Awe. You have my undivided attention.

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Elixir: Universal Awe

I knew power was in the hands of the European peoples. Power was like a tennis ball passed from one group of white folks to another for as long as... well, as long as long is long. Right? The only indigenous folks to rise up to put their two cents in the power game were the Japanese. And what did they get? An atomic bomb. Maybe Genghis Khan or one of those ancient cats flipped the script for a minute or two but after the commercial break the powerball was back safely in a white mans hands. And Black people? Well, according to the history books we contributed nothing to civilization at all. We were nothing but the pawns on the chessboard of time, awaiting some powerful hand to direct us. Religion says we were damned to be hewers of wood and drawers of water, the servants for those in power. Hollywood says we were spearchuckers running around naked with King Kong and Tarzan, beating our drums, savages since antiquity. Yet I knew the indigenous peoples were in touch with another dimension of power that needed not to conquer or oppress. In college I read documented cases of Western medical practitioners in darkest Africa, trying to treat a fair patient who was on her deathbed. Eventually, their medical knowledge ran out. Then the heathens volunteered their doctor. The witch doctor would dramatically appear in a puff of green smoke; his neck full of bones, his eyes bloodshot, his face painted and surrounded by a mane of wooly hair. The medicine man would rub some bones together, blow some powder on the patient, go into a trance and chant some magic words, basically frightening the white folks to death but always bring Lazarus back from the dead. That patient would then go on to live another thirty years after that savage African voodoo witch doctor worked his magic. And he didnt even charge for his services! The same thing happened in America with the Indians and the pilgrim people. The native shaman heathen would humbly save the day then cook paleface a Thanksgiving feast before they were massacred by the white Christians in the name of Jesus. So the Blacks, the Reds, the Browns, the dark Native people possessed a very real power, mystic in nature, but not powerful enough to deal with the viscous armament of the West. Maybe this is what Vespers talking about.

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I sent the driver away, sat back down and gave Vesper my undivided attention. Tell it all Orion in the beginning... there was no beginning. There was something that was always here, even if it was just a speck. Those who direct the NSA, those who behind the scenes call the shots, those shadowy figures in the Knights Templar, the Roscrusians, the Skulls and Bones, the Illuminati, the Masons and Shriners all of them are still in the kindergarten of lifes wisdom. The international bankers, those families who finance both sides of international conflict, those who loan money to governments including this one all of them are little boys compared to one holding the light of Universal Awe. The above mentioned are simply enjoying the crumbs from our table. The present Western civilization, with all its glory, was built and sustained with just thirty-three degrees out of the three-hundred and sixty degrees of Universal Awe. On occasion someone broke out of that limitation into the esoteric; the mystic knowledge of the subconscious mind. This is the study of the Gods, the study of the mind. It is the apex of all study. The subconscious mind, its amenable, plastic. Once a person is adept at directing ones own subconscious, that one can operate on the 45th degree, which is the fourth dimension of consciousness. Hitler and his henchmen tapped into that 45th degree. Dont believe the Allied Forces of America and Great Britian stopped the mad quest of Hitler for world domination. It was the Supreme Being whose Archangels (human beings), lightholders; it was these that produced the most devastating blizzard, a snow storm the likes of which had never been seen. Hitlers army was unable to recover from such a tremendous loss. The Masters of Universal Awe thwarted that evil and are more than equipped to deal with his brother demons too. All these history books and their counterparts in religion give you a six thousand year scope of human life. No! We have a historical record into the billions years! Our secret society is pulling from billions and billions of years of human endeavor, progress and experimentation. Billions of years? Are you serious? As cancer. Hints of this can be discovered in all indigenous cultures as well as in all the religious fables. All the revered scripts and fairy tales, all the cosmogonic myths are puzzle pieces giving clues to this great mystery of the origin of the species. But guess what Orion? Its us. We are the answer to the mystery. We are the missing capstone of the pyramids The Dalai Lamas, the Yogis, the Saddhus, the Buddhas, the Hindus, the Zen, the Sufi, the Coptics, the Cabbalists, all the mystics have an oblique awareness of it. They all have their piece.

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But the folklore of our hometown prophesied of a great king arising to return us to greatness, to power Hes come and Hes the architect of this modern flow. He is our master. He is a real live man in whose hand is that thread to weave all the puzzle pieces together. This is the greatest Luminate to appear in our billion-year timeline. Where is He? Where can I meet him? When its time Hell introduce himself to you. Look, everything you think you know must be erased from your mind. Throw it all out, its trash. So the origin of the species youre telling me theres another theory apart from Darwins theory. Ive never accepted that trip anyway. And the garden of Eden, Adam and Eve, talking reptiles. Thats just as silly as the apeman theory. Yes, it is silly but remember theyve only got thirty-three degrees of the circle. What do you expect? But we can know the origin of it all because we were there. There? Where? Billions of years ago, we were the only people there then. The niggers Orion. You and me. Modern science has conclusively proven that our seed-root (the Blue-Black man) is the master copy; the original from which everyone else is a facsimile. Brown cannot make a Blue-Black-Indigo man but a Blue-Black-Indigo man can produce a white man. Ask Leakey or Mendel and theyll both tell you. There is no such thing as race. There is only one Human Family, like a diamond or a rainbow reflecting various hues in a prism of colour, it is one light. We are that light within which exists the bud of it all. Mother Harriet Tubman established an underground movement transplanting the slave to freedom all over this country. This is the mental resuscitation, the spiritual resurrection. Its wisdom, supreme wisdom, which is slowly, methodically, removing every link of limitation from our minds. Not just from the slavery experience, but from all suffering, all injustice experienced within the entire scope of human existence. Every pothole in the consciousness of humanity must be removed. All errors, all lies, every flaw - its waste Orion, which must be removed if humanity is to survive. We cannot continue to subsist like this. All of the Aboriginals, on every continent, lie in the dust. Its not just us. And those John-John Hyinasport boys you speak of, dont let their trinkets of supposed wealth fool you, for they have benefited deliciously from the suffering of the Human Family. The culmination of this three-hundred and sixty degrees of wisdom is the restoration of us back to ourselves; to end suffering and death. Thats the exclamation point of every prophecy: peace. Will peace ever be on earth? Yes, when Suffering and Death is destroyed then will there be real and everlasting peace! Go on!

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Those who direct and finance the NSA, finance the KGB, the Israeli Mossad, those in whose best interest it is to escalate wars, strife and conflict have been, but are no longer, the rulers of the planet. They are gods. Gods is a term simply denoting power and authority. It doesnt necessarily denote anything good or positive. They are the gods or better yet the Organized Evil. Without the strategy of divide and conquer; without opposing ideologies such as communism and democracy; without division, class and race; without rich and poor they have no power and cannot rule. They rule only by deception and division. Organized Evil: this is the left-handed side of Universal Awe. All the lowly qualities that lie at the pit of human consciousness are exploited by the Overlords of Suffering and Death. Still, there is only one power, which is Universal Awe. Organized Evil is simply the negative application of this one true and living power. The original and the facsimile are one. Light and dark are two sides of the same coin. Seeds of Suffering and Death exist inside every human. It if did not, it would not be. Its the shadow self of the original given expression and purpose. Vesper, I want to believe this. Orion, Universal Awe cannot be believed, it can only be experienced. Our Master has given us the mathematics, the specific calibrations, to rise above all limitation. Im being trained in the way to absolutely transcend this level of the mundane; the ego-structures of Suffering and Death, the opiates of this world. The Science of Universal Awe, the science of the mind, will make you free of every tyrant, within and without. The greatest tyrant being your own tyrannical ego, the fantasies of your lower self, the internal forces of Suffering and Death existing within us all. Vesper, I believe that! I recently achieved my own psychoanalysis via marijuana. I saw my own limitations, I saw the potholes in my own consciousness. Congratulations. Marijuana, opiates, cocaine, LCD; none of these pyschotropic chemicals can be taken without some detriment to yourself. There have been many explorers of inner space. Many who have gone deep into the inner self with the assistance of such chemistry. A window of the soul indeed can be opened in such manner. In the state of Washington experiments have been conducted with isolation tanks wherein people are submerged in water, in utter darkness, after taking so many ccs of LCD. They go way out into the astral. When these cosmic astronauts are carefully brought back to this plane of things, they all say the same thing: someone was already there, witnessing them. They all recognize that no matter how far out (in) they went, in their observation they were being observed. These witnesses are the keepers of

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the soul, the guardian angels. They are the true friends of the human as well as the truly human. In the Science of Universal Awe it is taught that this is the realm of Ultraviolet: complete convergence of the ordinary and the extraordinary, microcosm and macrocosm, conscious and subconscious, original and facsimile. There reside the Lightholders who have already mastered and vanquished Suffering and Death within themselves. Yet only recently has a Lightholder appeared to completely disappear into the Original Light, the Black Light, the very Atom of Life from which we all spring. He is known as the Original Friend. He has the power to destroy all of this, to uproot Organized Evil and create something completely new. Universal Awe is the primordial ocean of life. Our grand master, the Original Friend, has ceased to be a mindstream but has become one with the mind ocean of which we all are waves. The mind ocean has no shores, no harbors; therefore The Friend manifests through numberless eons in numberless universes. He is bound not to ancient nor present time, therefore The Friend is always present. From this Primordial Ocean springs the phenomenon of sages and sacred traditions. Universal Awe is the very marrow, the DNA of everything. A peaceful ocean surging just beneath the chaotic surface of human experience. Universal Awe is not a religion but that from which religions are made. All the great empires and governments, all the great events of consequence are waves which rise and fall atop this ocean. To be restricted to a race, a religion, a country or nation after a rendezvous with Universal Awe is like sitting down to a meal of salt rather than using salt to season ones meal. The Original Friend is a master chef deftly using all these disparate ingredients in preparation for a sumptuous feast. And guess what? He wants us, the niggers. He wants to serve us first at his table. My head was spinning. I needed a break.

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The Original Friend

of Our Souls
I excused myself. I went outside and lit a cigarette. Look at me! I didnt even offer Vesper one. But it just didnt seem right. I enjoyed the cool night breeze and the starry canopy above my head. Universal Awe I never have heard anything like this. Once I heard him out I could reflect on it and put it in its proper perspective. I finished my cigarette and walked back up to his apartment for more of this conversation which had left me speechless. And I thought Id have a mack for him. When I reentered his apartment he was still sitting on his bed with the same serious yet serene aura. Again he smiled as I sat back down, his voice never rising above a hypnotic monotone. Alright, Im ready to hear more. Please continue. Certainly. Before we had a physical body we had an illuminative body, an astral body. A light body akin to electricity the uncreated force and motion of animation. Your real self is bioelectrical magnetism. The body you dwell in is the product of the earth and the essence does not have to be limited to the shell. The real you is deathless and beginningless. There is only one vibration of energy, which is forever. It is Forever Energy. Quantum mechanics have come up with something they call the string theory wherein theyve isolated subatomic particle after subatomic particle only to find something eternal. This eternal something is beyond their grasp. You know why? What am I going to say? Its because science is limited. Ones external discovery is limited to the depth of ones internal discovery. The scientists will not take part in the removal of Suffering and Death (which finances them). Therefore they will remain puzzled. We have the technology to unravel the puzzle, to decipher the mystery. Know thyself and you will know it all! Vesper, at four years old I died on an operating table. Something was put into me right then. I never gave it a name, I just knew it was real. As a boy I was famous for dream interpretation. But I was simply repeating what my intuition spoke to me. I did nothing. I didnt question or doubt it one minute. I simply spoke what that inner voice said. It has never

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failed me. It has always been right. I challenged my mothers Christianity because my intuition told me something was off. When I was ten or eleven I was so depressed because no one else saw life as I saw it. But I heard a voice, as clear as Im now hearing your voice. A male voice. He told me, commanded me, to get up and go into the world, to cry no more, that He was with me. I never asked who He was. Still, I got up and never looked back. Remember that giant oak tree outside Fernwood Academy? Every spring a bird would build its nest atop that tree, three or four stories up. The greatest cat in the community was the one could climb that tree and get that nest. Year after year we all tried to climb that tree and recover the nest but nobody could do it. With all the supermen among us, no one could get that nest out of that oak tree. Remember how I sat you down one day, looked into your eyes and commanded you to go up that tree and get that nest. Methodically, for a good twenty minutes I programmed you to get that nest. What did you do? I got the nest. You got that nest! I put you in a trance and like a robot you just did it. Thats the science of the mind. Thats where the real power lies. I knew it! But no one has ever been able to break it down to me like youre doing right now. I remember all that history Orion. Thats why I knew youd eventually come here. I knew it. We both still are in the kindergarten of lifes wisdom. Im grateful Ive been given something to help you in your quest. Your intuition is right. The subconscious mind is amenable. This is the basis for hypnotic study which, when mastered, is the 45th degree in the circle of Universal Awe. Hitler sought after adepts who were masters in this 45th degree. His psychic council sat in front of huge murals of Europe. They visualized the swastika over the individual cities, the various countries he desired to conquer. These mystics seeded the atmosphere with the impression of victory and eventually it was. This is the left-handed application of this science of the mind. It is an example of Suffering and Death, which breeds sorrow and destruction. The subjugation of the aboriginal peoples, the shame put upon us for being blue-black originals, the free rape of the women and the effeminization of the men - this was done by the European powers representing the ego. Euro means ego meaning exo or external man. From the Greeks and the Romans through Columbus and Marco Polo up until the present day, the Europeans went forth to conquer. He is the ex-plorer of the wonders of creation. Yet he cannot explore without great destruction to both humanity and the ecological integrity of the earth. This is the work of an out of control ego with an inherent inclination towards Suffering and Death. They conquered with an attitude of arrogance and domination. Humiliating, enslaving, murdering, and stealing the whole way without

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beneficence, compassion, or mercy, all of which are the prime charateristics of Universal Awe, the charcteristics of the true human being. Therefore, the blue-black-originals have represented the subconscious mind, the interior man, the subjective man. It is a fact that the subconscious manifests whatever the conscious puts into it. This has all been an alchemical process of transmuting the maniacal ego; the evolution of those damnable qualities residing in all peoples - must be transformed into crystal-diamond purity, into perfection if man is to continue on this planet. This imbalance can no longer exist. This is the true meaning of Christ. When one is no longer bound (rope) to his stomach, chained to his lusts and desires, but has transmuted every imperfection to perfection then and only then is one truly human. But religion, as you know, has failed. All of them have a piece of the puzzle. Veda is time. Sutra is space. Torah is light. Gospel is love. Koran is cosmos. This is the time when the transpersonal psychology will replace religion. The science of the mind, the study of self alone is our salvation. The proper housing of the personality the ego to the outer soul, the ascension of humanity, this evolutionary process towards perfection is our work. To raise a dead man, to awaken the sleeping aboriginal giant, representing the subconscious mind, this and only this will correct the great imbalance within and without. Yes! I stood up and applauded. If I was a holy roller I would have done a jig. Laughing Vesper continued Picture a shaman out in the jungle somewhere. These mystics easily traversed galaxies. They might be in trance, in samahdi, fana or supreme consciousness for weeks. No pulse, no signs of life registering on the person at all. His attendants checking him regularly to make sure hes still alive. When the great shaman returned to this plane of things the whole tribe celebrated and waited for a word from the master. The master had no words. To conceptualize Universal Awe was impossible. He could only say that it was beautiful, a mystery beyond words which cannot be described. Now this is true of the African, the natives of northern and southern America, the Dravidans of India, the Nanuks of China, the Aboriginals of Australia; all have this oral history amongst their peoples. But the European, representing the conscious mind, is not satisfied with that answer. The Western man went on a quest of external discovery. We now have a myriad of innovation and information based on the discovery of all the eye can see and all the ear can hear, articulated and calculated clearly. Instead of telepathy we have a telephone. Instead of remote viewing, we view with a telescope, microscope or a television. Instead of bilocation, one can travel on an airplane, a car, or a train. Instead of the Akashic records we have libraries. (Now the internet!)

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So the physic power in the human, particularly over the last two millennia, has significantly atrophied. After a couple of generations of exposure to the European man these indigenous cultures willingly abandoned their own morays for the sensuous and progressive lifestyle of these new people, so strange and pale. Now the two disparate natures have beautifully, finally merged. The Original Friend is the inevitable conclusion, the complete human being: one in sublime equipoise in both internal and external worlds, of both subjective and objective reality, infrared and ultraviolet- the entire spectrum of light encapsulated in flesh. Like you and I, his genealogy is a mixture of peoples the resolution of race. He can traverse the universe like the primordial shaman, then calculate, explain, and document his journeys like a quantum physicist. This has resulted in a technology far superior than this present Western/external world. Have you ever heard of the phenomena known as UFOs? A little. Is this related to Universal Awe? Absolutely. Passing mystic states of bliss, happy feelings, all the prayers, meditations and transpersonal psychology cannot vanish Suffering and Death. All these things are necessary for breaking the chain, yet superior external technology is needed to break its back. These flying objects are no longer unidentified. This government has knowledge of who and what they are. The Original Friend and His Archangels (Lightholders) constructed a biosphere in the early part of this twentieth century. The elders and eyewitnesses say it is liken unto a crystal city, approximately the size of Illumination. It is both a destructive and a creative force. All the military muscle, all the atomic bombs, all the weapons of mass destruction combined have no defense against it. I cannot discuss specifics for Im just becoming acquainted with it myself. But it is a sign of another power far above the so-called power of suffering and death. There has been much documentation on this. Its classified as above top secret but maybe theyll trust you enough to let you look into the blue books maybe theyll open it up to you. The overlords would have you believe the Wright Brothers were the first ones to leave the ground in a man-made craft. In South America, among the ancient Mayans, youll find hieroglyphs of people in spaceships donning space suits. This is just one of many clues left for us to ponder. That crystal city is a living organism in which are hundreds of smaller crafts: the so-called UFOs. These ships move at the twinkling of an eye. They operate on magnetic grids, propelled by a force akin to the highest refined energy of the mind. They are fueled by oxygen.

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They make no noise, can move in any direction, even two directions, topping speeds of several thousand miles per hour. They move by the will of the pilots minds. Stop! Youre telling me that U.F.Os are not only real but that they were built by these illustrious Lightholders who operate them by some form of telekinesis? Yes I am. Youve seen people who can bend a spoon with the power of their mind. Thats just the beginning, the baby level. Maybe Ive said too much. You cannot give babies meat. Im just a baby myself. I know nothing. Im a neophyte. Maybe Im not articulating myself clearly. We all are atoms and what Ive said wouldnt fill an atom in the sun of this knowledge. And Orion, there is a peaceful use for atoms that will be introduced to us Vesper seemed to disappear in the gravity of his own thoughts, possibly befuddled by his own exegesis. Then like drunken thunder his deep baritone burst into song, the holy friends are past description their ways are manifold every breath a prayer, every life a door... everywhere I look I see the Holy Friend, universal life as universal light Everywhere I look the friend alone exists soul of my soul life of my life Silence. You will go now. Whether the Holy Friend will come to you and give you this wisdom is not my decision but it is my prayer. Ill leave you with a word, it is the ancient name for this wisdom, for Universal Awe. Maybe in your travels youll meet masters and if theyre authentic they will know the power behind it. The ancient name...Tasawuuf. Thank you for stopping by. Much success to you. What could I say? Vesper and I embraced. I went out into the Boston night more than a little perplexed.

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To the East My Brother

NSA headquarters, Ft. Meade, Maryland. Now Im in the blush, the ultra-secret matrix, the belly of the beast. I was given yet another top secret clearance before descending down a series of elevators to my work area. Armed marines were posted every few yards. This was, and yet is, one of the most fortified buildings on the planet. Im assigned to a tiny cubicle in a pitch black war room illumined only by the electronic lights of maps charting the various planetary hotspots. My first assignment was monitoring all activity coming out of Communist Cuba. The Ronic antenna was the receiver used to pick up the multiplex of signals emanating from Cuba. Its beyond outdated now, but this was the central device used to tune into every phone call, every Morse Code, every teletype and walkie-talkie transmission. Anything that moved through a wire we picked up. After a couple of weeks I was upgraded to a more intriguing assignment. The cold war was thick as black ice and the Russians had a new signal called a burst transmission, which was a combination of various signals crunched into a single burst, a solitary blip hidden within more traditional transmissions. For instance, if I typed My name is Orion Roberts in teletype, the letter S might contain an encyclopedias worth of information. That is a crude example of the burst transmission. So I was trained on this huge wide-band receiver. If you think of a radio thats powerful enough to hear not just one station at a time but every station on the dial at once, thats similar to what this equipment did. We listened and listened to all forms of communication until we heard that blip. When the burst shot through. We froze it, recorded it, then began the arduous process of deciphering the code. Another room was nothing but graphs of encoded messages which would then receive further analysis. I started learning the Russian language, reading Russian literature, immersing myself in understanding the Russian mind. The Russians knew when we tagged them, so it became a real dogfight, a battle of wills. I applied myself completely to my work. I took it personal. The intellectual wolverine in me would not be defeated. Within six months wed broken that burst transmission! The Russians had to give it up. Our success meant my team would relocate to the island of Okinawa, the biggest field station monitoring the burst transmission. There we would continue our diligent and successful work.

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Okinawa was known among the GIs as the Big Benjo, roughly translated into the big shit house. Fortunately, Id have a two-day layover in Tokyo. Shit house or no I was on my way. Michael Thomas caught a train to see me off. Generously, I shared my last bag of enlightenment with my best friend. Together we got higher than the moon, pulled some glamorous ladies and did the damn thing as only two cats from Illumination could do. Like clockwork MT had found some new urine and would begin his basic training in a couple of months. With stars in my eyes and a heart full of ambition I jumped on a plane to Anchorage, Alaska for a few hours before beginning the long odyssey to the sprawling complex village of Tokyo.

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Okane Club
Far from the wistful ambiance of a buddhist garden with its intricate horticultural serenity or the snow-kissed mountains of pagodas dressed in cherry blossoms, I was assaulted by a caffeinated metropolis bent on outWesting the West. I was shuttled to the Airwait Hotel at Tokyo International where I stored my gear, showered, ironed my finest suit, put a fresh polish of shine on my shoes, wet my body with a gorgeous fragrance, and hailed a cab. I must have looked like a million yen! I jumped in the backseat, Jazz partyget high marijuana... take me! Marifauna? Yes, take me! The driver turned around inspectingly then sped off. Little did I know but marijuana was ultra-taboo in Japan. During the Buccaneer days the British Empire imported boat loads of both opium and marijuana to Hong Kong as a gift of welcome, providing the perfect conditions for conquering the lands just as the party was getting started. Still, every demand automatically produces a supplier. We drove at breakneck speed through the garishly glowing neon of downtown Tokyo. The city seemed to be wearing a petitely gaudy halloween costume of New York City with three times the populous. People atop of people blending into yet more people. The driver took a few back alleys where the stench of meat markets ruined my previously acute appetite. We stopped outside a black brick building, the driver ran up to some distinguished yet dangerous looking gentlemen in tuxedos. They gave me that same glance of inspection while speaking to each other in deep abrupt rumbles of dialogue. One of the penguins knocked on the door, another tux motioned me in. In broken English my host welcomed me to the Okane Club. Okane means money and that was an apt description. The club was an ultra-exclusive joint run by the Japanese mafia, the Yakuza My feet sunk gently into a deep paisley carpet, which seemed to be massaging my feet. Suddenly I found myself in the height of Western opulence with an all-Asian cast. Like an outlandish and very expensive halloween replica of the finest five-star restaurants in Manhattan, the place was elaborate beyond elaborate.

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It was a labyrinth of every decadent delight only the fabulously wealthy could conceive, let alone birth. The first layer was a majestically appointed French-style restaurant with dim lighting, white linens, and an arsenal of a wine list. Leather bound menus, big and luxurious as a coffee table book, rested under the arms of a small army of impeccable servers in immaculate black and white who behaved as if catering to your every whim was the sole purpose for their existence. As I was ushered in, I noticed a whirl of whispers greeting me with an excited curiosity, Tony Tawny? Tony Tawny! Tony Tawny was a famous actor of Japanese and African-American extraction whom I evidently resembled. So these sublimely coutured Asian ladies began nudging each other, eyeing me with unabashed sensuality. I was totally in my element. This section gave way to an ascending spiral staircase where a dance floor as hip as anything in Harlem awaited you with a fully-loaded bar for jet fuel. On the bandstand, a jazz combo was blazing. To the rear, in the depths of smoke, was another enchanting layer. Here, I witnessed the classical mythology of Japan. The tea ceremony of Sado was enacted on a polished tatami floor of amber. Ornately intricate kimonos adorned the geishas, who resembled tranquil female ghosts to me. They served the men tea as well as hot sake. Only now did I really feel like I was in the Orient. The rhythms of jazz were but a forgotten hum behind the softly cascading fountains of water which disoriented me into feeling like I was visiting a Shaolin temple. My host gingerly stopped against the back wall, knocked, and gave me an approving grin. The door opened to a pharmaceutical everafter. The room was occupied by small groups seated on futons each supplied with a water pipe and a bowl of hash, opiates, marijuana, and anything else under the sun. I thanked my host as he seated me to my own personal cubicle. I refused the opium and hash but joyously indulged in the marifauna. After satisfying my jones, I walked back down to the bar area with an appetite to rival Godzilla. The entire time businessmen and charming little starlets were receiving me like I was Tom Cruise or Tony Tawny or Orion Roberts. One of the geishas handed me a huge leather bound menu, thankfully written in English. Another gave me a gentle hot towel service. Everyone had their own personal iron chef who stir-fried opulent delicacies to your specifications. I ate like a king then returned to my little cubicle where a neverending supply of enlightenment was waiting. I could of danced atop Mt. Fuji I was so high. I was then introduced to my escort for the evening. I dont believe in no religion but maybe Ive ended up in some sort of sensual hereafter. A

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delicately exotic creature stood before me. She resembled the achingly beautiful Chinese actress Ziyi Zhang in her boundless yet youth sensuality. Evidently shed been specially selected for me and I did not hide my satisfaction. The tuxedo cats looked at each other happily and grunted to each other in a flurry of Japanese. These tuxedo cats were some ultra-macho dudes. They reminded me of some Italian cats Id met in New York. I was their royal guest. My manner, good breeding, or maybe just good luck, had impressed them. They were going to show me the time of my life. I communicated the best I could. If they spoke English (probably so) they spoke very little to me. Ziyi took my hand, escorting me to the jazz level of the establishment. Here was a very refined creature who moved in graceful fluidity, like smoke. She must have been groomed from girlhood as a courtesan. Her response to the most subtle of my whims was that impressive. Her anticipation was impeccable - shed pour my drinks as soon as I thought about. We spoke not one word to each other, wasnt necessary. We related on a completely sensual frequency. Like one of my fabulous babes in the city she had her own with me on the dance floor. Eventually, she made it quite evident she wanted me all to herself. She escorted me to yet another level, where a king-size bed, plush and crimson, awaited. There we completely exhausted one another. When I awoke I found a new suit hung against the wall. On cue, she came in, looking just as staggeringly beautiful as she did the night before. She dressed me (the suit fit me perfectly) and we walked outside to catch a cab. I hadnt spent a dime on anything, this was cart blanche treatment. She took me to one of the famous Japanese bathhouses. Never have I seen such uninhibited folks. This was a unisex place, both men and women together stark naked. Women bathing women, women bathing men, men bathing each other. Even though I witnessed no copulation, no one was hiding their pleasure and no one was shy. Each human body was an extraordinary phenomena to be treasured with admiration and touch. In fact, it was common for folks to pause their eyes on each others privates without embarrassment between them. So when Ms. Zhang and I disrobed and walked through I heard all the curious whispers of Tony Tawny? in addition to the delighted exclamations of Okee Chimpo! Chimpo means penis, okee means big. Women and even some men pointed at it in fascination. My escort lowered me into a lusciously warm and sunken tub. She bathed me, massaged me, kissed me, bit me, massaged me, and washed me all over. It was rapturous. Id completely lost myself in the expertise of her tender affection.

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That night the Okane Club again opened its diamond encrusted arms and hosted me to another Dyanisian escapade of pleasures. At last I had a plane to catch. I bid my escort ado, exchanged my appreciation to the gangsters, starlets, tuxedos, and the filthy rich of Tokyo. The same driver that brought me here shuttled me back to my hotel, from there I was off to Okinawa.

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The Big Benjo

Landing in Okinawa was an enormous disappointment, after the opulent and carefree milieu of the Okane Club. I thought all of my time in the far east would rival my first two nights of five star treatment. That was a complete anomaly. GIs called Okinawa the big benjo, literally meaning the big shit hole. And thats what it was. The Japanese acquired this island, yet treated it like a stepchild. Thus, Okinawans held great disdain for Japan and would vehemently tell you they were in no fashion or form, Japanese. The GIs were confined to a part of town built especially for us. Like America, it was strictly segregated. An area called Kosa Four Corners housed all the bars, restaurants, brothels, and mayhem. The Black GIs controlled this area and it was treacherous. Fragging was the norm. Fragging is when the non-commission officers and private soldiers exacted revenge on their ruthless superiors. One of the Black MPs was a relentless bulldog, especially to the Black officers in his squad. A grenade conveniently rolled his way while seated at the bar after a particularly cruel day displaying his power over the troops. He was killed instantly. Another grenade blew up a post commander and his mistress fine dining at the NCO Club. It was the old rule of not insulting the person fixing your dinner. You will eat what you sow. Amidst this garishly sleazy, OK corral atmosphere, the NCO had some glorious dining. Yet it was a completely artificial environment created for the military. All the natives were workers and every woman was for sale. To pay someone for sex was unthinkable, a deed that was far, far beneath me. But my fellow GIs lined up for seconds and thirds, tenths and twentieths. Old toothless hags in suckahatchie alley mustve worn knee pads from all the business. Could you see me participating in such a thing? One real hip cat, Romulus, had been stationed here for some time. We both got our players cards in New York City. He graciously hipped me to his game. O, you just have to romance the mamasons (the madam-pimps). Theyre clean, sophisticated, rich women that only a thorough black man from America can handle. First, you have to learn a song He wrote out this love song for me to learn in Japanese. It was a blue lagoon, boy meets girl type drama set on an island in the south pacific.

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Sing this to any woman of distinction and shell break down, literally melt in your arms. I quickly perfected it and sure enough the women got misty eyed and fell into my arms before I could finish. He showed me a coastal neighborhood in the mountains where some of the mamasons lived. I was instructed to knock on the door with some gifts, A carton of cigarettes and a bottle of Jack Daniels will do. Dont rush anything, just make yourself known as a friend of mine. I visited this mansion in the mountains three times before I was introduced to the mamason. I was pleased to meet a very sophisticated woman with a compact but hyper-voluptous frame, her skin a shade or two darker than my own. She was an older yet youthful woman clearly in love with her own femininity. I sang her the song and she was mine. Her place was like a hip uptown loft. She had all the latest stereophonic equipment, huge velvet couches, deep plush carpets, and a startling collection of Asian artifacts. She immediately cut me into her lifestyle giving me access to all the upper echelons of life amidst the shacks and stench of the big benjo.

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Positive Ego Elevation

In this line of work ones clearance was ones status. It overruled race, class, family and financial background. Confidential was the bottom, the blue zone, classified. Secret was the next level of clearance followed by top secret, top secret-military, and top secret-military-cryptographic. My clearance was top secret-militarycryptographic-Nato. The same clearance as the President of the United States. My unbounded selfhood elevated me so far above the other GIs that the head of my unit took me under his wing. Evan was a genius White boy from the Bay Area of Northern California. He took me to Naha, the capital of Okinawa, where the brigadier generals, diplomats, and ambassadors mixed with the well-connected of Asia. The nightlife here was the closest thing Okinawa had to the Okane Club in Tokyo. Here Evan introduced me to the cocktail level of espionage. Only those with your clearance even know about this place, he said. Dont let the apparent sophistication fool you. This place is far more dangerous then Kosa Four Corners. Here the stakes are higher. Now you must recognize yourself as an individual with tremendous power. You have information more valuable than gold and more dangerous than an atomic bomb. You will be approached for this information. Whatever your weakness or vice, it will be exploited to entice you into divulging any secrets, in the middle of your indulgence. Youll get the carte blanche treatment. Your drinks and meals will be complimentary. Staggering amounts of cash will be put in your hands as an appetizer. Sweet college girls, the daughters of Okinawan, Japanese and Chinese privilege will be introduced to you. Feel free to indulge yourself. But remember every favor and the faces who gave you those favors. Squeeze them more than they squeeze you. This is a long-term courtship, so months may go by before youre pressured to snitch. A driver escorted Evan and I to the Kokusai-dori district of the Okinawan capital city of Naha. Everything Evan said would happen happened. Now Im Orion Roberts. Ive got a hawk on one shoulder and a dove on the other. Im not a dog. I have ethics, character and integrity. My sole loyalty is to myself. I indulged in all the perks but I kept the college girls at an arms length. These sweet little girls wanted to fall in love, especially with a hip Black American cat like me. I couldnt break their little hearts so I did a playful platonic two-step with them and satisfied myself with my mamason. Here I am, a little colored boy from Illumination, Virginia with a top secret- military-cryptographic-Nato clearance in Okinawa. Im studying

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Okinawa Tee (indigenous karate), debating ontology and the nature of existence with some of the greatest minds in the world, my top woman is mamason over a bustling brothel, and Im romancing the daughters of Asias elite who will give me any of my wildest dreams in a desperate attempt to get me to reveal some secrets. America was fast becoming a faint and foggy memory. I developed what I call positive ego elevation. I felt so powerful, a giant standing far above the masses. I was stretched. My nights and my days were one continuum. I wasnt going to any combat zones but death was everywhere. Fear was a luxury I didnt have. Catch me if you can was my motto. It was gorgeous! I was becoming the sum of my wildest dreams. Around that time Michael Thomas dropped me a line. He too had a top secret-military clearance. He successfully completed all of his prerequisite basic training, intelligence school at Fort Hollabird in Maryland and was headed for Frankfurt, Germany. He was on the cocktail circuit, recruiting, training, and supervising spies. So Im on the Eastern side of the Communists, he was covering the Western edge as an Agent Handler. Cool. In America Black manhood was being redefined by the radical consciousness of Malcolm X, Stokely Carmichael and H. Rapp Brown. Their militancy was my natural mode of thought. My heroes were the jazz greats, John Coltrane, Quincy Jones, Art Blakely, but above all Miles Davis was the Prince of Darkness (obsidian cool). My comrades saw me the representative of this new black manhood. But I emulated none of my heroes. Any similarity between myself and anyone else was purely coincidental. I was my own character, high in myself, on my own efficaciousness, my own greatness. It was a high that was completely natural minus any pharmaceuticals. My craving for enlightenment hadnt thawed, it was the terra firma that was frozen. For me, drugs were windows into inner space. Drugs expanded my consciousness into what I called a kingly state of existence. From that fourth dimension I became an observer whod watch everything unfold. I could be invisible and dominant at the same time. Maybe I was the black Timothy Leary of Asia. Alas, I ran into a Mexican comrade named Jorge. He was an elaborately tattooed ex-con from East L.A.. Im sure hed killed a man or two in his day. He had such a reputation the brothers permitted him unrestricted access in Kosa Four Corners. Jorge and I were rapping outside one of the jazz bars discussing various elixirs when he mentioned something new to me, something called Hyminaal. Also known as the happy pill, Hyminaal was pure raw opium refined by the Japanese and could be found at any drug store. It was an inexpensive

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high so he could spare a few. He reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a packet of six and put it into my hand. I popped one. Nothing happened. I popped another. Still nothing. Disappointed, I sat down at the bar to catch some jazz. Twenty minutes later I exited the club and walked out into a hyper-real translation of Kosa Four Corners. The cars moved faster and colors percolated brighter seemingly loosed from their hosts. The sky had new depth and volume. My ears were seeing and my eyes were hearing. Was I happy? No. High? Uncomfortably so. I went back into the bar to calm down. I found myself at the table of a demure young woman. She recognized me from who knows where but she was not a prostitute and spoke a little English. I needed something to focus on, an anchor to put me back on Earth. She stabilized me somewhat and eventually a relaxing modicum of happiness descended on me. She recognized the change. Generously I shared my happiness with my new friend. She took me to an apartment and we tripped on these happy pills all night. Armed with a new psychic aid, Japan once again became the polestar of my wanderlust. Okinawas well was quickly running dry. Of course Okinawas well was literally full of shit. It was a damp, humid, mosquito magnet about the size of my big toe. I did have a few colleagues in this new Black manhood. Austin was a metaphysician cat who secretly despised the Western world but played the slow role with the White folks. He planned to retire to Canada after his tour was over. A psychic told him the military life would be an easy one for him which made me wonder, do all brothers consult psychics before entering the armed forces? His medium was as sharp as mine for military life couldnt get much easier than this. He was the private chauffeur for one of the generals who had a jones for an Asian cough syrup. The two of them drove all over the island completely blasted. Im not sure what the active ingredient was in the stuff but it acted like a tranquilizer on my system. I drank a little once and woke up face down in Kosa Four Corners. Even though Austin had this privileged position he still held the lowly rank of private. One day the Inspector General for Asia came through and broke Austins cover of docility. What the hell is this private! Austin had pictures of Marcus Garvey, Elijah Muhammad and Malcolm X in his locker. Austin had a deep Barry White baritone voice that could rattle windows when he got excited. He didnt punk out. If these White boys I bunk with can hang filthy pictures of nude women in they lockers, surely I can have pictures of my heroes.

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The inspector went about his business a shade or two redder. Mentally, I gave Austin a salute. Officer William Newson was one of the first Black men permitted in the Army Security Agency. He was the Michael Jordan of code breakers, a legend yet alive. I hadnt had much contact with him until one day he came into headquarters, threw his badge on the table and demanded to be relieved of duty as a conscientious objector. This sent shock waves throughout the NSA. Needless to say he too won my respect. I wondered how my military career might end. My whole unit was getting desperate. My Hyinasport boys uncovered a Shangrila up in the Northern mountains they proported to be the Vale and the Aspen of Japan. The sister city of Seattle, Washington, a place where the old culture was preserved, a lovely city in the northern prefecture of Hokkaido named Sapporo. They showed me pictures of winter wonderlands, ancient temples, hot springs, and indigenous people in exotic garb. The hairs on my back stood up. I confidently proclaimed this is where we were going. This will be our next assignment. Just be patient. These were my loyal subjects and my word, by now, was law. I told them to picture themselves in this paradisal place. Two weeks later new orders were being assigned and guess where we were going?

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Smile Sapporo
The relics and antiques of Honshu ( Japans main island) were warmblooded realities in Hokkaido. Beautifully stubborn, this dreamy prefecture accepted Western modernity with suspicious discrimination. Alaska is, culturally and mythically, to America as Hokkaido is to Japan. Descending onto this island on a Japan Airlines 747 was like landing a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away. Hokkaido had one major season and one minor season. It snowed, on average, nine months out of the year with a three month vacation in spring. We arrived in a little town called Shiktosu which housed one of the most critical military bases in the world due to its close proximity to Russia. Shiktosu sat elevated on a mountain, perfect for peeping into Russias business. Okinawa was like boys camp compared to the front-line position of Shiktosu. Now we were handling the most sensitive tactical information which put our lives in precarious jeopardy. Abductions of careless field agents resulted in harsh interrogations including all manner of torture up to death. Abduct me! Ill tell it all, just take good care of me. I pledge allegiance to me! Shikotsu was noted as a rest and recuperation zone for Japanese soldiers in World War II. Some six hundred bars were in operation in this little military town which slept under the sun and bloomed under the moon. My team was given immediate leave upon arrival. How could I be content letting some bar girl suck my wallet dry? I set off alone, wet for adventure. Japan has one of the best engineered train networks in the world. I did a little research and boarded one of these plush vehicles to Sapporo. I had a pocket full of elixirs (happy pills) and a trusty English-Japanese dictionary. I melted into a merlot pillow of a seat and did my best to blend in. I was on the Orient Express. My height, average in America, seemed gigantic here in Japan. Being inconspicuous wasnt much of an option. Again I heard excited whispers amongst the locals. This time it was kirei kokujin! The word Negro didnt exist so I was kokujin, Black man. But beyond that I was kirei, beautiful. They looked at me and saw a beautiful Black man. Yes! Thank you. Id fascinated the whole train! I was deep into my kingly ego, feeling ecstatically royal, taking a royal elixir of kings, pure refined opium. Drugs didnt seem to have a negative connotation here. Everyone, it seemed, was high on something. I was drinking in their admiration, which fed my kingly ego to the

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point of obesity. I popped another half a hyminaal and burst into the Japanese love jam Id perfected in Okinawa. Luther Vandross couldnt of crooned it better. Someone jumped up, Tony Tawny! Word echoed swiftly throughout the cabin. Tony Tawnys on the train! I had a fan club. I got out my dictionary and did my best to explain I wasnt Tony Tawny. But it didnt matter, Id won them over. We all communed into a deep groove on that train. It was the soooooul train now baby! The train made several stops. Well-wishers honored me with a deep bow before exiting. In their place entered a fresh group of admirers starting another love-fest. The closer we got to Sapporo, in these remote little villages, the more I recognized distinct changes in the physical appearance of the Northern Japanese. These people had a darker hue and distinctive facial features I found similar to the Eskimo of North America. Every few stops had a little oasis of refreshments. Bags of fruit, steamed ramen noodles and hot teas were available. After a few minutes wed all hurry back to the train where the seat you left would be warmly awaiting you. Now I noticed the remarkable courtesy and genuine friendliness Id read about. I popped another elixir enjoying myself more each second. Then I noticed something startling. For two hours Id been on this plush train with probably hundreds of passengers and no one was ripe. These people had no body odor! A meaningless but interesting observation. At last the train entered the cavernous train station of Sapporo. I bid my friends ado and hailed a cab to a famous coffee shop called the Smile. Sapporo was a sparkling city with a cosmopolitan glow, reminiscent of San Francisco. Resolutely modern high rises reached for snowcapped mountains. Carefully manicured gardens hibernated under fresh layers of snow. Beautifully adorned people hurried out of the cold bundled up in the latest Western fashions. We drove into a shopping district where straight ahead an unbelievably large neon sign shaped like a smile welcomed me. I could hear the faint soprano of John Coltrane gloriously purring from the building. A shhh sign was posted in the corridor where life size cutouts of all my heroes posed all around me. Miles Davis in a pinstriped suit, trumpet resting on his hip like a pistol. A disheveled Coltrane painfully bleeding notes out his horn. Birds burly frame gleefully chasing scales with utter abandon. The ceiling, the walls, even the floor were insulated with speakers so I was literally surrounded by sound. Joyful shivers literally shot through me. The cafe was partitioned by a gigantic aquarium dividing the room in half creating an aquatic optical illusion, shadows of exotic fish swam past you on the walls. Transfixed, I found a table and ordered a hot tea served with warm buttered toast, salt and pepper. Next to me a couple coupled, swaying softly to music. Other people seemed lost in a trance while others stared into the aquarium convinced a fish

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was attempting conversation. The clientele seemed to be college kids. Everyone was high. An elixir complemented my tea. A menu was tacitly placed on the table but instead of entrees patrons selected their favorite jazz cuts coded by numbers. These people took their jazz seriously. They had new shit even I hadnt discovered yet. I sat back marinating in the propulsive rhythmic stew of Elvin Jones. Here I sat over ten thousand miles from the epicentric birthplace of jazz and wondered just what were my young Japanese friends listening to. I knew what this music and its craftsmen represented to me but what were they hearing? What mystic melancholy could they feel in Miles piercing cry? What drunken heartache could they feel in Billies blues? What sassy sensuality aroused their mojo in Betty Carters pleas? What transcendent flight could they ride in Ellas scats? What exhilarating wonder bewildered them in Birds bop? What grinning insanity was recognized in Monks meanderings? What menacing manhood was understood behind Armstrongs mile-wide gravelly-voiced smile? And what spiritual inheritance could they reclaim right here, right now, on the ascension of Tranes Afro-Blue? One wonders how jazz even survived its first trimester in such hostile environs. Surely it was an immaculate conception spontaneously followed by a miraculous birth in a manger. This bastard child, a mulatto hybrid born of the most immoral fornications, was dismissed as voodoo music by White society and subsequently maligned by their lackeys in the Negro bourgeoisie; forbidden to be played except in those bucket of blood juke joints populated by the proudly ill repute. I knew the lily-white boys and girls who populated the Black clubs in Harlem almost unanimously did so for the forbidden thrill of mixing with niggers. These little ones had not the ears to hear this messianic music of the despised and rejected. What need do White folks have for a messiah anyway? What need have they for a saviour? What do they know about miracles or the inexplicable daily triumph of survival? What do white folks know about pain and chaos or blissful ecstatic epiphanies? What do they know about life? Seems all they know about life is what they learn from our fight for it. Being neither black nor white or even American, I suppose these young Japanese surrounding me were hearing the miracle itself in all its pure unadulterated genius, untethered to prejudice or pedigree. Towards the back of the cafe was an area reserved for socializing accented with cushioned futons three feet off the ground. Again my broken Japanese did nothing to quiet the excitement of having a movie star come to the Smile. A fascination developed between myself and a young lady. She spoke no English so I patiently searched my dictionary for interpretation. Ryokan. She wanted to treat me to an authentic Japanese bathhouse! What

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providence. I felt honored. Night had fallen and so had the temperature. A blizzard had erupted outside so I wrapped myself up in my parka, its warmth shared by the anticipation of therapeutic hot springs, soon to be bubbling all over me. Magically, a cab was already awaiting us. A deep tranquility enveloped me as my escort instructed the cab driver on our destination. Interestingly, there didnt seem to be any sexual charge between this young lady and myself. She was sharp, wearing a furry cashmere coat, a thick black sweater and trousers. She had shorter hair than any other women Id seen thus far and a slight sadness about her. Oh well... We sped off into a picturesque winter postcard. I closed my eyes... Upon opening my eyes it looked as if wed driven far outside Sapporo, into a rustic woodsy area. Snow had completely engulfed the surroundings and it was so peaceful, so quiet. I jumped out the cab realizing I had only a single piece a currency, a note for $10,000 yen. I gave it to my escort. She agreed to pay the cab and the mamason would bring the change back to me. I now walked backwards into an ancient era of Japanese Antiquity. The proprietress (mamason) and a small staff of four greeted me. A young maiden bowed courteously before handing me a pair of geta or wooden clogs. Another beauty served matcha, powdered green tea (much stronger than the flavored water served in America) in a big bowl on a bamboo plate, accented with yuzu on the side. I was then escorted to the agari-kamachi, a small area to take off my shoes. Another maiden appeared to open the effulgent shoji, sliding paper doors, revealing my quarters. A darkly burnished wooden table flanked by two zabutons (sitting cushions) rested on tawny tatami mats partitioned by more luminous shoji decorated with hanging scrolls depicting a stormy scene of spring. Beyond this first layer lie my futon (sleeping quilt) and cushioned dark green chairs. My okami (maid) undressed me and wrapped me in a heavenly black yukata (robe) accented with ivory flying dragons. She summoned a kaiseiki (tea ceremony) followed by a kingly feast more than any one man (except maybe a sumo wrestler) could eat. My table was deluged with several small dishes of local specialties: sashimi, nabemono, tempura, grilled fish, grilled meats and vegetables, soups and steamed rice. Ignoring the chopsticks I nibbled a little from a few bowls with my mind set on jumping into one of the Japanese bathhouses (onsen). I called for my okami, onsen! She directed me to an area which seemed to be outside but was comfortably warm and somehow roofed by stars. I stood on a black ashino-stone deck where I took off my yakatu and descended into an perpetually flowing sunken tub fed from a volcanic fount. In Japan its unthinkable to sit in a dirty tub. Fresh hot springs continuously flowed in and out of the tub percolating all over my body. My attendant thoroughly washed every square inch of my body before quietly exiting with a bow.

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These bathing rituals are an aquatic meditation designed for physical and spiritual regeneration, a therapeutic baptism to cleanse all the stresses, worries, impediments, and potholes of the day. They call it the kamiyu or divine bath. As a so-called Negro from America, I wanted to lie here in these healing waters and let the collective suffering of an entire people wash off us all. I lowered my body into this most sensuous whirlpool. A new Hyminaal kept me kingly. I closed my eyes... Time disappeared, for how long? I dont know but something was off. Where had my escort gone? Where was my change for my $10,000 yen? Id been played. I was already so immersed in this Onsen Elixir I sunk deeper into the volcanic bliss and put myself in a deep vortex of absorption. Upon the screen of my mind I visualized the entire city of Sapporo, a place Id never seen before today. I had no acquaintances, I spoke not the language, I didnt know where I was, how I got there nor who brought me here. All the hairs on my body stood erect. My mind was made. Every penny of my money will be in my hand before dawn. I was so content, so relaxed, enjoying the fullness of the moment. I arose in complete ecstasy. The mamason personally attended to me, toweled me dry and dressed me down to my parka, hat and socks. She apologized profusely. Maybe my blissful state was frightening to her. Rightly so. The scope of the blizzard had grown into an absolute arctic assault. Good, the elements were just as angry as I. I pulled up my parkas collar and walked. I walked and walked and walked in the teeth shattering cold. Tears rolled down my eyes as my body valiantly fought the elements. The wind whirled and wailed furiously around me but an iron resolve would not permit me to freeze nor give up. No, this trick will give me my every penny back. Ahead two headlights like faint stars were cautiously approaching. I flagged the car over to me. Doko? (where?) Massugu ni! (straight ahead) Acclimating myself to the warmth of the vehicle took some effort. As my body painfully thawed my mind was deep in concentration. I directed the driver instinctually out of the country into town until we arrived at a little district probably just settling down to sleep. Stop! Another taxi sat parked outside a building with its parking lights on. I jumped in the back seat. When the driver looked back at me I saw a profound panic arrest his face. What providence is this? It was the exact same fothermucker that drove me to the bath house. Doko? (Where) The wolverine was loose. Junsa! (Police)

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In my briefings I learned that the police have a well-earned reputation for ruthlessness which petrified the citizenry. Doshite! (Why) I let a silence hang in the air for a moment then in perfect Japanese my voice descended into a menacing Samurai growl... Watashi no okane! (my money) He sped off. Okane! I taunted him. The driver zoomed through a series of back alleys and side streets with sweat misting his brow. He abruptly stopped in the middle of the road, lights on, door open. He ran into a building and knocked furiously on the door. When it opened I relaxed back into the most blissful zone imaginable. I closed my eyes... When I opened my eyes he was depositing ten thousand yen, in change, into my right hand. Hoteru. (Hotel) He sped off. We stopped in the Odori district where I checked into a Waldorf Astoria looking hotel called the Sapporo Grand. The driver went in and got me the Presidential Suite. I stepped into the most embarrassingly extravagant suite Ive ever seen. I stepped out onto a balcony overlooking the entirety of Sapporo just as I saw it earlier that evening in my volcanic meditation. An overwhelming satisfaction encompassed me surveying the sleeping metropolis. In a city of millions with no map or friend I got every penny of my money back. Im king of this mammy-jammy.

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Hokkaido Haiku
With Sapporo conquered I wondered if I was ever going to report for duty. Id fallen into such a blissful zone of strength all my desires lovingly fell into my lap. I discovered all the jazz haunts, restaurants, museums, and whatnot. My resemblance to a famous Japanese actor opened every door and my own kingly ego kept those doors open. The Japanese loved jazz and I dressed like Miles Davis circa 1959. One night Concierto de Aranjuez from Sketches of Spain was bleeding through the speakers when I caught the fascination of a young starlet. She was an exquisite specimen of Japanese femininity. Slightly taller than the norm and voluptuous to the max. She spoke no English but it seemed Miless mournful lament was enough for conversation. After several minutes of nonverbal seduction she walked over to me and fell into my arms. Passionately we kissed to the Andalusian flamenco meant to dramatize the dangerous romanticism of a bullfight. Soon kisses werent enough. She rushed me outside where an enormous Mercedes was parked. Furiously I unbuttoned her blouse and ripped off a dainty lace brassiere. Full, supple breasts like plump peaches melted into my mouth. Watashi to neru. A translation wasnt necessary. I lifted up her dress, slipped down her panties, and wet my hands through a tuft of fur into her misty entrance. She reached for my Faithful Servant, now fully unfurled. Her little hands were too small to grab its head. She looked at me in disbelief. Watashi to neru! The tip of my weapon pierced her gently but she moaned as if I had fully entered her. Id already learned to use no more than half my strength on these delicate women of Asia. Im no sadist. Patiently, I massaged the walls of her loving, her legs locked round my body, her body quivering with violence, signaling her climax. Generously, I tripled the strokes until she moaned out in passion. She melted in my arms, spent. In barely decipherable English she whispered, I love you, her tears falling on my chest. Im king of this mammy-tammy! Sapporo was living up to all my expectations. On a snowy but not too chilly day I sauntered down to beautiful Odori Park after eating some gorgeous food at

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one of many wee carts. Snow was lightly sprinkling on a group of people who had congregated in a little cul-de-sac of the park. The most enchanting traditional Japanese music emanated from speakers tastefully placed around the crowd. With precision the entire gathering of twenty or thirty persons were performing a very complex and graceful dance. Everyone dipped in and slided to the left, letting their bodies glide back then skipped to the right. It was like a poetic bus stop ballet. The hairs on my body stood erect. Some magnet was pulling me into the crowd. Soon I found myself dipping, sliding, gliding, and skipping in perfect unison with the group. I knew I was a black ant lost in an army of red ants, still I was an ant and welcomed as family. My body was moving on its own without any personal volition on my part. Was I a puppet on someones mystic string? I submerged myself into the blissful collective of dancers... No silence, no speech Sliding, gliding, dancing now One Soul dancing now Wooden drum beating Hokkaido, Japan! Breath Bell, Mind Wind Silent Ringing Music Beginnings Begin Tranquil Humans Dancing Laughing, Singing Snow Blending, Dissolving Traveling Still Traveling Friendship Everywhere Childhood memories Become still, fusing, melting Bloom! Japan in Love. The collective soul of Sapporo had baptized my soul until providence made us one. Something miraculous had happened. The dance ended and all around me conversations fluttered. I comprehended every word. Moreover, I could The Friend is Smiling

America, Virginia?

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articulate myself in perfect Japanese. I then learned the art of inflection. Japanese men could be divided into two classes, perceptible by their manner of speech. There were the worker ant men, then there was the Samurai - the leaders, the warriors. The former spoke in a soft, gentle, harmless manner. The latter spoke with a stabbing growl. I naturally chose the latter, meshing my inherited genetic strength with the adapted strength of the Samurai into an indomitable power. I then recognized that in Japan gardens were everywhere. On every courtyard, in every inn, temple, and restaurant. On balconies and terraces exquisite compositions of nature were compressed into the smallest of spaces. Insular ecosystems tended by epicurean hands whose persons were rarely seen. Grand imitations of the rocky shore of an ocean, a mountain precipice, or a swirling cosmos all recreated miraculously by human hands. I found myself in Odori Parks botanical garden looking down at concentric circles carved into a landscape of sand with stones lining successive meridians like planets on an orbits string. Now I understood what the Japanese heard in Black American jazz. Music pours out of the Black American soul in vibrations of sound as an expression of life. Horticulture, feng shui, and ikebana spontaneously flow forth as that same expression from Asian souls using creations most beautiful concretized vibrations found in nature, the photosynthesized light of chlorophyl and fossilized stones. This all occurred my first few days in Sapporo, injecting itself into my bloodstream.

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187on a Rebel Sergeant

I reported for duty with an uncompromising clarity. This was not Okinawa. There was no Kosa Four Corners, no Black or Latino GIs to relate to. I was in hot ops with only the best, brightest and whitest. My Hyinasport boys quickly changed up on me. All the commanders here were the grandchildren of the confederacy. Redneck crackers with no salt. Ku-Klux-Klan-south-will-rise-again Crawford, Texas cowpokes. All the Blacks were in second or third class assignments, i.e. cooks, cleaners, drivers, and support staff. I was a black ant amongst spiders. Spiders will be spiders but Ill be damned if Ill be their ant. Everywhere was a web... Russia was the target. Although I had no personal animosity towards Russia I got high on the drama between these two warring super powers, being an impartial observer loyal only to myself. Both sides snooped on each other. Twenty-four hours a day, these listening devices churned out new intel which we benchmarked every five minutes or so. Whenever we wished to isolate a phone call, teletype, or Morse Code, we had it. Teletype was my assignment. I passed on my work to the code breakers who translated the data into English to be analyzed. We were briefed daily on the latest technology, military and strategic advancements of both sides. We watched films on the effects of nuclear, chemical, and biological agents. This was top-secret-military-cryptographic-nato clearance shit. The most memorable film we saw showed the effects of radiation on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. It was ultra-gruesome stuff never released to the public. In the film, nuclear testing had been done around a remote island off the South American coastline. The fallout was expected to dissipate into the Pacific Ocean but an unexpected wind redirected the atomic cloud onto a small populated village. The same amount of radiation which fell on Hiroshima and Nagasaki fell on this unsuspecting, helpless village. We saw primitive, indigenous people minding their own business. Seventy days later, the effects of radiation on the village was shown. The whole room took a deep breath, ready to see the grotesque effects of the nuclear age. To everyones shock, there was absolutely no change whatsoever in these indigenous people. They were beating their drums and playing their little flutes, sounding like the Afro-Cuban All Stars. They were jamming! Men,

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women, and children immune from the fallout of an atomic bomb! Not a word of explanation was given. We were dismissed. Those Hyinasport boys couldnt move. The message was clear. Russia, China, Europe and America can annihilate each other off the planet a thousand times over but the indigenous people, the niggers, would still be here! I got an erection I was so excited. I looked around at them White boys and felt super-superior. I already had a righteous indignation against these people, why show me this? The sergeant in charge of my unit was a Barry Goldwater-Ronald Reagan-Strom-Thurmon peckerwood. His neck was triple red. The only other Black person in my unit was his assistant, Brody. My elixirs sparked my subconscious so strong I could read anybodys motives and intentions in a second. Brody despised my unbounded selfhood as much as I detested the handkerchief neatly folded and pressed atop his head. He wanted to break me but, no, I was going to break him first. My work was a reflection of myself which I honored. I kept my cool as the Rebel Sergeant and Brody nitpicked my work with ridiculous critiques. I held my tongue as the sergeant told nigger joke after nigger joke with Brody acting like Jerry Lewis to his Dean Martin in front the whole unit. Every incident was logged with a time and date in my little notebook. Gibbons was a Black lab tech, the only brother I could confide in. He was pitch black and tall, very smooth and handsome. He was from New York so he had a dominant presence about him and sounded just like Denzel Washington when he spoke, which was seldom. After a few weeks, I presented my documents to Gibbons. He knew a Black captain in another unit we could report it to. Captain Newson was a stocky light-skinned career soldier in another department who served in W.W.II and had plenty respect even among the Confederacy. We all met in the Captains office to discuss my situation. The Captain believed I had a strong case for a discrimination suit. He submitted the documents to his superiors for review. It was 1964. Black bodies would soon be in high demand to fight in Vietnam. A discrimination case against the Armed Forces, in the midst of a Civil Rights struggle back home, could be disastrous. Shortly thereafter, the Brigadier General for the Far East flew in and summoned me in for a meeting. Specialist Roberts, whats this bullshit I hear about you having the gall to report one of my officers? Who the hell do you think you are! Your job, Specialist Roberts, is to hear and obey! You listening boy? His neck was candy red. Pardon me sir, the Officers Manual clearly states that the officer must show the enlisted man the same respect he expects to receive from the enlisted man. I quoted the manual verbatim. Sir, you are totally out of line with me.

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His face was turning as red as his neck. You have only two things over me, the stockade and a firing squad. I fear neither one so you have to deal with me man to man. I knocked the salt right off that cracker. He looked like he might have an anxiety attack or something. Mr. Roberts, you are excused. I saluted him, about faced and left him shaken and castrated. I sat back down at my station and resumed my duties. I had expected to be arrested or at the least dishonorably discharged yet the day passed uneventfully. The Rebel Sergeant ceased his racist diatribes and whenever I was addressed, the tone was pleasant and respectful. Just when I was becoming convinced Id damn near gotten away with murder, the Black captain sent me a note to see him. Roberts, are you a member of the Black Panther Party? I was stunned. No, Captain, Im not. Why do you ask? Brody has identified you as a sympathizer and you know the Black Panthers are considered a major threat to national security. I dont know whether this is true but you are being investigated. The wolverine in me flamed up so quick I bolted out of his office to confront the bastard Brody. Brody looked like a carbon copy of Sonny Liston, a big menacing nigger who reminded me of those punk jocks at my college. He was on the telephone, a bowl of noodles to his side. I lifted up the little desk, threw it aside and hurled my whole body at him. Both my hands were at his throat wringing life out of him like a wet rag. I got high hearing him struggle and gasp for his. Soon the Hyinasport boys jumped atop me, pulling me off him. Now Im really pissed. I was throwing White boys off me like I was on PCP. Now Brody was on his feet and stuck me in the jaw. Like a big bear he had me cornered and lunged toward me. I applied the same technique I used on big Bumba nearly ten years ago. I threw aside his arms, slipped behind his back, tightly locked my legs round his waist and locked my arms round his neck to cut off his breath. The White boys approached and I tightened up. This is Tony Tawny niggero! Ill kill every one of you peckerwoods as soon as I knock off Brody! No one dare come near me. Now I gave him his last rites. You beg me, beg me for your life! Right now Im God. Pray to me if you want to live! The Black captain broke through the crowd. Roberts, dont do this. Hes just a flunky. You should go after the head not the tail. But not like this. Not like this.

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McCloud was seconds from unconsciousness. Mercifully, I let up. I dont know why but I let up. Maybe my anger was quenched, maybe I had exhausted myself, maybe I didnt really want him dead. I dont know. I walked away. Shiktosus premier cafe chill-out spot, the Ibuki, was my own private retreat zone. The jazz was intoxicating and no one fucked with you. Plus, the elixir of Hyminaal was happily under all our tongues. Gibbons, who Id never seen here before, took a seat at my table. Together we sat in deep contemplation with Theolonius Monk. Silently, he placed a match book on the table. Like the mummy of a great Pharaoh wrapped in his sarcophagus, he unveiled a fat joint resting peacefully. He sat back in his chair and nodded his approval. A gift. I grabbed the philly just as Philly Joe began his tutorial and walked outside to get reacquainted with my first pharmaceutical love... With deep gratitude I levitated back to the table. Roberts, you impressed me today. You showed everyone youre made of high explosives. Gibbons got right up in my face to emphasize his next point. I hate these peckerwoods with every fiber of my being. My only ambition in life is to get even with them fothermuckers. He went on to tell me about his childhood in St. Petersberg, Florida. Between us were many similarities, too many to number. Like myself, his hero was his grandfather who, at eight years old, Gibbons saw murdered by Florida State Troopers. Gibbons was a hustler who had a heroin jones but wore a perfect mask of civility. I could round up a hundred of them crackers, slay each one by one and eat a five course meal on a pile of their bodies. Again we meditated silently to a Ron Carter workshop for a few moments. Roberts, I have a way to kill your Sergeant without a trace. How we gonna do that? All the top brass trust me. Im the pharmacist, I prescribe their drugs. I got the dirt on all of em. The Sergeant is a lush. Every weekend he gets piss drunk until he passes out. Ill throw a party, nothing but young little girls, get him all fucked up. In my lab I got a syringe full of pneumonia. Once he passes out well stick him right under his nut sack, drive him out to the forest and dump his body. Itll be days before hes found. Dont let it be heavy snow or it could be weeks. Whenever hes found what happened will be obvious. He got drunk, fucking with some prostitute, wondered off into the night and passed out until the elements took their toll. The coroner will say he died of pneumonia. Its the perfect murder.

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I sat back in my chair high as Fu Man Chu. Count me in. The perfect murder. Gibbons and I meticulously obsessed over the minutest details of our nefarious plot. I took a 13 day leave the day of execution. Meanwhile, Gibbons had laid out plans for the party of the year. Alas, after weeks of preparation, the day had arrived. A blizzard erupted paralyzing the city. It was colder than a nuns titty. Snow drifted several feet high off the ground. Marijuana, Hyminaal, and jazz buoyed the momentum but exacting revenge on the Sergeant was my greatest high. Who knew how many lynchings and killings he and his pappies had been apart of in his day? This was righteous indignation, justice. Showtime. Even in the midst of a blizzard the party was still a go and the Sergeant was coming. I left the Ibiku coffee shop and was hit by an arctic blast of wind. It was freezing. I wrapped up in my parka but retribution provided sufficient warmth. In the distance a glow, a woman, all bundled up was approaching. As she came closer I found myself enraptured by her beauty. Only her face peaked out of her heavy clothing but this was still the most beautiful face Id ever seen. She looked up at me and smiled. Samui? (Its cold, isnt it) I inquired. In perfect English she responded, Yes, it is very cold. I stopped dead in my tracks. Darling, you speak English! Yes, she said laughingly, I do. My name is Yasiko. She extended her hand. I responded. Yasiko, Im Orion. What providence is this? On this dreadful, gloomy day I meet the one person in all Hokkaido who speaks English and shes beautiful. Bashfully, she smiled. Im an English major at the University of Sapporo. I knew Id meet plenty of English speakers here in Shikotsu to practice with. And you can help me with my Japanese. Beautiful! I know the perfect place to sit down and talk. I escorted her back to the loft Gibbons and I rented down the street from the Ibuki. As she unwrapped the layers of protection and removed her knit cap, I saw how stunning she really was. Yasiko was three inches shorter than I. She had a lustrous mane of densely black hair which perfectly, gracefully fell into her face before she pulled it back. She was like a exquisite Japanese doll. Her face, eyes, nose, mouth, her

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body all divinely choreographed into the epitome of Asian femininity. What providence. I brewed some green tea as she made herself comfortable. It was clear to me by her wardrobe, her poise and posture, and the confidence of her conversation that she come from a very prominent family. She was gregarious and insightfully dancing with me in conversation with masterful fluidity. She was a well-educated and intelligent girl, self contained and emancipated, the mistress of her own actions. What providence. Gibbons and I had a stash of marijuana which I rolled perfectly with cigarette papers and kept in a carton of Lucky Strikes. All Japanese, it seemed, smoked cigarettes so I offered her one. This was her first time smoking these special cigarettes. We talked and laughed and smoked and laughed and talked and smoked. Hour after hour my words found comfort in hers, warming each other, seductively unraveling layer after layer of our lives until we found ourselves kissing furiously. Our bodies gracefully merged into a living, breathing Shunga (erotic spring pillow pictures) woodblock depicting the majestic intimacy of male/ female unison. This was some of the most passionate love making of my life. Her dainty body quivered as I entered her crucible then erupted as I explored her cavernous depths. Climax after climax we became neighbors of the constellations as our bodies merged in a heavenly symphony of ecstatic passion. Her grapes I crushed into the sweetest wine as we were transported to new vistas, new horizons, new worlds created by the fusion of two souls. As a teenager I learned to withhold my excitement as my own personal method of birth control but now I found myself being crushed in the depths of her ocean as she rapturously squeezed from me my very life. Love making, resting, sleeping, and dreaming all merged into one continent of existence. How long had she been in my arms? I cannot say. But as she awoke and looked into my eyes, we both knew this was the real thing. Thus began one of the most beautiful love affairs of my life. She wanted to take me on a tour of the countryside of Northern Japan. Wed catch the train through all the little resort towns, bathe in the most luxurious hot springs, meet the Ainu Indians, and ski in the high mountains of Nobori-betsu. She was going to treat me to all the delights of Japanese high life. I immediately went into my closet to pack. I had tailor-made everything from shoes and socks, underwear, shirts, pants, and even my hats. I had British worsted wool suits so fine you could sleep in them then shake off the wrinkles. Yasiko giggled as I modeled a few choice items. Then I remembered my plans. The Samurai believed sex was protection from ill luck. Thus, my burning passion every second of every minute the last few weeks had been thoroughly quenched. I guess the Lightholders didnt want me to murder the Rebel Sergeant. They knew only a fresh love affair with a rich, sophisticated, socialite who spoke perfect English was the only thing to take my mind off my

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revenge. Who knows what karmic debt I would have to pay for such a thing? If I had to choose between vengeance and romance, romance would win everytime. Thus began a brief yet epic love affair.

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Yasiko Moon
I had already planned to leave town, now Id have a companion. Somebody, up there, down here, or somewhere likes me. We stepped out like Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor. We boarded a Japan Railways train the equivalent of the QE2. We secured a sleeping dining car and took off for the mountains. With Yasiko sexual intercourse was a mere aspect of our lovemaking, another form of communication always seemed to be taking place. Our emotional bodies, our angelic bodies, our light bodies, our etheric bodies, our very atoms had fallen in love, perhaps remembering some nostalgia we once knew, some desired constellation we once were. After a thoroughly invigorating lovemaking session we left our car to socialize. She had an aristocratic inheritance, a natural egoefficacy, everyone naturally deferred to her and her Kirei Kokujin. We both had plenty of money and I carried a treasury of elixirs: cartons of marijuana-filled Lucky Strikes, Hyminaal, and my latest greatest pharmaceutical achievement, dextro amphetamines chased with ambutol. Immediately, we secured great friendships aboard our luxury train amongst these ultra-wealthy families. Yasiko was my spokesperson while I played the subliminal supporting character. I stayed on the top floor of enlightenment. I had that look of bliss on my face: eyelids resting over pupils, which made my eyes shine like a radiant moon piercing the darkness of an eclipse. My few choice words I spoke struck my listeners like lightening flashes cracking pitch-blackness. Yasiko had instructed me in what I dubbed the Samurai inflection of Japanese. This was the speech of the ruling class. She said an extensive vocabulary was not necessary but perfect pronunciation was. It was excellent advice. A love affair is always infectious if not contagious. This Asian princess and her beautiful Black American prince easily won our fellow passengers affection. Our first stop was the quaint little town of Hakodate, a rustic village that had never seen a black man. It was late when we arrived at the historic Wakamistu Ryokan, a stately and elegant hotel. All the gracious staff were clad in minimalist kimonos and served tea in the lobby while we checked in. Once we secured our room, a grand feast, Kaiseiki, was set up for us in elaborate fashion.

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Like royals, we dined overlooking a spectacular view of the sea while harbor lights danced on the waters like little fireflies. Exhausted, we fell asleep to the gentle rocking of the harbor waves. We reserved the morning and early afternoon for lovemaking. The sea and all its creatures, it seemed, were joyous participants. Yasikos orgasms were so intense shed sometimes pass out. So powerful was the electricity generated from our fusion. There were many bars and coffee houses around Mount Hakodate. The staff and all its guests became fast friends. I passed around a carton of my special cigarettes. Someone put on some music. A party broke loose. James Brown, Jackie Wilson, Aretha Franklin, pure Black American soul. How could I not treat my new friends to a dance? I jumped on a table with Yasiko in tow. She had integrated herself into me so thoroughly she more than held her own. The whole place caught our fire. It was Cotton Comes to Harlem in Hokkaido. That night we took a cable car to the top of the mountain which really was a huge dormant volcano. The lights of the village surrounded us like stars as we looked down from heaven on a huge orange lava sun boiling beneath us. Back on the train, these rich Samurai-class people confided in me with their own tales of the Hokajin: the European White man. Although friendliness was the official policy, they hadnt forgotten the horror of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. When I shared my experience of Jim Crow and slavery, all the atrocities committed against the Black and Native peoples in America the whole train broke down and cried. Yasiko would interrupt my stories often breaking down in sobs holding my hand and offering tender kisses to ease the pain of an entire people. I became their Hakufu. They called me their brother! That night Yasiko did something truly amazing that no other woman has done before or since. She massaged my entire body with her luminously fragrant black mane of hair. I cant explain how but from my head to my tippytoes she bathed and caressed with her own hair. Damn! Within a few days our money was no good. Everything, everywhere we went, was on the house. And what better place to be given such VIP treatment than one of the crown jewels of Japan, Asia, and the whole world: Noburibetsu. There, one will find the most extensive therapeutic hot springs anywhere in the world. It is an otherworldly landscape composed of natural springs of various temperaments chock full of minerals said to cure everything from high-blood pressure and poor blood circulation to diabetes and constipation. Locals bathe in progressively warmer waters (cool to boiling) which helped insulate the body from the cold of winter. Yasiko was my own personal geisha, attending to me with astonishing

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affection. I couldnt help but get aroused. So again my penis, my Okee Chimpo became a source of fascination in these public hot springs. Many women whispered their excitement to Yasiko, many wanted to touch it, and some wanted to have me for themselves. Yasiko loved this attention for she too couldnt get enough of my Okee Chimpo. She begged me but I never permitted her to perform fellatio. Such behavior, in the folklore of Illumination was unthinkable. Among us it was voodoo to allow a woman to swallow your essence. She then had power over you. And God forbid a man drinking the lust of a woman. She did bless my Jade Stalk with some intensely deep kisses though. In the old culture of Japan the highest honor a man could give another man was his wife. To give ones best friend access to your wife was the pinnacle of friendship. Not only did Yasiko receive requests from women to have me, but several prominent men became so taken with me they wanted to give me their women to sleep with. My heart (and my okee chimpo) was with Yasiko. She wasnt jealous and didnt object to these offers, but I could not give myself over to another. Id patiently explain to these illustrious men that although your culture regards this as a noble practice, in my culture this is the ultimate disrespect of true friendship, the ultimate form of betrayal. Eventually, they understood. How beautiful this was to be seen in such a light, with such honor, respect and trust! Never have I been met with such great sincerity. We spent a few days at the Noburi-betsu onsens. We held court at the Daiichi Takimotoken hotel where we dined on red-miso soup, ramen noodles with garlic and seaweed, Genghis Khan barbeque feasts, and tender grilled lamb. Next we arrived in Sapporo to participate in the wonders of the Sapporo Snow Festival where whole neighborhoods morphed into an opaline dream world. Artisans displayed amazing ice constructions of palaces and pyramids, gods and monsters, angels and children with all the glitz of a Hollywood blockbuster. That night I was warmly welcomed back to the Presidential Suite of the Sapporo Grand Hotel. We went out on the ski slopes amidst majestic mountains of snow. Enlightened with a little marifauna and dextro amphetimines I put on some goggles and skis and hit the slopes like an Olympic athlete! I was high in every definition: on life, on love, on elevation, and yes, drugs. Everywhere on earth has its niggers. Here, I tuned up on the Ainu Indians, the Indigenous people of Japan who, to me closely resemble the Eskimo. They had truly been shit on by the rest of Japan. Yasiko and I secured great friendships with them as well. Id lost complete track of time until Yasiko took me back to her University. There I met her friends and colleagues, all good, upstanding people. Alas, it was time for her to resume her studies.

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Time? Shit! Apparently, Id been gone over thirty days on my thirteen day leave. I was essentially AWOL and would probably be arrested. Yasiko decided to share the bullet and come with me back to Shikotsu.

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Lewis Lowe

Marifuana Mikado!
Gibbons and I had gotten real tight behind the murder plot on the Rebel Sergeant. Gibbons was a chemist, a pharmacist and I was a seeker of enlightenment. What better basis for friendship? We both shared a fascination with Zen and the martial arts and had balls enough to explore it. We both had seen examples of men whod achieved the state of Supreme Consciousness and the resultant demonstrations of that power. We knew these adepts disciplined themselves training under a sensai, a ruthless master who severely tested his students under the harshest conditions, sleep depravation, astonishing physical endurance, even mortification. After years of training maybe one or two students would themselves become masters, awakened ones. Where would we find such a teacher? And who had time for such training? We saw pharmaceutical enlightenment as a shortcut to this exalted state and verified it with our own experience. Gibbons had an idea. Ambutol was an opiate, an anesthetic used in surgeries. Dextro-amphetamine or speed has, of course, the opposite effect. He could cut these drugs with a timer so you wouldnt get blasted all of a sudden. The ambutol would put the mind in a hypnotic state, while the speed would awaken you in the dream. One night we caught Art Blakely and the Jazz Messengers headlining at a downtown Sapporo theater. This was his classic lineup with Wayne Shorter and Lee Morgan. They played their asses off through a murky cloud of heroin. Backstage Gibbons copped while I floated on an ambu-hyminaal-speed cocktail. Putting spikes in my arms was where I drew the line. I sat back undulating between the thick strings of an upright bass when Gibbons handed me a fat philly. Puff... Apparently there was a single source of cannabis in town: an old papason who lived out in the country side. Gibbons gave me the address. Gibbons worked a traditional nine to five day with two days off while I worked a rotating shift; five days on, four days off. My next day off I journeyed way out to this farmhouse in the country. A pleasant old fellow was outside tending a garden. Ohayo gozaimasu. (Good morning) No response. Ohayo gozaimasu. Nothing. Marifauna?

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The Elixir of Ponyo

Papason stood up and looked in my direction. His eyes were covered by a milky film. He was blind. Could he be deaf also? Possibly. Still I felt he both saw and heard me. He smiled a toothless grin and walked off into the forest with the aid of an old wooden cane. It was a truly serene setting but the sun was going down. I had no idea if this was a set up or if the papason even understood what I had come for. We walked quite always from his farmhouse, crossed a river on a rickety bridge onto a dusty path cutting through the woods. Patiently I trailed him with not a word spoken between us expecting him to pull a dime bag out of a rock, but for ten or fifteen minutes we just walked. In dramatic fashion, Papason stopped at a clearing, raised his arms with reverence and pronounced in a soft, husky whisper, Marifuana Mikado! Bewildered I looked all over for the stash when it hit me... I was looking at a virtual mountain of marijuana. Miles and miles of pure Japanese virgin cannabis. What providence is this? I thought Id leave with some sacks and now Im given a bumper crop. This was enough to get all of Hokkaido high. I thanked a genuinely bemused Papason with a stash of cash and walked out into a Rastamans everafter. The aroma alone shook my knees. The plants were tall, bushy and had a distinctive deeply green skin with fat buds covered with pink hairs. Papason took a leaf and started chewing. Gibbons thought I was bullshitting when we met up at the Ibuku. I brought back a stalk as proof. He sniffed it, then took a leaf and started chewing. When we reached the farm, Gibbons, the mad scientist, went to work. He separated the male plants from the females, the males being taller and not as potent. He treaded through the stalks carefully inspecting the flower tops. These are almost mature, he declared with authority. Well take a few of these flower tops with us. He further explained these plants were an indica blend called Mikado. Mi meaning honorable, Kado meaning gate of the imperial palace. THC is the magic ingredient of marijuanas potency and this crop was an atomic bombs worth of magic. Gibbons dried the flower tops that night. We met outside the NCO, sat in his car and fired up. At last I was reunited with my first pharmaceutical love. What a reunion! Together we rented a little apartment downtown which doubled as our laboratory, our elixir manufacturing plant. Every few days wed go back to the farm to check the crops, soon it would be harvest time. We wanted only the plumpest, fattest female plants which we marked with yellow string. Marijuana, if sold or confiscated, would guarantee us major time in jail so this had to be strictly on the hush, hush. In the dead of night we drove a rented truck to the base of the clearing

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which took much ingenuity. We put on some heavy gardening gloves and pulled up the marked plants, placing them in the back of the truck. Wed previously placed clothing lines through the ceiling beams in our diminutive living room from which wed hang the plants upside down allowing all the resin, the sap, the atomic goody juice, to saturate the leaves making the flower tops super potent. We wrapped the bushes in wet newspaper to sustain the maturation process. We wanted no wine before its time. This would be vintage, aged and refined marijuana. After a few days, the leaves hue evolved from a deep emerald to an indigo bronze, a kingly elixir! The harvesting process was a high unto itself. As the stalks dried we built a wooden box, three feet high or so covering it with mesh wire. When we pulled the stalks down, wed rake them across the wire so the seeds, twigs and sticks were on top leaving only the pure, refined dark purple powder in the box. Being efficiently economic, we rounded up the sticks and twigs as embers for the fireplace igniting a holy fire of enlightenment, a gift to our neighbors. So we had this powder, like the fine tobacco used in a pipe. Gibbons had invested in a cigarette roller so we could camouflage our joints in a Lucky Strike carton. We produced the caviar of cannabis, the truffles of THC, and the foie gras of all pharmaceutical enlightenment. This elixir wasnt for sale. Wed have to sell a joint for hundreds of dollars on the street. No, this was for the exclusive pleasure of Gibbons, myself, Yasiko, and whomever was really, really tight with us. I dubbed it the royal purple elixir. When combined with a certain amount of amphetamine, a certain amount of ambutol, topped off with a dash of hyminaal... shhazammy tammy gawdammy! I was up there with the lamas, yogis, or fakirs. (And they looked over at me and asked, How did you get here!) Now my work was far too intense to experiment with these high explosives; where all my mental faculties had to be utilized. But on my days off, I was a pioneering Afronaut, represented the poor so-called Negroes of America in the astral stratosphere. But Gibbons in his chemetic genius didnt stop there. He cut a slice off an apple and placed it in a plastic bag atop the herb giving it a sweet flavor. As an experiment, he let a bag sit a few days to see what would happen. Well, the sap ran out the apple into the cannabis starting a whole new fermentation process which turned that fine purple powder into an oatmeallike mush. It then concretized into one hard substance like a big potato chip. Gibbons chipped off the flakes into a pipe and lo and behold! A new high had been discovered.



The Elixir of Ponyo

This wasnt the slow, gradual buzz of marijuana but an instantaneous rush of euphoria. It was the equivalent of freebase. Never, not before or after, have I seen it duplicated like this.



Lewis Lowe

Life was Beautiful

Yasiko and I were madly in love. She blended in harmonic perfection with my routine. Id come home each night to elaborate meals she prepared for myself, Gibbons and any invited guest. She redecorated the place into a blissful Asian boudoir. She was thoroughly spoiling me for any woman that might try to steal me and I told her so. I was, in fact, completely blind at this point to any other woman. There was only Yasiko. Gibbons had a sweet rose from Tokyo who visited him on the weekends. Together all four of us had a blast. Being a highborn woman Yasiko introduced us to another dimension of activity. Most soldiers were only exposed to the lowest class of Shiktosu: the bar girls, prostitutes, bartenders, hustlers, and parasites. Through Yasiko we met the ruling class who owned the bars, restaurants, and apartments: the elite. Everyone with the slightest game was into the black market. The PX sold the finest fabrics and Gibbons, ever the master genius-thief, could have been a designer. He knew all the best fabrics, textures, and their market value. Sundrot worsted wool was the finest fabric for a suit. Gibbons simply layered his arms with yards of fabric and casually walked out the door while I distracted the employees with my conversation. From there wed take the fabrics to Tom the tailor. How can I explain the luxury of a suit tailored just for you? A tailored suit is the masculine equivalent of a wedding gown. A tailored suit is a virgin - she belongs to you and you alone while an off-the-rack suit is a woman with a few drivers and many miles on her. Tom the tailor was a little Japanese man with a permanent scowl on his forehead; those furrowed lines, his measuring tape. With a glance hed size you up, then crudely send you away. I was wearing suits that would sell in the states in the upper four digits which I paid pennies for. We hustled suits and shirts as well as plenty Johnnie Walker Scotch, Hennessey four-star Cognac and big cartons of cigarettes from the POX on the black market. We had wheelbarrows of cash. We wore custom made suits, shirts, ties, shoes, socks, and drawers. We strolled in a big black Buick and I had aristocratic Japanese goddess on my arms who catered to me like a god. On top of that was a treasure trove of elixirs to keep it blissful. Hyminaal to make the world smile, ambutol to mellow me, dextroamphetamines to wake me up in this dream, and gourmet five-star marijuana to psychoanalyze it all and remove the potholes.

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Life was beautiful.

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Lewis Lowe

The Silence
of Goodbye
My heart was beating under Yasikos left breast. We were lucid dreaming, loving altruistically, sharing every thought and ambition. She wanted to come to America with me but I was from America. I couldnt conceive of going back to second and third class citizenship let alone exposing her to it. No, America was a pothole of negativity this new life in the East was healing and she was the sweetest part of the cure. Today was the twenty-second anniversary of her birth. Id found an exquisite jade amulet, a talisman in Chinese characters symbolizing happiness. I had planned a celebration for us in Norbori-betsu on my four days off. I had been a confirmed bachelor but a lifetime with Yasiko didnt seem like a form of bondage, a restrictive proposition. Faith in felicity was breathed into me now. My only regret was I knew I had taken her away from her family. Broken homes, illegitimate children, divorce, all these things were just as taboo here as marijuana. I wanted to meet her folks and reassure them she was in good hands. Equally taboo, especially for someone from an affluent family like Yasikos, was dropping out of school. Im sure her college would take her back but I had to encourage her. These were my thoughts on her first birthday as my lover. I came home to find a silence I will never forget. The silence of goodbye. The vacuum of her absence. The heartbreak of abandonment. She was gone. No notes or notice. No kisses or tears. No resolution or reason. I couldnt believe it. I asked our neighbors what they knew. They said they saw a big towncar sit outside our apartment at least half an hour. Yasiko emerged with two stern men carrying her things out of the apartment. I suppose her family stole her back. I went to her college, she wasnt even on the books. Her girlfriends hadnt heard from her. I went to all our haunts, no one knew a thing. Nobody, including myself, had any way of reaching Yasiko. I was a bachelor again. Shiktosu was cold as hell without my lover. A blizzard descended on the city. I went back to work. I hustled and partied. I enjoyed my elixirs but still



The Elixir of Ponyo

a huge void filled my days. Everywhere I went, everything I did reminded me of Yasiko I needed a new adventure. Thats when I started hearing about a little island on the Tropic of Cancer where the living was really good, the women were tanned and loving and plenty money could be made. A place Europeans crowned formosa, the beautiful island. Taipei, Taiwan. I smoked some royal purple elixir and hit the library for information. I looked at the pictures and pictured myself there. Id already taken my allotted vacation time for the year. How would I get the time off? I checked my records and for some reason I still had 30 days of leave yet to be taken. What providence is this? Taiwan it is.

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Beautiful Island
Ilha Formosa! Taiwan is the Asian Helen of Troy. The Manchu Dynasty of ancient China, the Portuguese, the Dutch, the Ming Dynasty loyalist of China, the French, the Japanese, and once again the Chinese, now Communist, have all rendezvoused with this beautiful island. Her body is configured in the shape of a tobacco leaf. Shes strategically situated between Korea and Japan to the north, Hong Kong and the Philippines to the south. Arriving in Taipei from Shiktosu was like landing in Southern California from Chicago in winter. From ten thousand feet deep beautiful greenery sat seductively on a water bed inviting lovers to come lie with her. You dont know how gorgeous vegetation is to eyes acclimated to bleached frost. How much better would the sun feel on my body than well, the impotent sun of winter. The airport was a bustling zoo. Everyone had their hustles from the baggage handlers to the limo drivers to the vendors saturating the air with deliciously exotic cuisine. I was immediately overwhelmed by a genuine openness, an altruistic friendliness that instantly kissed me. Smiling faces distinctively different from the Japanese in disposition as well as composition. These were soul people. As a military man I was exempt from any search of my person. I wore light summer clothes under my jacket full of plenty pouches, compartments for all my elixirs. Id still be rotting in a cell if Id been caught with this additional cargo. I looked stunningly resplendent in a white linen shirt, open to my solar plexus, tan linen pants, open toed sandals, and black aviator glasses. I wondered if Tony Tawny was a star here in Taiwan. All the airport hustlers were buzzing to accommodate me, almost all of whom spoke English. As I walked outside, a bold gentleman opened his limo door and seized my bags, kidnapping me with his hospitality. He was gracious and professional, qualities of good breeding I pride myself on. Plus, he spoke English proficiently as well. Courteously, he inquired where I was from and responded with an impressive knowledge about both America and particularly the Black and Native peoples. Many Black GIs are making Taiwan home he said. We love your people here. Really? What providence. He recommended the historic Grand Formosa Hotel in the open heart of Taipei. It was a good time to come because tonight there would be a huge

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celebration. I couldnt help but smile as I pulled out a royal purple elixir. It was maybe seventy-five degrees and mildly humid. The city was fortified by fierce mountains and accented with distinctively Chinese architecture juxtapositioned by the construction of western skyscrapers. The ambiance was resolutely Chinese in essence, in fact, Mandarin was the national language. The Grand Formosa was a hell of a heavenly sight. It was based on a traditional palace of a Chinese king with vermillion pillars, stately archways, and a brilliantly tiled roof. The rooms, my driver said, were all classically appointed. Each of its eight floors represented one of the great Chinese dynasties. I compensated my new friend handsomely for his hospitality and was soon swept up in the gregarious openness of the Grand Formosas staff. The manager greeted me and acted as my personal escort to my room. This was another hip cat. He recommended the prestige suite of the Han Dynasty. Bellhops trailed closely behind with my belongings as he rattled off the history behind the establishment. My suite was spacious and stately but not oppressively extravagant with ceilings tall enough to plant some trees. My gracious host pointed out the exquisite Italian furniture, the gold-plated faucets and sinks handcrafted in Holland. On the wall were original works of Chinese art. The bathroom was as large as the bedroom with a sunken marble tub sufficient for myself and a couple of guests. Most importantly I had a balcony overlooking the city. I was feeling the exhaustion of a days travel and needed to rest. After stowing my bags the manager asked if there was anything that would make my stay more enjoyable. I took the handkerchief from my jacket and laid it on the floor. Yes. Im going to rest now but when I awaken I would like to see the most beautiful woman in all of Taiwan standing right there on that mark. Beautiful woman! Certainly. I was completely bullshitting. I sunk into the most luxuriously soft mattress and went into a deep, beautiful siesta. Upon awakening I felt so good, so wonderfully refreshed. How might I begin my adventure? I heard someone softly breathing and it wasnt me. I looked up to behold one of the most magnificent specimens of femininity Ive ever beheld. She stood maybe 55, long silken hair down her back, tanned skin, as dark as mine. Her facial features were distinctively aboriginal; she wasnt of Chinese nor Japanese extraction and vaguely resembled the Taiwanese ladies at the hotel. No, she was their prototype, their root. She wore a colorful but subdued lilac floral wrap elegantly concealing two precocious virgin breasts. The dress slid down her lovely left leg to her knee but exposed a deliciously plump thigh accented with almost transparent light blond hairs on the right. A huge lilac precariously held the dress together tied to her hip. Damn!

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She was young. I guessed twenty-five but nineteen was possible. She smiled as these above mentioned thoughts ran through my head. Good afternoon. I hope you rested well. Yes, sweetheart. Are you a dream or a dream come true? She laughed. My name is Teme. Im here for your comfort and pleasure. My okee chimpo visibly saluted her through the sheets. She discreetly acknowledged it with raised eyebrows and giggled quietly, hand on pursed lips. May I run a bath for you? Please darling. She floated on the plush carpet to the tub, her hips gliding rhythmically from east to west. Beautiful. She paused before entering the bathroom. In a single motion her wrap dropped to the floor revealing a well-endowed aboriginal ass. She turned around to espy my reaction, her black coal eyes speaking sensualities beyond words. She turned around to reveal an achievement of heavenly engineering: her body. She was trim with a taut little stomach, thighs smooth and shapely as large eggplants giving way to a tuft of triangular fur camouflaging her heavenly crucible. Her small dove-like breasts were accented by thick hershey-kissed nipples standing proudly from her chest. She smiled. Come. I disrobed and submitted myself to her care. She gave my body a similarly thorough appraisal as she dipped me into the tub. Barely ignoring the obvious, Teme miraculously zeroed in on the reason for this getaway. Someone has broken your heart. Teme spoke pretty good conversational English. You are as perceptive as you are beautiful. She laid me down in a tub of steaming warm water and jumped atop my back. With remarkable proficiency she kneaded my neck, back, arms, and legs like dough accenting her work with strategically placed kisses. I believe she was attempting to massage any heartbreak out of my system. She gently wrapped my body in a terry cloth robe, took my hand and guided me to the bed, my jade stalk standing a yard into the sky. Her hands lovingly caressed it, softly, gently kissing me, before cautiously teasing her entrance with its pulsing head. Ill let your imagination write the next few paragraphs... After each climax we bathed and went back for more. Our passion set the sun and rose the moon. Outside, the streets lit up in a fervor of activity. Were they madly celebrating my arrival? Teme explained that my arrival was indeed providential for tonight was one of the most sacred and festive of holidays. I had arrived in conjunction

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with the birthday celebration of Matsu. If youre wondering whos Matsu, so did I. Matsu, Teme explained, is the Goddess of the sea. Being an island originally populated by seafarers who made their living from the waters, her blessings are sought more than any other deity. She was a real live woman who lived over a thousand years ago. She miraculously rescued countless sailors from peril including her own father. Shed have premonitions of imminent danger, give forewarnings and supernaturally pluck the endangered from their danger. Shed go into trance where these powers were unleashed. Was she crucified or branded as some heretic possessed by demons? No, that shits for White folks. She was greatly respected by her village as their seer, their gift from the gods. One day, at age twenty-nine, Matsu wandered off into the misty mountains and disappeared. It is believed she joined the ranks of the immortals where she protects all those working or playing in the sea. She was a homegrown Goddess whose eminence had not waned in millennia. Just the opposite, she had become queen of all the gods in Taiwans crowded pantheon without a rival. Go head, Matsu. Outside, the celebration was well under way as drummers beat dense polyrhythms out of their instruments. Singers wailed. Strange horns unlike anything Id ever heard cried unusual melodies. Whistles and firecrackers roared a joyful thunder of praise all vibrating the walls of the hotel. We watched from the balcony as exotic dancers, bodies completely dipped in tattoos, undulated themselves into amazing patterns circulating good chi (heavenly energies) to all. In perfect syncopation with the drums and gongs, fireworks crashed into kaleidoscopic crescendos shot into the heavens. It seemed like a million revelers participated in this sacred festival. I was impressed and Matsu, I imagine, was pleased. Teme proclaimed this was a good omen. Taiwan, although praising their great protecting goddess was also welcoming me. What providence.

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Lewis Lowe

My Ponyo, Friend
Teme was from the Seediq people, one of the aboriginal tribes of Taiwan. Her people had a reputation so fierce that their native language had been banned in a concerted effort to break their culture. Temes grandmother was the village oracle who had initiated her into the ancient beliefs of her people. Shed also been trained in the feminine arts to make her fit for a good marriage. She was no prostitute. She was simply looking for her king. We spent the evening in bed as the festivities quieted down in both verbal and conjugal communications. When the sun struck my face that morning shed already departed to attend to her dear beloved grandmother. As I got out of bed I noticed all my clothes neatly hung in the closet, my underwear and socks folded in the drawers, and my shoes lined at the base of the door. Cool. I descended down the staircase to the lobby and was warmly greeted by the manager like an old friend. How was my evening? Fantastic. A rickshaw driver was already waiting to take me into town. This was the popular old-style buggy pulled by robust little men at that time in Asia. My driver was a dear old soul in a young mans vibrant body named Ike. We hit it off immediately. Ike was the first one to call me Ponyo. Ponyo is a term of endearment. It means my dear friend in Taiwanese. Eventually I became known throughout Taipei as Ponyo. So Im known today. He gave me a good tour of Taipei along with his expert analysis on his countrys history, politics, and optimistic future. I went back to the Grand Formosa for a siesta. When I awoke Teme was patiently waiting on the couch looking more stunning than the previous night. We indulged our passions. She dressed me and put on her evening wear for a night on the town. As we descended the stairs, the whole staff cheered us, Ponyo! Ike was right there to take us on the town. Taiwan was a great ally of the United States and housed several military bases in addition to some of the worlds finest NCO clubs. Our first stop was the Linco Chilliboo. Linco meant dance, chilliboo

of My Soul



The Elixir of Ponyo

meant club. It was a danceteria kind of vibe with a large dance floor, stage and show lounge. Performers from the Philippines were the in-house entertainment and it was Las Vegas to the max. These cats could expertly imitate all the top entertainers, dance, sing, and jam on their instruments too. It was thoroughly captivating entertainment. I showed off some moves with the band locking right in step with me. Teme swayed erotically beside me in her own sensuous rhythm that just made my dick hard. After working up a sweat she had a towel to cool me off and a cool drink to reinvigorate me and hot kisses to show her affection. Just kissing this girl was like intercourse. Shed clasp my lips and massage them with her tongue then tenderly bite my lower lip when disengaging. She was full of tricks like that. No wonder those Seediqs were such fierce fighters. With women like this wouldnt you? Our next stop was the 63 Club for dinner. It was a perfect blend of Western sensibilities and Eastern flavors. I ordered Teme the most expensive items on the menu. Being that China had the most influence here, Szechwan and Huang cuisine were prominent with slight Taiwanese variations. Outside was a lovely plush garden. Chinese gardens are more representative of the inherent spontaneity of nature as opposed to the meticulous order of Japanese gardens. Here peonies, orchids, bamboo, and chrysanthemum all formed a serene geomancy perfect for after dinner relaxation. Teme became my steady companion in Taipei. Shed magically appear at the right time every evening and begin our ritual of bathing, lovemaking, and conversation, then hit the town. Interestingly, I never saw any service people at the hotel or in my room. Id come in exhausted and crash. Whenever I got up all my clothes would be neatly displayed, ironed, pressed and cleaned as if little elves had come in and did this. I retained Ike, the petticab driver, as my personal chauffeur and we got real tight. I got to know his whole family and they all were soul people, sincere to the bone. They were dirt poor but always had some hospitality for you. I tipped him handsomely and even gave him money to give to Teme who wouldnt take a dime from me. Ike hipped me to Taipeis black market. Again the PX was our own private China Town. Ike had me go for the big appliances like refrigerators, air conditioners and whatnot. Id pay two hundred dollars for an air conditioner and flip it on the street for six hundred. All I did was order it. Someone pushed it out the store, into a warehouse, and sold it on the street. Ike came back with the money. So I made four hundred dollars on one item. That was big, big money in Taiwan in the mid-sixties.



Lewis Lowe
I made so much money so fast he drove me to a sweet private residential area and introduced me to the owners of a lovely little villa. I rented it on the spot. Now, Ponyo had a palace. It had two bedrooms, upstairs and downstairs quarters, a speculator kitchen and dinner table perfect for parties plus a separate area for a live-in staff of three. The property was surrounded by a solid brick walls reinforced by broken wine bottles placed on top to discourage the uninvited. Ike was connected with all the top players in Taipei. I put a wad of cash in his hands to go with my staff and clean out the markets. I was going to throw the party of the century and introduce myself to Taipei. The next night my villa was packed with all the power people of Taipei. It was a transpacific mix of Asian nationalities all of whom saw Taipei as a future mega-metropolis in its raw virgin state. Even a couple of big generals from the States made their way to Ponyos Palace as well as some European diplomats. I passed out some of my weaker cannabis elixirs while I kept the kingly blend for myself. Teme was on my arm but shared me with the female socialites and power players. She understood my position as a resolute bachelor but knew she was my top woman. Jazz and Black American soul blasted through the finest Japanese stereophonic equipment, huge buffets were lined outside with paper machete lanterns spicing the night with ambiance. It was an enormous success. The next morning everyone knew a new king was in town. The next evening I invited Teme and Ikes entire families, my neighbors, and any poor people we met that day to fill my palace. The poor peoples night kicked the rich peoples nights ass. These poor Taiwanese were the warmest, from the heart people Ive encountered anywhere in the world. They all brought me gifts even though they probably sacrificed a meal to do so. Here I saw the altruistic concept of civilization in action. All Temes relations came except her beloved grandmother who was disappointingly absent. That night Ike introduced me to the top Mamason of Taipei whom Ill call Mamason K. We developed a soulful yet platonic harmonic of deep friendship. Her cathouse was as decadent and luxurious as anything in Las Vegas. It all was designed to fleece her high-powered clientele of the maximum amount of capital. It was very successful. On a scale of one to ten, the women under Mamason K averaged fifteen, young maidens who literally looked like candy. Mamason was a petite, average looking woman with hugh charisma and a heart full of love that could turn into a black mamba if provoked. We had this in common. Mamason spoke little English but our understanding was beyond

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linguistic borders. Wed sit and talk for hours while she conducted her business. Shed call her beauties down and line them all up in their finery and ask me to take one for my pleasure. These were executive-level courtesans, not no nudie-cuties from the bowels of society. Id look lovingly into each ladies eyes and saw the same admiration, the same desire to be with me. K, I cant choose one. Theyre all so beautiful. Ponyo, please choose a girl. Choose two or three if you like. When we offer a gift its offered from the heart. Its an insult to refuse. Yes I know but may I explain myself. Look at the love in their eyes for me. If I chose one the others would be sad. One would be high and the rest would feel sad and rejected. I cant make love to them all. So I want to leave here with everyone feeling high. I can only do that by not letting it be. Mamason broke down in tears and gave me the warmest embrace. Ponyo, she said in her broken English, You are best of men. That night I told a captive audience all about my experiences in Jim Crow America, all the injustices heaped upon my people. Everyone was in tears. Many had their own tales of indignities suffered by European and Americans who visited their land. Mamason K stood up and pronounced in Mandarin that this was my home. Stay here in Taiwan where we honor and love you. Dont ever go back there. Teme translated for me. Dont worry I aint going back.

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Lewis Lowe

Montgomery, TaoYing
Word of a Black American prince visiting Taipei quickly spread throughout the city. Ike took me into the remote outskirts of the city where I buy up fresh fish, vegetables, exotic fruits, and whatnot. Everyday my staff cooked up a feast and everyone I met that day was invited. My house was full of people, mostly poor, but I never had the thought of theft, let alone of anyone taking advantage of my hospitality. Teme arrived late in the evening and wed go to the Linco Chilliboo for dancing and socializing, then the 63 club for dinner. Teme and I had what they used to call an open relationship, but I prefer the term altruistic to describe it. Id usually go out with three or four women and make love to one that night. While the girls dined Id retreat to the clubs plush garden for contemplation. I needed only the royal purple elixir to put me in the zone surrounded by the masterful application of feng shui. According to geomancy ones entire milieu was a living organism. Every rock, tree, planet, flower, and pond had a symbolic meaning representing various attributes of the noble soul. Cypress represented longevity. Tough and rugged pines were beloved by kings and rulers who weathered many political upheavals. Bamboo was an emblem of the perfect Confucian gentleman of pure virtue and tempered emotion. And the bamboo stalk can easily bend in the strongest winds without breaking. It was easy to forget one was in the middle of a bustling city in the middle of this Zen haiku mosaic of a garden. I stood on a bridge overlooking a small carp-filled pond looking into a effulgent moon-shaped gate accented with a lone cassia tree. Footsteps softly approaching... Ponyo. I turned around. Standing before me was a tall, dashing gentleman in a crisp white shirt with sparkling cufflinks, perfectly creased dark trousers and highly polished mahogany loafers. He had long hair down to his shoulders and a distinctly European influence in his facial features. Everything about him bespoke of quality. It was like looking at an Asian-European reflection of myself. His name was Montgomery. He was the Donald Trump of Taipeis black market. Ike was instrumental in arranging this meeting. We introduced ourselves each complimenting the other on our reputations. Ponyo, youve made quite an impression here in such a short time. Ike spoke so highly of you, I wanted to meet you myself. He spoke in a deep authoritative whisper.

& Vulture Peak



The Elixir of Ponyo

Montgomery, this is your city but Ive fallen in love with it. I feel like Ive been here all my life. Whats that youre smoking my friend? Marijuana. He frowned. Ponyo, thats taboo here. He then proceeded to run down the British gift of opium and marijuana that was instrumental in the conquering of Hong Kong. Well, I certainly sympathize with that history because the same British that did that to your people stole my people from Africa hundreds of years ago and their cousins are mistreating us right now. But I produced this myself. It gives me deep penetration into my surroundings, the intentions of everyone around me including my own. It boosts that kingly part of myself that everyone defers to. I took a long pull of the elixir. Youre missing out man. I offered him one and we both stood in silent contemplation as he took an extended drag. After an extended pause watching carp chase each other in the garden pond, he asked if I had another. I loaded him up with my best royal purple elixir and showed him how to roll it as well as explaining how to smoke it with a pipe. The next night Montgomery approached me again in the garden decidedly more relaxed yet his inner fire of intensity was smoldering even more. He shook my hand and looked deep into my eyes. If I took you to the market could you recognize this plant? Of course I could. The Taiwanese, like the Chinese, are connoisseurs of medicinal plants and herbs so every tonic under the sun could be found in one of the street markets. Sure enough, a whole bush of cannabis sat before us with an enchanting old woman chewing a leaf. She happily explained she used it as a sedative in her tea. We bought all she had. Montgomery and I got tight. Turns out, he owned all the warehouses which stocked all the appliances I was selling on the black market. He was the CEO of a huge operation whose main client was the government of Communist China. This is how both China and Taipei raised its standard of living to become the economic powerhouses of today. The Chinese are master duplicators. Japan and America engineered all these great new technological wonders. The Chinese bought up everything as soon as it was out, dismantled it and then got their craftsmen together to duplicate every part until the original and the facsimile were indistinguishable. Then they mass-produced it at a fraction of the cost. It was an ingenious strategy responsible for Chinas present day financial muscle as well as Taiwan. So Montgomery was one of the key players in this grand hustle and

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was therefore one of the architects of modern Taipei. I imagine hes probably the Bill Gates of Taiwan if hes still alive. Montgomery gave me a tour of his operation. Massive is too weak a word to describe the scope of it. In a big black chauffeur driven Mercedes, we drove into the heart of downtown Taipei to meet his business partner. I was expecting another sophisticated gentleman but met a short petticab driver just like Ike sitting on a rusty bucket in bare feet, bare chest and green khaki shorts. He spoke very little English but greeted me warmly. I called him Mr. B. I wasnt at all deceived by his humble appearance. I saw a depth of richness in him like the proverbial king dressed in rags. Mr. B was the eyes and ears of the operation on the streets while Montgomery handled the executive level. It was brilliant. Montgomery explained that Taiwan had some appallingly brutal prisons. Mr. B. had done some time and vowed never to return. So each night he rewound that day on the screen of his mind dissecting any mistakes he made and why he made them. After thoroughly analyzing each situation, he deleted the blunders. Never again would they be repeated. This strategy kept him a free man. We drank a powerful herbal tea Mr. B. brewed between barking orders to his lieutenants. I invited the entire street team to my place for dinner. We had a grand time. Everyone (every night) asked me about America. I ran down my experience. The women cried and the men were ready to take up arms to fight against the brutality of Jim Crow America. Every night I was encouraged to make Taiwan my home. That night at the 63 Club, Montgomery explained that he had another player in the operation living high in the mountains of Taiwan I had to meet. The next afternoon Montgomerys English speaking driver picked me up and drove me to a distant place he called Vulture Peak. We drove forever. In fact, I found myself increasingly weary and drifted off into a satisfying siesta. Upon awakening I found the car parked at its destination, the driver patiently waiting for me to come to. Being a man trained in the NSA with a top-secret-militarycryptographic-NATO clearance, I woke up angry for allowing myself to be overcome by sleep in a strange environment. If this turned out to be sabotage how would I get back to familiar settings? I shook off my apprehension. This was Taiwan, these were soul people, my people. I felt bad for even thinking like that. The driver opened the door and escorted me to what looked like an open air temple. (Taipei has as many temples as the hood has churches and liquor stores) This was a beautiful, haunting setting of tranquility that completely massaged my doubts. It felt like we drove to some misty mountain outside linear time. The geomantic artistry ruling the Asian aesthetic was overwhelmingly strong here. I had an overpowering feeling of oneness with the sky and the

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stars hidden underneath its silken blues, the mountains and its gossamer mists, the trees and its foliage, the grass and ground underneath my feet. The entire ecosystem inhaled and exhaled with me. My driver informed me we were in Nantou county. He pointed Westward to a hill called Tungting where the best oolong tea is produced. Through the heavy fog I could see dozens of farmers in bright clothing and those huge circular straw hats busy tending to their crops. Just as I was going to inquire if this was part of the operation too I was struck by an unusual scene a few feet ahead. A wiry old man sat in sublime equipoise, lotus style, attended to by a bevy of attendants, some very old, some very young but all female and all apparently there to look after him. Wait here. I was stationed close enough to drink in this scene, to enjoy what I perceived to be mendicant yogi, a living Buddha. It was an awe inspiring sight soundtracked by the sound of water flowing over rocks and a trio of young maidens plucking stringed instruments softly as humanly possible. The driver waited until one of the attendants acknowledged him before speaking. Whatever language was being spoken, it wasnt the Mandarin generally spoken in Taipei. The attendant gave me a glance and motioned, with one hand, for me to come forward. She gave a courteous command in a faint voice. The driver immediately sat before the old man. I followed his lead. We all sat there in silence for a few moments as I carefully inspected this cat. He wore a common greyish-blue cloth around him, his skin was pale, almost white with discoloring against his forehead. He had a stereotypical Fu Manchu coconut-white goatee with a long whiskered mustache hanging from each side of his chin. His face was free from wrinkles or creases and I noticed his chest was still. The man wasnt breathing! If he wasnt dead, I was looking at a real demonstration of the supreme consciousness Id been craving. Just as I thought it, I saw his chest heave in a deep inhale. Excitement noticeably echoed throughout his attendants. His inhalation was a dramatically long gesture, long enough to get everyones acute attention. His eyes slowly opened in perfect coordination with his exhalation. Two sparkling black coal eyes shined upon us, fixing on me. We gazed at each other without blinking. I was locked on him as he locked in on me. Some centripetal force field held me spellbound now and I didnt resist. Casually he blinked, letting his eyelids close, giving me permission to relax. He then raised a wild flower to his attendants gasp whispering the word, denkoroku. With amazing strength two older attendants standing behind me picked my body up off the ground. The Awakened Sage went back into his meditation as I was hurried into the little temple. Maybe because these were women or maybe because I was going into a temple or because of what I

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perceived as the Sages authenticity, I did not resist nor did I feel threatened. Inside, the temple looked more like a yoga studio than a religious house. I was taken to a small room and placed on a black mat. A long tube protruded out from the wall. It was a pipe, similar to the hookahs or water pipes used in the Middle East. The attendant wanted me to take a hit. Ahhh! So this is what keeps the Sage Awakened. I was already high but not as high as him. I was down to try whatever he was willing to share. A puff of smoke, as white as his beard, emanated from the device. I took the tube and pulled. It was an aromatically sweet and clean elixir quickly enchanting all my little atoms now tangibly buzzing within me like happily inebriated bees. I took another hit and momentarily blacked out a few seconds. I was struck by a diamond thunderbolt penetrating a diamond bell deep within my most subtle interior. Concentric ripples of mirth resounded within, culminating in my own verbal laughter. I sucked the thunder in once again and the entire universe dissolved, forgotten. I no longer sensed any bodily structure. I was scattered; subtly piercing every atom of Taiwan. I found my consciousness inside a bright full moon, rising majestically over the eastern African shore, high over the Indian continent, across the vast expanse of China, sailing out over the sharp edge of Japan, then sitting over Taiwan. The Awakened Sage sat across from me in a luminous cloud of white smoke. Our meeting was an intimately tender moment. Of course I use the word moments in its loosest sense for any quantification of time was now a completely foreign concept. The sages image quivered like water then morphed into a cascading symphony of living Buddhas, of enlightened masters. This parade of precious human forms became increasingly ancient, increasingly immortal, increasingly ferocious. Each enlightened being communicated its own spectrum of light, its own unique color and vibration. Thats the best I can articulate it. This roll call of immortals seemingly spanned eons, becoming more ferocious and menacing as if layers of frivolity, layers of ego were being discarded leaving only raw humanity; the primal human being in its truly authentic state. I sensed a challenge, a test to see how far I wished to go. I was not afraid. If Im going crazy, lets go stark raving mad! Lets go all the way. My response was answered with what I can only describe as a nonhuman configuration clothed in the sulfuric blackness of carbon, wearing a frightening humanoid mask with a contorted roaring mouth and open space for eyes. The figure was adorned in human skulls and held a freshly severed head in front of me before exploding into a three-hundred and sixty degree panorama of every immortal Ive encountered. Consciousness disappeared.

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When I came to, the sage, Tao-Ying was his name, sat before me smiling. The stern Fu Manchu figure had transformed into a compassionate, loving lama. He sprung to his feet and briskly walked out into the forest. Three maidens appeared and trailed him. I followed. Without words he began questioning me about my birthplace, my family, and my childhood in America. We walked through fragrant fields of tea where workers in broad hats picked tender shoots along endless rows of short bushes. I was somewhat overwhelmed by the heavenly aroma emanating from this hand-picked harvest. His assistant then began to tell me about this operation, via my driver. I was in Tungting Country where the worlds most expensive and sought-after oolong tea was produced. We stopped at a small hut where the sage himself served us three gold blossom oolong tea, the Rolls-Royce of teas. I had no barometer to judge the experience except to say the tea in America is merely flavored water compared to this. Then, like a lightning flash, Tao-ying shifted moods, reverting into Fu Manchu mode again, waving off the assistants save for the driver to translate his words. He began a remarkable soliloquy through his maiden, My child, you have royal genealogies extending into constellations. I have awakened your innermost being to all previous lifetimes to shine boundless clarity on this present lifetime. The lifeblood of luminosity continuously roams multidimensional realms for its ancestors borne of light not flesh. He dramatically thrust out his fists, thumbs up and touching. We are like two thumbs on opposite sides of the same body. When they come together, a circuit (mudra) is connected, electricity freely flows. The Original Friend intimately manifests throughout numberless past lives, one body after another, each shining new light from the same diamond. Now your acquaintance with this Wonderful Friend will become deeper and sweeter until, perhaps, you will meet this Faceless Friend face-to-face. This Friend is a real live human being who has ceased to be a particular being in a particular lifetime. Not one of numerous mindstreams, but the mind ocean itself surges within this one. From such precious founts spring the electricity of pure love and pure intelligence known as sages and sacred scriptures. I couldnt help but interrupt with a question spontaneously arising from unknown depths of my being, How is this possible? Finishing off his tea in a long sip Tao-Ying responded, My child, envision a bright blue river rushing in a circle, without beginning nor end - pure potency irrigating vast fields of civilization springing forth without number or multiplication. He then told me I would meet my master in America where I would

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assist him in freeing my people. I left this mystic misty mountain full of deep awe and gratitude. Montgomery later explained that Tao-Ying not only oversaw the prestigious oolong tea distribution network but was the unseen muscle of the entire operation spending four to twelve hours a day in the astral. He saw what Montgomery and Mr. B. did not see on the streets of Taipei and even in China. They kept him in that blissful, free lifestyle as insurance against the enemies of the operation, mainly the police and the Western venture capitalists who had been successfully shut out of the lucrative pie of the black market.

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Lewis Lowe

City of the Gods

My next night back in town, Ike said some lucrative deals were in the works that Montgomery wanted to include me in on. Montgomery met me at the Linco Chilliboo where we dined on a sumptuous feast. According to Montgomery, Tao-Ying had knighted me not only on the astral planes but gave me his blessings on the black market plane as well. When I went back to Shikotsu I was to be their supplier for lace and fine textiles which were in high demand in China. I was now an equal partner with Montgomery and Mr. B. with Tao-Yings protective eyes (all three) watching over the operation. After toasting to our new partnership Montgomery cued the entrance of one of the most sumptuously gorgeous women Ive ever seen. She was a dark-skinned woman who must of had some African swimming in her sparkling gene-pool. She was tall with defiantly Indo-Asian facial features and thick long black hair resting on her shoulders. Maybe her father was a brother who served here at some point. She spoke only broken English. Montgomery referred to her as the Dark Girl. Ponyo, shes perfect for you. Immediately we hit a groove. She was a seductress with inexhaustible appetite for pleasure. Sex was up there with oxygen for her. I laid all of my okee chimpo on her, whereas my other Asian lovers could only take half my manhood. This new groove was serendipitous because my top woman in Taiwan, Teme, was going to fully devote herself to the tutelage of her grandmother in Tainan. Tainan is Taiwans fourth largest city situated in the southwestern part of the island where life was much slower. The city was somewhat of a refuge for the Indigenous Taiwanese whose traditions Temes grandmother, Pi, was the living torch. Montgomery arranged my lodging and a train to the island of Tainan for a three-day excursion and a farewell to my sweet lover Teme. Our carriage meandered throughout remote mountain villages along serpentine routes amidst luxurious jade foliage. Shelters, some mystically sparse bamboo huts, others grand three story pagodas stood serenely as the sole indications of humanity. One could quickly forget the modern world here, which was fine with me. With the accompaniment of a little Hyaminaal and a few puffs of the royal purple elixir, Teme and I began a passionate heart to heart conversation

Tainan,

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on our dreams, hopes, and fears. Shed come to Taipei in hopes of marrying a wealthy man but with each encounter found herself unfulfilled. She was born the heir to the secrets of her people. Unfortunately, all her family had long ago abandoned those primitive traditions. Only her grandmother knew anything of her peoples true culture, morays, and traditions. My own peoples struggle for dignity in America had convinced her to take her place as the oral historian and caretaker of the Seediq people, in honor of her grandmother. Deep into my kingly ego now, I proclaimed my own future an enigma impossible for me to fathom. My past, my family, childhood were fast becoming a mystery. The collective suffering of a people was all I seemed to remember. The good life Im enjoying in Taiwan and Shiktostu must be providential. I had absolutely no intentions of ever setting foot on American soil again. It was nightfall when we arrived in Tainan. This was not a place for posh accommodations or elegant show lounges. Tainan was the city of the gods. Temes grandmother claimed many of the gods resided here in Tainan and there was no better place to meet or become one yourself. Cool. Besides Tainans wealth of temples, I immediately recognized the warmth of heart amongst the locals. It exceeded even the already enormous graciousness of Taipei. Teme and I ate, bathed and made love in our little feng shui pagoda. That morning I was introduced to Temes charming and graceful teacher and ancestral root. Her full name (like Temes) was an elaborate genealogy of great ones in her lineage cut down providentially to Pi for people like you and me. Pi was a small bundle of electricity who greeted me like the Prodigal Son. She even spoke some English. Her dwelling itself was an ancestral shrine camouflaged by a fortress of trees on the mountainside. Billows of pungent incense clouded the residence and complimented my own morning elixirs pleasantly. I was informed I was to participate in her daily worship which Teme said was an unprecedented honor reserved only for family. The burning of incense to keep the family safe was a tradition one generation passed to the next. Pi rhythmically walked backwards outside waving a fanlike bouquet of incense and bowed once to the God of Heaven and once to the God of the Earth then moved back in front of the family altar bowing before the ancestors and placing the bouquet in a burner besides which sat a ornately carved wooden chair. Matsu, Pi said authoritatively looking at me. Teme explained this chair is used in the annual festival for Matsu we witnessed my first day in Taiwan. Here sat Matsus temple statue as she is violently shaken to circulate her divine chi to all her worshippers. Pi commanded us both to imitate her gestures with the incense then sit with her at the altar. Once seated, Pi gave a poetic discourse on her role as

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caretaker of a tradition and revealed many secrets she never shared before. She was a direct descendant of the Goddess Matsu on both paternal lines. Both Matsu and Pi didnt cry as infants and became vegetarians at an early age. Matsu met an immortal at sixteen who gave her a jade amulet to heal the sick and bring rain. At twenty-nine she walked up a mountain and into the clouds where she now reigns as Mother of Heaven and Goddess of the Sea. Hundreds of temples have been built in her honor and Pi had worshipped at most of them. Soon, Pi said, she too must leave this world but Teme must carry on her role as caretaker. She thanked me for awakening this desire in her granddaughter, thus fulfilling her fondest desire: someone to carry on the old ways of her people. She snatched another aromatic bouquet of incense from the altar. The burning of incense, she said is a means of communicating with the spirits. When a devotee holds a stick of incense before an image of their devotion, their soul becomes transparent and the respective deity knows their innermost desires. The swirling smoke from the fire is a link between heaven and earth. The fire itself fends off evil spirits and the sweet fragrance attracts good ones. The smoke then carries ones desires to heaven. Part of Temes immediate initiation was learning the art of making incense, this means of communication. Pi, it turns out, had a lucrative business of her own producing the incense used for devotion in many of the temple-shrines of Taiwan. Today I would join Teme in learning this art. We went outside to gather large bundles of fine bamboo sticks to be dipped in water. The sticks were then spread out like a fan and dipped in a basket of naturally adhesive powder. Pi displayed masterful dexterity turning the fan of sticks in such a way that each one was equally coated with powder. We were then given a tutorial on the fragrance oils that give incense its aromatic power. For ceremonial purposes, the base of all Pis incense was powdered sandalwood. A great saint, Sakyamuni, discovered it helped him stave off fatigue and sharpen concentration during his months of sleepless waking, sitting in front of the stone wall. Other ingredients such as Chinese juniper wood, ginseng, cloves, cinnamon, and musk oil could be added with ones own intuitive discretion. Pi shook the bamboo sticks then gracefully rotated them in baskets of the various fragrances once, then twice more each time chanting a prayer with Teme which wasnt articulated to me. After this process of triple coating, we laid the fans in front of a hot furnace to be dried. The bare bamboo ends used for holding the incense would later be dyed pink or red. This method required great concentration and consistency of effort, otherwise the incense would not burn smoothly and parts of the covering could

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flake off. It would be some time before one would be accomplished enough at manipulating the fan of bamboo sticks to ensure even coverage. Mastery of this process would mark Temes first degree in the successful completion of her training. Other incense forms, such as coils and miniature cones would be taught later. Coils required the greatest degree of skill for they burn in the temples and shrines for up to a month and require the greatest skill and devotion. Such mastery was Pis personal passport to all the various temples and secured her station as a saint throughout Taiwan. So it would be in a few years for Teme. Providentially, today was Chinese Valentines Day. Many of Tainans young people, particularly the girls, would be at the temples to pray for a good marriage. Pi, Teme, and I went on a walking tour of these temples. We were greeted by a city magistrate and good friend of the family in a beautiful Chinese garden. She was another bundle of infectious joy who had never met an American Black man. She offered many delicacies over conversation such as lotus tea, taro cake and Taiwanese dumplings. She probed me about the condition of Black people in the United States and as always many tears of empathy were shed. The magistrate grew furious with indignation at my accounts. I think I even heard some Taiwanese curse words emanating from her, so harsh their tone. Teme translated her frustration to me. Although Tainan was renown as the City of the Gods it was also a port city which, a few times a month, hosted military service men in a small section of town. These GIs, the magistrate said, were a cancer on this beautiful city. They have no respect for its sacred atmosphere. They get drunk, trash the city, and abuse the young women. Yet they boosted the struggling citys economy. It was a necessary evil. Later today, a ship of these toxic men would be arriving on this auspicious holiday, Chinese Valentines Day, tainting the harmony of the occasion. Feeling her passion, I demanded to be taken immediately to this part of town. When we arrived, it reminded me of a defanged Kaza Four Corners. The few blocks seemed totally removed from the open generous heart of the rest of Tainan. I reached in my pocket and pulled out a two inch wad of cash. My friend, Im buying out this district. Close every bar, every restaurant, every brothel. Today is a holiday. The magistrate broke down in tears and embraced me with all her might. Pi and Teme joined in and they held each other in tearful thankfulness. As the ship of rowdy soldiers docked I accompanied the magistrate with armed police who forbid them from entering the city, Today a great friend from America, Ponyo, has bought the whole

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city in honor of Chinese Valentines Day. This is a national day of rest. Today is Ponyo Day! As the ship backed out of the harbor, fireworks lit up the pre-dusk sky. A celebration erupted. I was given the honorary status of an Emperor over the city. So, if you want, you can call me King Ponyo! We danced and sang and ate and made merry all night long.

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Lewis Lowe

The Prophecy of Pi
The next day would be the farewell for Teme and I. Yet it wasnt a sad parting but a mutual feeling of gratitude between us for our time together. Teme took me to her grandmothers before my departure. Pi was still buzzing off yesterdays victory and said word of it had traveled throughout the country. She handed me a pair of bamboo objects shaped like half moons. Teme excitedly whispered to me this was another unprecedented honor. These objects were divining blocks used as a communication bridge with the gods. Through them a person can determine his future by the positioning of the blocks after throwing them on the ground. Pi instructed me to throw the blocks outside in the direction of the sun. I threw one, as instructed, then the other with my right hand. The second landed strategically atop the former constructing a perfect crescent moon in its first-quarter. Pi jumped in front of me and grabbed both my hands looking deep into my eyes in silent wonder. She then joined my right hand with Temes and spoke these words, Ponyo, your destiny is one with my granddaughter. As she will keep the flame of life aflame for her people, you must reignite that very same flame for your people in America. We will pray everyday for your success.

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Secret of the Dark Girl

For my last week in Taiwan, I decided to throw a soiree where Id share my experiences in Tainan, catch up with Montgomery and spend some time with the mysterious Dark Girl. My staff served up a feast of Szechuan-chilli chicken, roseate prawns, along with fried rice and steamed vegetables. I invited the extended families of my live-in staff and sat them at my table. A heated discussion on current affairs sparked up. The chief topic being the long-standing dispute of Taiwanese sovereignty. Could China be trusted to give Taiwan sovereignty, was Japan any better, and what about the activities of Ho Chi Ming in Vietnam? I shared what Pi told me of her traditions and how I must alight the flame of freedom in America. The Dark Girl became very animated then shocked us all by articulating her own views in perfect English. Befuddled, I listened to her story. She was born in Botswana. Her father was from Hyderbad, India, her mother from Morroco. Her people sprung from a rich Sufi tradition, espousing the doctrine of Tasawuuf. Tasawuuf! No wonder there was such heat between us. I could remember where but I had heard this word before. You must share with me all you know of Tasawuuf. The Dark Girl stood up from the table, took my hand and walked me upstairs to the bedroom. She sat on the bed and broke down in tears. Baby, whats wrong? Ponyo, Ive been lying to you. Sadia was her real name. She was twenty-four, spoke seven languages and had traveled all over the world; America, Europe, the Middle East, Africa and now Asia. She came from a very prominent diplomatic family so she could afford the luxury of travel which she used to soak up the local customs and beliefs. As a girl, she was trained in Tasawuuf. During her teenage years she became fascinated with Lenin and became a Communist. Spirituality, she said, was for spirits and revolution was for humans. What attracted her to Lenin was his vow to free all nations from colonialism. She came to Taiwan to see for herself the effects Chinese colonialism had had on the Taiwanese. The next stop on her itinerary was to assess Ho Chi Mings struggle in Vietnam. But she found herself torn because like spiritually, she could not find a pure application of communism anywhere in the world that was truly for the people.

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Shed heard about me and had planned to ensnare me, flip me over to her Communist comrades. But once she met me she fell in love. Tonight, after hearing of my exploits and my passion for my people, she had to come clean. Ponyo, please forgive me. I just want to be with you, to help you. Im confused. I dont know what to do. I was taken aback. Darling you cant flip me because Ive pledged allegiance only to me. I got no love for America. Ive found my freedom here. Look at all this. Look at the way Im treated. Ive had two illustrious masters tell me Im destined to help free my people in America. Id rather send them spiritual power from here in Taiwan and up north in Hokkaido. If you want to help me, tell me everything you know all about Tasawuuf. Communism, democracy, socialism, all that political bullshit wont help the oppressed people of the planet. But Im convinced Tasawuuf might. It seems that not only were my people in America put to sleep but all the Indigenous people all over the planet have lost contact with their inherent powers, their Indigenous Spirituality. Im interested in unleashing that dormant volcano within. Thats why I came here. I dont give a damn about Americas power trip. Sadia grabbed me in a long embrace, still in tears. Look, lets go dancing. I cant have no sadness around me. I forgive you but you have to forgive yourself. Lets have some fun. Walking back downstairs, Mamason K and some of her girls were dancing to James Brown. I looked at Sadia and motioned for her to join. Meanwhile, I summoned Montgomery and the other men in the kitchen. Tonight wed do the dishes.

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Sadia, Nona, and

King Ponyo

Being inside Sadia was like swimming inside a sea of honey and delightfully drowning. What was an already mind-blowing spark was now an all out conflagration. Laying on the bed, smoking an elixir, Sadia took my jade flute into her mouth and began to blow, creating the most pleasurable melodies... At first I begged her not to, then I begged her not to stop. After hitting a new peak with the Dark Girl, we both felt like dancing, so we found our way to the Linco-chilliboo. Now Ive already said how great the entertainment was here but tonight the music had an extra thump, a wholly different authentic expression instead of a damn good imitation. I was hearing something, well, Black. Sure enough a group of brothers were vamping on Aretha Franklins Think. They all wore matching powder blue tuxedos with ruffled shirts and they were throwing down. Then out strutted the singer. A sister, a Black woman. A fine, with capital letters Black woman. She wore a tight black dress barely covering two dark chocolate legs which seemed strong enough to kick a 747 into the sky. She was a sumptuous sight and the whole room rocked with seismic pleasure when she shook her glorious black bottom, as curvaceous as two perfect melons percolating in precision with each kick of the bass drum. She wore no bra so her breasts jiggled shyly girdled underneath the remarkably tight V of her dress. She resembled the beautiful singer Lauryn Hill in her perfectly sculpted face of elegant African symmetry. Her voice was so powerful a microphone wasnt really necessary. Barefoot, she strutted to the music before issuing her demand, You better think! Think bout what youre trying to do to me! Just seeing a Black woman again for me was an epiphany. Sadia, sensing my arousal, enhanced it by holding me tight, her hands in my pockets. Shes beautiful. Sadia too was taken aback by this dervish dancing before us. After roaring for a good ten minutes the band transitioned into I Never Loved a Man the Way I Love You. The sister sang each note from the bottom of her soul before erupting into a volcanic crescendo of passion so deep Sadia began to cry. Then the guitarist did some wild Jimi Hendrix pyrotechnics which morphed into I Cant Get No Satisfaction. The sister jumped up into the audience igniting a dance party. Sadia

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and I took to the floor and let loose. Inevitably the only two Black folks in the joint danced over to each other and threw down. She clued Im Gonna Wait Til the Midnight Hour and transported me back to my youthful New York City days. It was Cotton comes to Harlem in Taipei. She then sat me in a chair on the stage and serenaded me personally with Its a Mans, Mans World before closing with Say it Loud Im Black and Im Proud which somehow sounded perfect naturally coming from an audience of Taiwanese. The singer sashayed over to our table to a standing ovation led by Sadia and myself. She ran into my arms. Oh she felt so good, sweet Black sweat and all. Where are you from darling? Norfolk. Norfolk! Im from Illumination, down the road from Charlottesville. How the hell did you get over here! Providence baby. I introduced her to Sadia who greeted her with a deep bow and embrace. I invited her to sit down and have some dinner. Her name was Nona and her band was touring all the Pacific NCOs ending up in Hawaii. She had two more days and one more performance in Taipei. Ponyo, wheres the after party? Right here! Im the after party. Im king over here. I could tell she felt a little intimidated by Sadia but I reassured her it was cool. Lets roll. Montgomery came by and was fascinated by this gorgeous specimen of Black American womanhood but Im sorry homey, shes all mine tonight. We all jumped in his big black Mercedes and took the party to my place. Sadia laid out some comfortable clothes for her and my staff cooked up a feast. Nona couldnt believe my Asian adventures and the bliss Id found here. She was in the black power movement in Oakland and resented even playing for the troops. But like me, used it as an opportunity to see the world. According to Nona, things for our people were rapidly deteriorating in America. She was ready to take up arms and overthrow the government like Castro did in Cuba. Then she dropped the bomb on me that Malcolm X had been shot down by his own people. See, thats why Im staying right here. I got my forty acres and a pool. Fuck America. Nona pulled out a little joint and asked if she could smoke. Smoke? Baby, you aint never had no smoke like this. I handed her one of my royal elixirs. Puff.

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Damn! Whered you find this shit? I grow it. I own a whole mountain of marijuana in Northern Japan. You the most far-out cat Ive ever met! Nona drank as well so I told her to help herself to my bar. As our elevation rose, the conversation deepened especially between Nona and Sadia who both shared their respective tactics for revolution. But revolution was the last thing on my mind. Sadia? With one glance she knew what I had in mine. Sadia stood up, disrobed and went upstairs to my huge tub. Nona? She finished her drink and ran upstairs. All three of us could comfortably fit into my bath, my standing rod standing proudly out the water like a tree stalk. Nona watched a little hesitantly from outside the tub, while Sadia started our bathing ritual. Come on baby. Ponyo, I havent had any sex in so long. Do you want me to give you some pleasure? Sadia, would you permit me to pleasure our sister? Sadia giggled and extended an arm of welcome. Nona threw off her clothes and dove into the tub literally attacking me. Sadia leaned back laughing as Nona furiously tongued my mouth, rubbing my cock. I then nibbled on Nonas neck and huge black nipples as Sadia poured hot libations over our bodies. What the hell have I got myself into? Fuck me Ponyo. Fuck me! I lifted Nonas delicious body out the tub, slowly descending her onto my rod. She hissed with abandon as I slowly pierced her black nest. She locked her legs tight around me thrusting into me with all her might, her hips moving fast as hummingbird wings. We thoroughly ravished each other as Sadia alternatively caressed us both. This was the old time down home southern fucking I was used to. Nona came in explosive convulsions, unleashing an aria of moans in perfect pitch. I gently lowered us back into the tub with Nona crying tears of bliss. Thank you, thank you, thank you, she whispered with wet kisses into my ear. Sadia poured more libations as Nona relaxed on the edge of the tub with closed eyes, lost in the atomic expansion of pleasure, the spacious geography of orgasm. Ponyo, you dont know how bad I needed that. I stood up from the tub and went downstairs to get some orange juice and a tray of fruits to replenish everyones energy. Walking back upstairs I found Sadia in all her glory waiting for me on the bed. She looked at me with such palpable desire, telegraphing waves of lustful electricity my way. My faithful servant rose again to quench her longing. Sadias glistening body quivered with anticipation as I approached the bed. I loved watching you inside her. It was so beautiful.

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I got into bed playfully planting nibbling kisses up her calves, thighs, and stomach. When she came, it was so powerful I felt it all over me. But you didnt come. Why? Soft as a feather, my hands gently massaged her breasts, my fingertips teasing her nipples. Sadia, I only come for you. Nona romped with us the next day, receiving the King Ponyo treatment and spellbinding everyone she met. Now their Black American king had a Black American queen. Nona had that bohemian hippie chick aura of San Francisco mixed with the star diva-ness of Diana Ross. Add Sadias exotic, super-sensual pedigree and we made quite a remarkable trio. Even though Nona cursed like a sailor, she was well read and well traveled. She had impeccable manners and was very much a lady. She even had Montgomery mumbling his words. He couldnt get enough of her but Id already stitched my tattoo on her imagination. She gave one more fantastic performance and hopped a plane for her next engagement in the Philippines. She gave me all her contact information and made me promise to visit her when I got back to America. Nona youll have to visit me here cause I aint going back to America. Yes you will. And you better catch up with me when you do. I only had a few more days left here in Taiwan and a short time of duty left in my assignment. Continuing in the military was not an option, so I had to decide where I wanted to be, Taiwan or Japan. I liked Japan but had fallen in love with the people of Taiwan. The climate was semitropical and I was hooked up with all the power players. Montgomery assured me I always had a place here, so did Mamason K. Moreover, Taiwan had fallen in love with me, crowned me king and given me the appellation of Ponyo, the friend of their souls. Sadia was beside herself thinking of my departure. I assured her and all my people Id definitely be coming back as soon as possible. Everyone came out to the airport to see me off. As my plane parted the clouds I looked down on my newly adopted island home and reflected on the amazing adventure it had given me. Looking at the misty clouds all around the aircraft, my initiation with Tao-Ying haunted my mind with persistence. It seemed all my exotic fantasies of going to the mystical East had been fulfilled. I was living my dreams and it felt so much better than I could have imagined. Back in Shiktosu I shared my adventures with Gibbons and his lady from Tokyo. Gibbons couldnt believe it. You the luckiest mamma-jamma I ever met!

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Reunion
Charlie Brown was a professional alcoholic. He was a brother from St. Louis who probably got drunk as a fetus and had beer in his baby bottle. He was Gibbons roommate for a year before we set up our laboratory/apartment in Shiskotsu. Gibbons and Charlie bought the big Buick we all used. Charlie and I werent tight but we happened to have a stretch of days off at the same time. All of us had our side hustles; Brown had something going on in a little city a couple hours up the road. Being always up for adventure I rode with him to check it out. Not forty miles outside Shiktosu, a blizzard straight out of Dr. Zhivago struck. Im smoking my elixir, hes sipping his bottle, the snows coming down like hail, and visibility is quickly becoming impossible. Were driving on one of those treacherous mountain highways with no railings and the cars hydroplaning. Darkness is descending. Brown, maybe this isnt a good idea. We slow down to a lurch, trying to prevent our ride from sliding off the mountain. At the height of our desperation we saw a constellation of lights not far ahead. Wed reached a little village in the mountains. We both breathed a huge sigh of relief. Hokkaido people are like Chicago people. A blizzards just another day and this little town was buzzing with activity. Maybe the blizzard would pass, if not we could surely secure some lodging and get a fresh start in the morning. We parked outside a cafe with a delicious aroma piercing the cold and the icicles growing on our noses. We bundled up and rushed inside. It was a little mom and pop cafe serving up hearty dishes of Northern Japanese cuisine. A sweet little waitress came over taken aback by these two Black men in her hometown. But she was really shocked when I ordered in perfect Japanese. When our food came the young lady was very nervous and kept stealing glances at me. Maybe she thinks Im Tony Tawny. Then between bites the thought came to mind, Maybe this is the town Yasiko came from? I called the waitress over. Yasiko? She looked like shed seen (or heard) a ghost. Yasiko! Tony Tawny! The young lady quickly excused herself and Brown sat there bewildered by the exchange. Now Yasiko wasnt on my mind at all my whole time in Taiwan and I believed myself over it. Now all those hurting emotions flooded up in me once

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again. I sipped a little sake to calm my agitation. Fifteen minutes later Yasiko walks in. She ran into my arms and hugged me so tight our hearts could of kissed. Brown drank a Sapporo beer just as delighted to be reunited with alcohol. Yasiko, what happened to you? Tears flowed from her eyes and she told me the story of her exodus. It was pretty simple. Her father knew about me and begrudgingly shrugged it off. But when she abandoned school to live with me, that was the final straw. But she didnt return home alone. She was pregnant. Pregnant? A whole new array of foreign emotions engulfed me as I listened. I had an abortion. My heart sank to the soles of my feet and tears now freely flowed from both our eyes. To be an unwed mother from a prestigious family like hers was unthinkable. She did what she had to do. But the thought of a little PonyoYasiko blend running around fascinated me. She had told all her friends about me. Thats why the waitress immediately recognized me. This is destiny, my love. Ive dreamed about you every night. In my heart I knew youd somehow come back to me. I was at a loss for words. Come, you must meet my family. Yasiko, Brown, and myself went to her families country home. I met her mother, her father and younger siblings. Hers was comely abode adorned with decorative touches of art from the hands of her mother. Gossamer web-like washi lamps made of mulberry lit the home and tsutsugaki hangings draped the walls depicted dragons, turtles and cranes. All highlighted variations of their family crest and were lovingly displayed all over the home. I felt no hostility or strangeness here. Her father and I hit it off immediately. Tony Tawny! He laughed in a booming Japanese rumble. He was a slightly overweight man, a rarity in Japan, and emanated the aura of privilege. His mother was a slightly older model of Yasiko, sweet, dainty and unbelievably beautiful. Mom served tea and snacks as we assembled at a table. Yasiko emerged from her room in a deep turquoise kimono with a motif of elegant powder white cranes flying above fields of rice. We talked and laughed a while before retiring to our respective rooms. Surprisingly, her parents expected me to sleep in Yasikos room. It was an overwhelmingly poignant and joyful reunion. I shared my adventures in Taiwan and my desire to possibly relocate there. She was ready to go anywhere on the planet with me. Japan, Taiwan, America, Mars, anywhere.

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I assured her of my deep love for her but the wishes of her parents must be considered. We fell asleep in each others arms. Brown was given directions and headed off that morning leaving me with Yasiko. She was, like her mother an artisan. Saskiko pieces, quilt like fabrics of unbleached hemp thread sewn by hand, filled her room. This art, she said, was a testament to the strength and patience of country women and a productive way to spend a long winter night. These intricate textural works reminded me of the kente cloth of West Africa but were much more subtle and less colorful. She presented me a huge quilt shed worked on the past several days. It was a soothing geometric pattern against a turquoise backdrop which hinted of constellations. It could be worn like a parka or even as a comforter for my bed, something to remind me of her warmth. So the sun of Yasiko had once again risen over me. Her warmth was a soothing bath in comparison to Sadias volcanic inferno. I was not the same man Yasiko left a couple months ago. This Ponyo persona coupled with my resultant initiations had sparked my desire for supreme consciousness. It was an unscratchable itch that had become a full on rash. I desired my own guru, my own master who could charm that kundalini serpent sleeping at the base of my spine. I desired this more than food or drink, more than money, and more than the love of a woman. It was becoming an all-consuming fire. I knew this alchemical furnace would leave nothing of me but ashes whose transcendent embers no sacarphacous could bind. This death of the limited self: the Black man, the American, the male, Orion, Specialist Roberts, Ponyo; whatever labels, personalities, masks or identifications I held onto must die so the limitless self, the real me, could be. Needless to say, returning to my job as code breaker was a serious adjustment. It was becoming just a routine nine to five. Whereas Id previously found my work a stimulus, now I frankly didnt care if I pulled down any signals intelligence or not. Some of my colleagues were forced to take their 30 day leaves in anticipation of our assignment coming to an end. One of the genius Jewish boys asked me when I was going to take mine. Take mine? How, I wondered, could I have thirty days of leave when Id already taken sixty days off? I checked my records and sure enough I had thirty days of leave yet to be taken. I guess my superiors felt the best way to manage me was to be free of me. What providence. I immediately resumed my Taipei groove, picking up where Id left off with the Dark Girl Sadia, Montgomery, Ike, the Mamason, and Ponyos Palace. This time I brought back yards and yards of lace, utilizing the brilliant larceny of Gibbons and fulfilling my promise to Montgomery. A couple hours back in Taipei yielded a huge payday for myself,



The Elixir of Ponyo

Montgomery and Gibbons. Ponyo was back! This time around I sought out the Black GIs serving in Taiwan of whom were two stripes: those whod continue their military careers and probably return to America and those who vowed never to step foot in America again. I was absolutely in the never again squad. Some brothers had gone MIA, others, like myself, were counting the days until this shit was over. The red, white, and blue Negroes read their scripts and played their parts well. My group were the hustlers, killers, pimps, con men, and the spiritual seekers. All of us had our grooves and lived in grand style. Being a third class citizen again was unthinkable. Taiwan has undergoing its genesis as a modern economic power. The never again brothers were into all aspects of the black market. Heavy equipment, sewage piping, toilets, wiring, automobiles; all the essentials needed by a developing nation we greased our hands in. These were the cats I held court with in my palace and man did we have a time. Everyday was Christmas and every night was New Years Eve.



Lewis Lowe

Orphaned By Fortune
One morning I jumped out of bed in a cold sweat like coming out of a bad dream. Sadia immediately comforted me with sweet words and kisses. I looked around at this exquisite villa, my delightfully sensuous consort, this grand life of mine and was haunted by one thought: how the hell did I get here? I had amnesia. I remembered nothing of the intimate details of my life. I couldnt remember my mothers face, my fathers voice, the name of my hometown, my childhood, high school, college, nothing. All I knew was before me. Maybe Id used too many drugs. I told nothing to my Taiwanese family about my personal background, I only shared the collective suffering of an entire people. That recollection was now like a nightmare Id woken up from. I was orphaned by fortune. I was rootless and didnt care. I knew America was hell for Black people and this was heaven. What more did I need to know? So be it. Im Ponyo and this is my life. Somebody up there must really like me. Thus was my life for the remaining three months of my tour. I shuttled between Taiwan and Hokkaido on top of my game. Yasiko was my woman in Japan, Sadia in Taiwan. Life was good in big bold capital letters. I had arranged an overseas discharge for myself and took my place along side Montgomery in his ever expanding operation. One providential afternoon, I was in a coffee shop with Sadia, sailing the astral on my elixirs when a song came on the jukebox. The song was Drown in my own Tears written by the incomparable Ray Charles and sung by the queen of soul Aretha Franklin. The piano stirred me out of my bliss like someone threw ice cold water on me. Aretha sang, It brings a tear into my eyes, when I begin to realize Ive cried so much since youve been gone. Her voice was so soulful, so full of pain, so pure in its supplication. I could hear centuries of unspeakable sorrow in Arethas plaintive cries. I heard the South. I heard the voice of the ancestors crying from the blood-soaked dirt of Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi, and yes, Virginia. I guess Im drowning in my own tears, I sit and cry just like a child. My pouring tears are running wild. If you dont think youll be home soon I guess Ill drown in my own tears. I heard the voice of Mister Lushus! It was hearing the soul of my

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grandfather pouring out the speakers! The man whose voice called me out of death as a child on an operating table in New York City twenty years ago. That same voice was now calling me out of a dream. He was singing his own private pain to me. Now I know why he cried in the back of church every Sunday. I know its true, into each life some rain, rain must pour. Im so blue here without you. It keeps raining more and more. Why dont you come on home? My mother! Crystal Roberts was singing to me. My fathers helper and business mastermind. My dad! William Roberts. I hear you dad! My friend who was so industrious, the country boy who owned probably half of Illumination now. Illumination! Illumination, VA, my hometown. I hear all yall singing to me. If you dont think youll be home soon. I guess Ill drown in my own tears. When Im in trouble, baby! ...drown in my own tears. Michael Thomas! My best friend since the second grade. I hear you bo! Vesper! My cousin, the student in Universal Awe. Universal Awe! Yes, I remember now. A new underground railroad to free our people. I broke down like a baby as Lady Soul lamented. My whole body broke out in a deluge of tears. I was literally drowning in my own tears. I remembered it all. I remember it all. Now Tao-Yings prophecy materialized in my minds eye. That it was going to be alright. I was going back to America for my people. Pis words were now crystal clear as well. It was my mission to reconnect my people to their greatness. As she and Teme were doing here, I had to do there. Sadia was beside herself trying her best to console me. I couldnt speak. I couldnt explain it. Weeping was my only language. I was a rambling, mumbling idiot, crying uncontrollably with every fiber of my being. I felt the pain of every captive brought over here in chains, every lash of every whip, every humiliating, dehumanizing act of brutality, every rape, every castration, every lynching, every pot boiling, every indignity I felt in the pit of my soul. I was on the Native peoples Trail of Tears and I was crying their pain. I was on the trail of tears, crying millions of tears. Sadia took me outside and the fresh air resuscitated me somewhat. Baby, talk to me. Whats wrong. What can I do for you. Ive got to go back. I cant stay here. Im going back to America. Ive got to free my people. Im going back to America.

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Exit
I was solidly resolute in my decision. I called all my friends to the villa to explain my decision and bid them farewell. It was an evening of philanthropic tenderness. Montgomery was the most optimistic of all my friends, believing the opportunities available here in Taipei would eventually change my mind. Ponyo, my success is your success. Your position with me is secure. This was everyones unanimous sentiment, This is your home, we are your family. But Sadia, the revolutionary who stealthed herself in steel armor, was a mess. She was almost unrecognizable, so blue her funk. The day of my departure a hundred people, it seemed, came to the airport to see me off. I embraced them all on the tarmac holding up the departure of the aircraft. Montgomery and Mr. B. handed me a severance package, an envelope containing an embarrassing amount of cash. Ike and his family hugged me warmly. Mamason K and her starlets blessed me with loving hugs and kisses. The shop owners, the restauranteurs, the never again brothers, and many people I didnt even know all came to see me off. Sadia was hysterical. She came with me on the plane holding onto me for dear life. We embraced one final time before the pilot intervened and escorted her down the stairs. As the aircraft began its taxi an entire city of friends waved goodbye to Ponyo, the friend of their souls.



The Elixir of Ponyo

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Jikai
Jikai was a young man, probably twenty years my senior. We became acquainted in the coffee shops of Shiktosu. He operated a small store selling herbal tonics; elixirs to invigorate, heal, and relax. Wed have very stimulating conversations in Japanese, always ending in tacit glances of unspoken knowing. When I returned this last time from Taiwan I shared some of my adventures. When I mentioned my initiations with Tao-Ying and Pi his entire countenance took on an unusual intensity. He closed his shop, invited me inside its private quarters and brewed a strong ginger tea. Ponyo, what a beautiful name. Tell me again about these initiations. Jikai was a diminutive yet compact figure with a impressively natural musculature. I thought of him as a very hip warrior-monk. He smoked, liked jazz, and seemed very worldly. I never asked about his personal life, but presumed him to be married and a father. He had a stately aura and seemed at ease with everyone. I never saw a trace of arrogance or importance in him. As I shared my encounters with him I realized he too was in touch with this something, this intangible power I desired; the same something that had fascinated me with Japan in the first place. The same something I needed to take back with me to America. Jikai sipped his tea carefully weighing my every gesture and word. When I finished, we sat suspended in pregnant quietude for several minutes. He wrote down an address in the country and handed it to me. I will train you for your mission in America. This is how I spent my last weeks in Japan, training with Jikai.

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Illumination is
Jikai was an Ainu Indian. He dismissed the martial arts craze as fanciful mischief without a spiritual foundation. Only people who had a master in their genealogical constellation were truly qualified to be students, he explained. And to charge money, nullified the sanctity of the teacher/student relationship. He spat on the floor to show his displeasure at all this. He was indeed a widely known and greatly feared master of an unknown and untaught form of martial arts. His practice of this unnamed form of martial arts was his mistress. Women are great distractions. Jikai taught it was a great sin to treat a kind person bad and an equal sin to treat a wicked person kindly. I was trained in the way of the peaceful warrior. He gave me three defensive moves which I was repetitively bound to use only if attacked. I was further bound to humble myself thrice before retaliating. After blocking an aggressors attacks three times and sincerely attempting to diffuse the situation, I was then bound to kill this aggressor. I was given defensive moves to protect my head, torso and lower body. If attacked I would block the blow then step back, block and step back, block and step back. Humbling myself three times in this manner justified the death penalty of my opponent. I was given three killing blows to master. First, a sharp upward thrust of the palm against my opponents nose driving the bone back into his brain. Second, using my hands as talons, thrusting my arms towards the face, clasping my thumbs into the opponents eye sockets to pull out his eyes. Lastly, joining my index and middle fingers together like a letter opener, strike and penetrate the opponents adams apple, pulling out his throat. The conditioning for these simple moves were repetitive exercises designed to make the moves as natural as walking, breathing or sleeping. I would therefore respond to any attack with spontaneity and lethal efficiency. The core philosophy was to push ones body to the point of exhaustion then go beyond it. I would repeat these moves for hours, naked in a cold cell. Jikai forbade me to question him, let alone attempt conversation during these sessions. He became a ruthless dictator, the meanest, most indignant of men during our training. I was heavily elixified during these sessions so my ego was gone, my external self extinguished. I knew his cruelty was to assassinate my pride, my vanity, my sense of self-importance, any feeling of specialness; any of that bullshit he had to throw away through this arduous discipline.

My Home

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To develop my hands, Jikai gave me an exercise to do with clay. A heap of clay, big as a potato sack, was set before me on a table. I was to thrust my open palm into this clay, alternating hands every fifteen minutes. I did this for hours until my hands deformed into swollen, ugly things without nails. With continuous training my hands eventually became like spear points, sharp enough to penetrate tables, bricks, and walls or a mans stomach, chest or throat. That was the physical aspect of my training, the psychological aspect was much more profound. Jikai was a master-teacher, possessing the ability to completely relax you and then suggest something seemingly impossible which, because of his suggestion, seemed quite practically possible. After a days worth of rigorous physical training hed thoroughly relax me from head to toe and give me assignments of the most spectacular nature. He once put me into a deep trancelike state with a simple yet sublime soliloquy on the overwhelming oneness with all life one feels when one is truly at peace. He was actually polishing me then setting me within that diamond bouquet of bliss he described. As I was caught up in that blissful rapture, he set my naked body outside in the cold Shiktosu snow. I sat in a lotus position. Ponyo, envision the totality of the light of the sun. Feel it rise within you as if you are the source of the suns light. A smoldering eternal furnace is burning within you animating all the worlds. You are the source of all light. You are that power right now! I accepted his suggestion. I was the huge ball of fire lighting the solar system. He then placed a dripping wet blanket over my naked body. Now send forth your rays of light, send forth enough heat to deplete this blanket of its moisture. I was in such a blissful state of peace, my naked body felt no cold, no snow, no freezing wind. I became a blissful eternal fire, philanthropically distributing my heat to stars, planets, galaxies, and yes, the winter wonderland of Shiktosu. I was in the desert for all I knew. That night Jikai bestowed on me the weight of his wisdom. Whether this conversation took place in a waking or a dreaming state, I do not know. But occur it did. Seven generations in each direction will be blessed by your renunciation, your home-leaving. Tell me, was it your body or your mind that left America? My spontaneous response gushed forth from a bountiful spring deep within me. There is no America. There is no Japan. There is only awakenness, pure awakeness. Illumination is my homeland. Not Africa, India, Asia, Europe or America? I am the essence of the essence, a gem of fruit on a vast constellationtree of jewels.

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Each gem radiates its own unique aura, its on facet of awakening. Illumination is my home. Not a geographical location, but the primal fount of life, light, and love. Like inexhaustible fire and its power to burn. Yes. Like milk and its whiteness. Yes! Such am I to Illumination. Yes.

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Elixir: Oriental Magic

Like crime bosses of different families, the martial arts masters of various forms met every few months. Like jazz greats besting each other in an after-hours jam session, these senseis came together to pull off some truly thaumaturgic phenomena for each others bemusement. Some would cool red hot coals in their hands without a wince of pain, some would take a dagger and cut themselves without bleeding, this kind of thing. There was some serious Crouching Tiger type sparring going on where the masters leaped off each other using bodies, buildings, trees, and the ground like trampolines. Jikai, apparently the don of the group, lined up a bunch of them to shoot arrows seconds apart at his blindfolded body. Like a Hindu god with eight ambidextrous arms, he caught and discarded dozens of arrows within seconds. To me this was achieved by the sublime equilibrium of mind Jikai spoke so reverently of. This was his natural state. When one achieves this peak level of humanity, its easy to do these things. Theres no limit to ones frequency range perception of light or sound. Ones senses are so heightened you could probably hear the arrows whistling towards you in such and such direction then spontaneously flick them off. Rational explanations are ultimately quite pointless and are the folly of skeptics. I was already a believer who wanted to become what I believed. After these demonstrations, a light meal was prepared and some heated discussions erupted. These were all masters with communities of disciples underneath them. Many had beefs with each other and it got heated. Jikai didnt participate too much in these debates opting for the more philosophical questions and koans he always poised to me. During this time of preparation Gibbons received a care packet. We shared everything so I opened it for him. Inside I found a most providential discovery. Assembled in a folder were handwritten papers titled Lessons in Universal Awe - Visions of Halijee. There were several drawings, sketches of the same man drawn by people all over the Americas. Each drawing was dated with the same date and signed by each drawee. Each of these individuals had received night visions from the same man on the same night. Like witnesses of a car accident, each student presented a different perspective of the same event. Unlike a car accident, these accounts complemented each other like puzzle pieces which could only be fully understood putting the puzzle pieces together.

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Awe. So this is why Gibbons and I hit it off so well, hes hip to Universal This cosmic teacher, Halijee, was holding a seminar in the dream world. What an undertaking it must have been to collect these reports from all over the Americas! Who was the collector? How did they find each other? As I scanned each report one in particular jumped out at me. Under a detailed drawing of Halijee in colored pencil was the caption, How Man Can Be God, by Vesper Peters. My cousin Vesper was writing to me ten thousand miles away. What providence! I drunk in his portrait of Halijee, whom weve already described at the beginning of this book. I meditated on this picture for hours. Vespers report was on the anthropomorphic concept of the divine, the alchemical process of turning base metal (human) to gold (god). That day, for the first time, I prayed. I didnt get down on my knees or anything like that but looking into the eyes of Halijee I sought communication. I asked him to teach me, to be my grand guru. This was a man so dynamic he taught his students through their dreams. This teacher whose goal was the awakening of the Indigenous People, the Blacks, Browns, and Reds. This must be the king who was to come to restore us back to greatness. This was the lightholding conductor of the spiritual underground railroad. This was the ultimate display of that mystic mythical something I craved. A man holding seminars in the dreams of his students. How could the NSA listen in on that? I was spellbound! This event was preceded by another significant discovery the day before. The library was my favorite spot to get high and contemplate all that was happening with me. I put on some sunglasses and picked up a book pretending to be studying. In actuality, I was sailing high above Mount Neru, walking through the astral fields in deep contemplation. It is important for me to interject here that all my drug use was a tool to expand my consciousness and not a recreational sport I played with. Well, during one of these long meditations an amazing book literally jumped in my hands, Oriental Magic, by Idres Shah. I opened the book to a chapter on the doctrine of Tasawuuf. Tasawuuf! That was the ancient name for Universal Awe Vesper spoke of in Boston three years ago. The book was an in-depth study of all the mystical practices of Indigenous cultures worldwide, the apex of which was Tassawuf. Coming down from my lofty pharmaceutical perch put me in the perfect zone to really dig deep into this book. One word used continuously throughout the book bewildered me, hypnosis. Mr. Shah described it as the state all of these adepts, regardless of tradition, beliefs, or race put themselves into before going into trance; a hypnotic state. This was the state I put myself into with my elixirs. Jikai was a master hypnotist. He relaxed me, then seeded my subconscious with

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instructions my conscious mind might have thought impossible. I saw hypnosis in use even in my military training. How else could you condition boys to kill other boys? Most of these Indigenous shamans took some form of elixir to boost them into these zones of trance, like Tao-Ying. But the masters of Tasawuuf had a wholistic methodology to achieve superconsciousness free of pharmaceuticals. This wholistic method was a revelation to me. Better yet, the Tassawuf people believed in sexual relations with women as an essential part of life. Hallelujah! Tao-Ying, Jikai, Pi, and all the other enlightened folks I knew of were on some monkery trip, no sex. I admired all of my initiatory teachers, but life without women to me was a life not worth living. I drew a straight line between Tassawuf and this Science of Universal Awe currently being experienced by thousands right now in the West. This was a path I could follow and this great master Halijee would be my teacher. My mind immediately went to Michael Thomas. I must share this with him. I knew he probably had no intention of setting foot in America again either, but now Id discovered what wed both been looking for and its in America. I wrote him a letter detailing all my experiences and why we both had to go back to America and become students of Universal Awe. I just had to find out where Michael Thomas was to deliver it to him. Now the big question, how does one find a teacher who only teaches in your dreams?

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Two-Hundred
Year Old Baby
Most of my colleagues in signal analysis had got the unwelcome news that their tours would be extended. Ponyo, on the other hand, received an early discharge, sixty days ahead of schedule. What providence! Gibbons had been back in America for a few weeks already. I asked him to drop me a line on his assessment. Four days before my return I got his reply. These were his profound words, America is a baby country, less than two-hundred years old. Japan and China have an ancient culture to draw from that has changed slowly over the centuries. Since its inception, America has been driven by change. It is an ever-changing reality. To be successful, all you have to do is stay ahead of the changes or at best keep up. If not, youll be a pawn in somebodys hands. They will move you to their advantage. Next time you see me Im gonna have a whole chess board full of pawns! Between the two of us, Gibbons and I had enough cannabis to supply Pennsylvania and New Jersey. How was I gonna get all this through customs? Gibbons, ever the scientist, wrapped the majority of his person with small pouches of weed and successfully made it past inspection. I wasnt about to sweat that drama out but I was greedy. I took an arts and crafts course learning how to make sculptures out of clay molds. Ive already described how we came up with our rocklike form of marijuana. Well, I gathered big bushels of marijuana, cut up dozens of apples, and got my fermentation on. I patiently waited for the elixirs to dry into big boulders of clay-like rock. With my new skill of sculpting, I crafted several exquisite marijuana masterpieces which would have made Michealangelo beam. I made vases, flower pots, and ash trays. They were sturdy and had no smell. They were all just an unusual greyish-purple hue. I shipped the sculptures back home as fragile cargo. I bought a huge duffle bag and cut a false bottom lined with three or four inches of elixirs. Yasiko would soon be starting school again. She was an exceptional young woman from an exceptional family. She would, I imagine, go on to become a successful professional, married to a affluent young man and have brilliant children whod have even more brilliant grandchildren. My warriors path in America was not an option for her. I was just some exotic dervish who whirled into her life. Our times together would provide an elderly Yasiko many chuckles.

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I didnt have the heart to say goodbye so this time I was the one to disappear. A JAL 747 flew me across the Pacific, through a dozen time zones. The Far East had surpassed all my expectations now it was back to the chaotic capitalist, ever-changing schizophrenic phenomena called America. A thousand some odd days ago, Orion Roberts flew East hunting for mysteries. He now returned as Ponyo, a man now composed of great conquests and mythic mysteries of his own. This man was possessed of an indomitable will to enroll in the cosmic classroom of Universal Awe, under the spiritual mastery of the Great Halijee to free my people, once and for all from Suffering and Death.

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Brother From
I passed through customs in Oakland, California without incident before catching a connecting flight to Washington, D.C. William Roberts greeted me like the Prodigal Son. My dads businesses had bloomed in my time away. My younger sister and brother were both in college and dad had set things up for me to join the burgeoning family enterprise as his right hand man. He set me behind the wheel of my spanking new Malibu and we drove three hours back to Illumination, VA. Crystal Roberts looked at me like I was some brother from another planet and shook her head. Orion, youre not the same boy I put on a plane three years ago, somethings changed. William, you think somebody could of body-snatched him? Let me see your identification. She was right. I was a completely new person. My parents, my friends, and my hometown all seemed equally alien to me. Id see old buddies I went to school with, girlfriends Id romanced, old folks who schooled me, and they all seemed totally out of their minds. All the morays of my own people were so strange now; the way they talked, the foods they ate, everything. I found myself in an interesting paradox. Id come back here to join a movement to awaken Black people but now that Im back, everyone seems so crude and unsophisticated my task might be impossible. It was absolutely heartbreaking to sit back and just look at us. Can you imagine what they thought looking at me? Illumination was becoming an integrated city and my youngest brother now went to school with White people and even had some little White buddies. Yet, I still saw the same racist peckerwoods Id left three years ago and their stench was now three times stronger. I was like an ant caught in the confusing web of a culture shock but Ill be damned if Ill stay there. Im Ponyo. If you see me fighting a bear, help the bear and help this spider cause Ill trap him up in his own damn web before he saps my strength. I threw myself into my fathers businesses working myself to the point of exhaustion and going beyond it. I took on this work as an extension of my preparation, applying both my military training and the intense cultivation of Jikai. I worked seven days a week, sleeping three, four hours a night max. Each night before retiring, Id look at Vespers portrait drawing of the

Another Plane

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Great Halijee, looking into his eyes and asked him, begging him to come teach me. Id wake up refreshed but without a response. Even though my marijuana sculptures had safely arrived I immediately stopped getting high. How could I in my parents home and business headquarters? Id actually been on so many chemicals that freeing myself of them gave me a buzz. Sobriety was my new high. After a month of this drill I caught a train from Charlottesville to Atlanta to see if the big city had more of a spark. At last, I chipped a side off one of my marijuana ashtrays and lit up. Sunglassed on an Amtrak, I blasted off right back to my kingly zone of enlightenment. I looked like a young prince of some wealthy Caribbean king amongst commoners. I had plenty money and custom-made everything. I checked into a hotel and immediately got clued in all the happenings that weekend. But the big city was twice the culture shock of my little hometown. At least the Illumination people were sincere. Here I found the bourgeois nigggeros disgustingly synthetic. No depth, no heart, no soul, and no love beyond their own nose. The finest, most voluptuous women seemed like hard dudes compared to those soft, delicate feminine creatures of Asian. It seemed like the more beautiful the women the uglier the attitude. They all loved my clothes, my fancy car, my good hair, but none gave a damn about the who I really was. I gave up on Atlanta and waged a campaign to bring Michael Thomas back to America. He had eight months left of his tour. I found out he was in Amsterdam and I wrote him every other week with the most enticing letters my creative imagination could conceive. I threw in everything I knew of Universal Awe, the Great Halijee, the doctrine of Tasawuuf, and Oriental Magic. Plus, all my adventures in Japan and Taiwan. The way I saw it, we both were privileged to be the spooks sitting inside the door. It was our obligation to use our information against this unjust society. We were the perfect candidates for this movement of Universal Awe. I added lots of yeast and extra icing to those letters, ending each with a spicy cliffhanger to wet his appetite for my next correspondence. I spent that winter running my dad s taxi service and occasionally driving a cab myself. When I saw the picture Id taken for my commercial license, I caught a glimpse of what everyone, especially my mother, was staring at. I was Tony Tawny. A Black man with distinctly Asian features. I reserved Sundays for my elixirs. Id sit in my car, light up and review the timeline of my life then visualize the various future scenarios Michael Thomas and I could get into. Of course, Id always fast forward to my first visit from the Great Halijee and imagine what he might teach me. My intuition was beginning to bug me. Ponyo, what the Sam-hell are you doing here? After all we experienced in Asia, this is bullshit!

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I review my Ponyo adventures in my mind then look out into this one horse and buggy town in disbelief. I could literally see the chains of enslavement on the minds of the people. We were actually at the bottom of the totem pole. It was heartbreaking but what could I do? I traded in my little Malibu for a sweet silver Peugeot. For spring, I decided to drive up to Atlantic City where Id stay with my great uncle, Lex. Lex, short for Alexander, was the Vanderbilts butler when Mister Lushus was the chef. He then established himself as a gourmet waiter, then a bellhop at Atlantic Citys finest hotels where he was a beloved citywide legend. Michael and I spent summer vacations with him during high school. The summer before I went to college I stayed with Lex and he hipped me to the hotel game. He got me a position working with him as a doorman. I was tipped handsomely upon the arrival of each guest who Id pass on to Lex after unloading their bags and giving up a little conversation. I took on the role of concierge handling all the extracurricular activities of our guests where our real money came in. I told each guest to let me know if there was anything, anything at all they desired. Just let me know and Id make it so. Lex, had a friend who owned a liquor store, so wed stock our changing area with bottles of the best spirits. Inevitably a guest would request a bottle of something. We jacked up the price, delivered the bottle, collected the tip and the inflated price of the bottle. Inevitably, a guest would come to me looking for some pussy so Id supplied the ladies. I already knew the pimp game so I was hard on those girls and forbid any of them from entering the hotel without greasing my palms first. We had a grand hustle going on. I continued working with Lex every summer during my college years. Like my grandfather, Lex was a super-sophisticated gentleman. He was always in a suit and tie, usually a bow-tie which made him look just like Uncle Ben. He had plenty game with the ladies and enjoyed a little cognac before retiring. A day after returning to Atlantic City Lex scored a gig for me at one of those new casino-hotels. I was back on the grind.

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Charlie Red
Aint Dead!
Wang was a cousin of mine I partied with during my college days. He looked a little like Charlie Chan, therefore the nickname Wang. He once was one of Harlems most notorious drug lords who did a little pimping on the side. He was a real flashy peacock kind of hustler with the gators and hyper-technicolor fashions. He started using his own shit and developed a heroin jones. It got so bad my dad and I had to intervene and take him back to Illumination to sober up. He cleaned up and was now the house drummer at a fabulous motel/ club called the Cove in Charlottesville. It was one of those jumpin chitlin circuit joints which went extinct after integration. Upstairs was a show lounge featuring all the top rhythm and blues performers like Bobby Blue Bland, James Brown, and Fats Domino. Downstairs was a classy club where the jazz cats jammed into the wee small hours. Next door was a down-home soul food restaurant and the motel. Wang was the only person I could really relate to since coming back to America. He was only five years my senior but years of hard living made him look twice my age. I spent my weekends at the Cove unwinding with my royal purple elixirs and enjoying the music. Wang loved to reminisce over his old player days in Harlem. One day I convinced him to ride with me back to New York City and revisit his old haunts. As we approached Lenox Avenue, we slowed down to a leisurely creep. Wang had a hundred stories for each block. Soon the streets echoed with the announcement, Charlie Red aint dead! Charlie Red was Wangs street name. It had been so long since hed been here everyone thought him dead. All the old players stopped by the car and gave him his propers. News on the streets wasnt good, is it ever? Little Joe and Big Mo were dead. Slick Willie and Major D were strung out on heroin and everybody else was in jail. I left Wang on the corner to score some weed. When I returned hed disappeared. I eventually found him passed out at the shooting gallery with a needle in his arm. After five years of sobriety, two hours in Harlem was all it took for him to become a junkie again. Take me home cousin. Please, take me home. Even though Wangs relapse was a shame our Harlem trip gave me access to the best weed spot in the East Coast. All the bellhops at all the hotels had some game, so I began bringing in this fire marijuana from New York City

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into Atlantic City which they could flip. In a few weeks I was the main supplier for every hotel in the city. I was such a sophisticated cat in tailor-made threads, speaking Japanese with a military background, no one would ever suspect me to be involved in any criminal activity. Needless to say, I kept my hustle on the hush, hush and minded my damn business.

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Sharon
Sharon was a delectable debutante from a prominent New Jersey family. She was a mulatto with the light-skin, the pretty long hair, and the banging body. She was the receptionist at my hotel and worked nights as an airtraffic controller. She was beautiful but cold to all the brothers. She was like the sexy holy grail because nobody could warm up to her enough to even get a smile. Everyone had made their play without so much as a smile. I started buying her lunch and we began to conversate during her breaks. I never hit on her or hinted at any interest in her sexually, even though the thought was naturally there. She was a real hip woman. She studied architecture, spoke French, and wore designer everything. She loved to dance so I found some salsa spots for us to cut a rug. Outside her apartment we sat in my Peugeot and engaged in some juicy conversation. I found her to be well-grounded, family-oriented, and ultra-ambitious. With an apology, I asked her permission to light up a joint. She agreed only on the condition she could light up hers too. Well, well, well. I was taken aback. She seemed too prim and proper to be hip to marijuana. I lit up my elixir and the conversation turned downright delectable. I held my platonic stance and won Sharons confidence, securing a true friendship.

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Hypnotize Me
Big Boy was the night shift bellhop. He was a menacing looking fellow who spent the majority of his youth sacking quarterbacks until an injury sidelined his dreams. He too had heard about Universal Awe and was on his own quest of enlightenment. Through him I scored some dextro amphetimines. They were tiny little pills like puny mustard seeds with a potency so powerful only faith could believe it. Not knowing this I took three pills and consequently, buzzed all over the boardwalk like Speedy Gonzalez. When I finally crashed, I spent the entire day in bed. Upon awakening I was shocked to find my right leg totally unresponsive. I couldnt feel or move it. I crawled to the bathroom and peed all over the floor and myself. Embarrassed and feeling somewhat pathetic I washed up and crawled my way back to bed, which took much effort. I must of suffered a light stroke from the speed, damaging the nerves in my leg. Never again will I take my limbs for granted. On the cabinet beside the bed, lay a book by Melvin Powers on hypnosis I borrowed from Big Boy. Next to the book sat a bowl of refined hashish. Interesting. I stretched my body way too far under the bed and pulled out a tape recorder Id bought in Japan. After taking it and its batteries out the box, I began dictating all the hypnosis scripts of this book on tape. All that night into the morrow I repeated the recorded suggestions over and over, focusing intensely (even in my sleep) on bringing life back to my leg. I got into such a majestic zone I dreamt of running through those fields of oolong tea in Taiwan. At dusk, I began to feel some movement in my toes. By midnight the rest of my foot, calves and thighs too were hypnotized back to life. I jumped out of bed and did a victory sprint. There was still some discomfort but, damnit, Im walking again. This was an amazing thing that happened here. Id discovered a power (hypnosis) that could do what no doctor could have done in the same amount of time. Then the words of my Oriental Magic book came to mind. The great shamans of the indigenous cultures all put themselves into a hypnotic trancelike state before doing their magic. Did I not just do the same thing? Next time I drove to New York I picked up a yellow pages to find a hypnotist. Sure enough there were four entire pages of listed professional hypnotherapists. With the aid of my hashish and half a pill of speed I spent the entire

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afternoon on the phone questioning every hypnotist I could get on the phone. My rap went something like this, Good afternoon, my name is Orion Roberts. Ive just returned from the Far East researching the oriental methodologies of hypnosis, i.e., trance, meditation, pyschotropic herbs, etc. Id now like to compare this research with the occidental methods of Braid, Messner and their ilk. Those hypnotists got so excited they gave up all their secrets. By sunset my knowledge on the subject was encyclopedic. One gentleman stood head and shoulders above the rest, Mr. Alvin Hall. We developed such an instant rapport he invited me to his apartment for a session. Before I arrived, Id taken a safe amount of amphetamines to put keep my conscious mind sharp and alert, even while under hypnosis. Mr. Hall was a short little Caucasian man with a very pleasant disposition. He wore tinted lenses and spoke in a resonant monotone even when asking to take my coat. He quickly took me under hypnosis so naturally he could probably do it in his sleep. Afterwards, he asked me if Id like to be his student. I was deeply honored. We set a date for my first class. I left his apartment confident enough to find a subject of my own to hypnotize. That night I picked Sharon up from work and drove to the Atlantic City boardwalk pier to smoke, talk, and relax. Two jobs were taking a toll on her and she was really stressed. We smoked the roach watching the setting sun, listening to the oceans waves brush against the sand. The conditions were perfect. Id found my subject. In my softest, silky voice I began, Darling, I realize what a stressful day youve had. Im going to thoroughly relax you. Close your eyes and take a deep, full breath filling your lungs with the fresh ocean breeze. Now exhale out all the anxieties, all your worries, all your troubles. Just let it go. She was right there with me. I immediately felt a dark cloud of stress lifted off of her. We continued taking in these deep breaths of peaceful relaxation and exhaling those stressful worries for several minutes before proceeding. Now focus on your knees. Feel your knees becoming loose, limp, and relaxed. With each inhalation, breathe in pure relaxation. With each exhalation, breathe out all your troubles and frustrations. Youre doing just fine. And youre feeling so good, so wonderful. In like manner, I relaxed her calves, her ankles, her feet and toes until everything below her knees was loose, limp, and relaxed. Next, I thoroughly relaxed her thighs and hips, her waist and chest, her shoulder muscles, her neck and jaw; all were thoroughly relaxed. Now I concentrated on her face, relaxing every muscle until her eyes felt so heavy you cannot open them. You feel completely free, loose, limp, and relaxed. Looking at the metamorphosis of my subject my intuition began to stir. I was a sexy dream of a man who had to shoo women away from me. Sharon

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and I had been tight for a minute and she never spoke of any relationships, past or present, let alone sex. How could a woman this charming, this beautiful and ambitious have absolutely no social life? Something or someone had damaged her. This was the perfect time to expose it, look at it and discard it. I took her deeper. I want you to count backwards from 100. 100, 99, 98, etc. Say each number aloud and every number will take you deeper into perfect relaxation. By 92 she was at the bottom floor. She was in a deep state of hypnosis. You are now completely relaxed, there is no limit now. No limit. I went for it. Youre going back now into your past. Something unpleasant, something traumatic happened to you that still troubles you to this day. Am I right? Yes. Do you want to end this suffering? Yes. Youre going back there now. Youre going to tell me about it. I took her back. How old are you? Twelve. Where are you? Visiting my aunt in Brooklyn. Where are you now? On the elevator, going down. Whats happening, whats going on? A man is on the elevator. Yes. And? Hes touching me. Im telling him to stop but... Whats happening? No. No! NO! She begins to scream and fight off her rapist, attacking the air with punches and kicks. She relived the whole thing. Its over. Its all over. Relax. Going deeper now into relaxation. This wasnt in my play book so I was dealing with pure inspiration now. I rewound back to our breathing in relaxation, breathing out pain, hurt, shame, and embarrassment. Breathing in healing, wholeness, and love. Breathing out the dirtiness, the filthiness, the unworthiness that a rape always breeds and gives birth too. Then slowly, I rerelaxed her entire body, toe to head, and had her count backwards again from 100. Once she was back in a state of deep hypnosis I planted my seeds: Having relived this painful, traumatic moment of your past, you now have the power to keep it there. In the past. This man has no more power over you nor does this event have any more power over you. From this day

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forward all the shame, all the guilt, all those scars caused by this experience are gone forever never to return. You did nothing wrong. You have nothing to be ashamed of. You have nothing to fear. You are lovable. You are capable of giving and receiving love. From this moment forth you will forgive yourself. Anything that reminds you of this event will only deepen your strength, your fortitude, your love of yourself. From this day forward you are free to experience love. You are free to feel warmth, affection, and intimacy in a healthy, loving relationship. You are free to love and be loved. This is binding and you realize that this is good for you. Sexual desire is as natural and healthy as the desire for food and drink. Any negative association, any dirty feelings, any shame or guilt you have felt about sex is gone, never to return again. This makes you feel very good. After planting these seeds in the subtlest regions of her mind I brought her back. In a few moments I will awaken you and when you awaken you will feel brand new. So refreshed, so alive, full of happy feelings, ready to begin a happy, healthy, productive and loving life. I counted backwards from ten to one snapping my fingers as stimuli on the one. Snap! She awakened with a smile. Baby, Im sorry. I guess I must of dozed off. How long was I sleep? Sharon, you werent asleep. I hypnotized you. Hypnotized me? How could you do that. I dont remember a thing. Do you remember your Aunt and cousins in Brooklyn? Yeah? Do you remember what happened that summer when you visited them? How... How did you know that? You told me. Im studying hypnosis with this cat up in Manhattan. I saw you so stressed out I thought it would be a good opportunity to relax you with hypnosis. Then I saw an opportunity to do some healing with you. I asked if there was anything traumatic that happened in your past. Thats how we got into it. I could see Sharon searching her feelings for rage, anger, hurt, and shame and finding them all absent. I guess you did hypnotize me. No one knows that. Ive never shared that with anyone. Well, it wont bother you ever again. I drove Sharon home and walked her to her door. For the first time she hugged me in a deep, long embrace. The kisses began innocently but quickly turned into hungry passionate exchanges. She put my hand on her breast. Her whole body was igniting with passion. Like a bird flying on its own for the first time her excitement was hyper-electric. I slid my hand under her skirt, she was drenching with desire. Her hips began to grind up against me. She burst out

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into laughter. I must be cured! Ive done anything like this in my entire life. I pulled back. Mr. Hall and I had already discussed the dangers of getting involved, emotionally or physically, with ones subjects. It was forbidden territory. Mr. Hall made me vow to never let this happen and if I was too weak to let it happen to leave alone my study of hypnosis. This, he said, is what gives us a bad name. Sharon was now my patient and as much as I wanted to hit it, I had to quit it. I explained this to Sharon. She understood. But there was no reason she could experience some sexual pleasure. Mr. Hall confided to me that the majority of his clients were women and a good percentage came to him to experience an orgasm. This is why one had to be of strong character to really do this kind of practice. I lay Sharon down on her couch and slowly, methodically coached her into a mind blowing, galaxy crossing, earthquaking series of orgasms. My okee chimpo was hard as a brick but I kept it in check. Sharon was sexually healed and I didnt have to compromise my principles in the process. But I did take a cold, cold shower when I got back home.

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Elixir: Hypnosis
I spent six weeks studying under Mr. Hall. In Atlantic City the tourist season was coming to an end so I quit my bellhop gig and went full-time hustling. Michael Thomas sent me a telegram saying he would be discharged in November but there was no way in hell he was coming back to America. So I was saving all my hustle money in case I had to retrieve him personally back from Europe. Wang informed me a loft in the basement of the Cove was available. I paid three months rent up front and drove Sharon down to Charlottesville to help with the interior design. Now I had lair for Ponyo In Harlem, I was known as lil Charlie Red and I kept all the players, hustlers, and of course, the women entertained with tales of my far east escapades. I kept up my Ponyo persona with my tailored worsted wool-suits, shoes that werent even sold in America, tough hats, and tight black leather gloves. Id perfected an American elixir consisting of my high-power dextro amphetimines and fire herb from Jamaica. The art of hypnosis was a bliss of another kind. It became very clear to me that almost everyone, no matter their race or economic class was under myriad layers of mass hypnosis. As Black people we suffered first and foremost from the psychoneurosis of slavery, a collective humiliation and inferiority complex, compacted by a poverty complex, a victimization complex, a Black complex, a light skin/dark skin, good hair/bad hair complex, mixed with false definitions of masculinity and femininity. And religion cemented each layer of the multitiered hypnotic mass deception together like mortar. White folks have just as many layers of programming composing their dysfunctionality too, but theirs was a whole other recipe and another book for another time. I used every opportunity to demonstrate this new weapon of hypnosis. My good breeding and the relentlessly ethically training of Mr. Hall made it impossible for me to misuse it though all manner of hypnotic criminology ran through my head. Those thoughts I quickly discarded. All of my initial subjects were women. The American women still seemed so crude and strange to me, so hypnosis replaced romance for a time. Still theres no deeper relationship than a therapist and his subject. Theres no greater intimacy than having a conversation with someones subconscious mind. Faye and Rosario were roommates in Spanish Harlem. I met Rosario while we both were hailing a cab we ended up sharing. She was a devastatingly exotic Puerto Rican chick. A fascination developed between us during the ride. I ran

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down my mack to her, I just came back from Taiwan and Japan where I was deep into the black market exporting everything under the sun to China. Now I rent a sweet loft in Charlottesville. I supply all the top hotels with the best marijuana in the East Coast, I drive a beautiful little Peugeot with a sunroof and I study hypnology with a master teacher on Park Avenue. Needless to say, she never had met no nigger like me. She invited me to her apartment for a smoke. There I met her cousin Faye. I lit up some of my Jamaican elixirs and we all got blown. I shared some of my Ponyo adventures which had them on the edge of their seats. I learned everything about these girls. Rosario was thirty years old and had an older sugar daddy paying her rent and keeping her plush. Faye, though, had a broken heart. Her husband was killed by policemen in a Scarface style shootout three years ago. This happened downstairs on the steps of this apartment, where he died in her arms. Everytime she left her apartment or returned home she was reminded of this tragedy. She was a recluse. I wasted no time. Just like Sharon, I put her under and methodically relived those painful events, then delicately replaced these painful feelings of grief and sorrow with acceptance and gratitude. Instead of anger and pain, she would now be invigorated by her husbands memory to really live her life fully, to accomplish all her goals and ambitions as a dedication, a tribute to him. Everytime she walked by those stairs she would be inspired more and more to maximize this life and to never sit around feeling sorrow for herself, wasting precious time which she can never get back. This was to be her last day of grieving and her first day of living. Faye came out of our session visibly younger and even seemed to lose a few disposable pounds. She embraced me and started kissing me. Again, I had to hypnotize my own desires and explain this was forbidden territory as her healing therapist. Well, if I cant fuck you, let me feed you. Rosario bust out the pots and pans, turned the radio to a salsa station and cooked me a feast. So everytime I was in Nueva York I had mi casa with Faye and Rosario. I reported all of these experiences with Mr. Hall who was very pleased with my progress and my self-control. My last day of training with Mr. Hall I arrived a little early. He was an affluent man, a neat freak, always in a sports jacket and nice trousers, and always wearing tinted sunglasses. This day he came to the door without his glasses and I was shocked to discover my teacher was blind. His office was in his apartment, and everything was so orderly he didnt need a cane or seeing eye dogs. But this man saw into the very nature of things with remarkable precision. We had that in common. I later found out he was one of the most prominent hypnotherapists in the world.

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One providential night I was driving back to Charlottesville from New York City. Id been up all weekend and was beginning to crash. It was the dead of night and I was approaching Washington, D.C. when I found myself swerving, falling asleep at the wheel. I had a hundred miles yet to drive and really needed a whole days rest. I opened the sunroof to let the cool evening breeze invigorate me. Driving through the Mall looking at all the historic monuments of Americas capital, a song came spontaneously from my lips. Go down Moses, way down to Egypt land, tell old Pharaoh to let my people go. I guess Id heard it in church as a boy. Looking at the monuments made me think of the old biblical Egypt Id been taught in school. Then Vespers portrait of Halijee came to mind. I thought of him as a modern mystical Moses preparing us to deal with a modern Pharaoh holding my people captive. So I sang this old hymn into the stars over and over. Then Jack Johnsons theme song came to mind, Lucky Ole Son, give him nothing to do but roam over heaven all day. While singing his song to the stars, I felt that something had been passed from Jack Johnson to me. After Michael Thomas and I left for college, he was never seen or heard from again. And both of us were some lucky ole sons. Michael Thomas was roaming all over Europe and I knew instinctively he had caught just as much heaven over there as I caught in the Far East. We both had been trained in top-secret positions in Pharaohs army and knew all their dirt. We were dangerous. And what had this Lucky Ole Son done? Id made love to beautiful Asian princesses whod leave behind all they knew to be with me. Id battled old redneck, Dixie-waving peckerwoods who were my superiors and sent them running away with their tails between their legs. Id fascinated and dominated the best and brightest young minds of White America and used them as my guinea pigs. Id undergone a thorough psychoanalysis of myself under the umbrella of pharmaceutical enlightenment. Id bathed in the worlds best hot volcanic springs and skied in the mountainous Aspen of Japan. I ran with the architects of the vast black markets of Japan, Taiwan, and China and made tons of money in the process. A whole village crowned me king and gave me my own holiday. I had reached such a state of nirvana I had no attachments, no identity and had literally forgotten the details of my life, including my own family, in America. Id been initiated into the ancient constellations of three great masters whod given me the keys to their treasures. I gave all that up to come back to America, to meet my grand guru and fight for my people. Was I not a lucky ole son? This was the fuel that drove me home because I was too exhausted to

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do it. When I opened the door to my loft, I truly felt like a lucky ole son. I sat down on the side of my bed, every ounce of energy tapped. I felt a strange sensation, like another presence was in the room with me. This presence was so close I could feel it breathing. Something was present. Then I noticed its tangible presence on me. It felt like Id sat on a giant hand, its middle and third fingers under my right and left legs respectively, my behind in its palm, and its thumb against my spine up to my neck. As soon as this became clear the hand gripped my body and shook me like dice. I was a martini in the hands of a mad stirrer, shaken violently for seconds lasting eternities. I was too fatigued to fight, too confused to understand. The earthquake ceased a few seconds then renewed. Shaken senseless I surrendered and found myself tossed from the hand like a frisbee, flying through a kaleidoscopic vortex of energy at tremendous speed. Untethered by gravity I soon found myself coming up for air like I had been suspended under water. Before me was what I can best describe as an electrochemical substance, a six-dimensional cube of consciousness, a living dome of light and sound. After much reflection, I witnessed what I now consider either the mirror image of the consciousness of the modern human or that image mirrored. There was a duality of two pyramids: one upright, one inverted. One was very attractive to me, the other very repulsive, yet it all was one substance incomplete without the other. At the cap of the upright pyramid was the paradigm of Universal Awe. Tasawuuf had its place up there and I saw a human being over it. The Great Halijee was in the cadre of this human being and this realm represented Ultimate Reality in its pure, unadulterated form. Surprising to me, a layer of Western transpersonal phenomena (including hypnosis) up there along with the Indigenous technologies; the shamans and whatnot who had so fascinated me. They composed the base of the pyramid and were in a state of depleted weakness. The masses of humanity were like food for the inverted pyramid, fertilizing manures that kept it growing. Their lifeblood was the energy sustaining it. Myriad layers of political, religious and economic systems of every known flavor kept this pyramid in place. Every form of human endeavor increased the illusion of the inverted pyramid. This pyramid too was engineered, constructed, and supervised by human beings. These were the Overlords of Suffering and Death Vesper hipped me too. It was Organized Evil. I was looking at Reality, the collective consciousness of the homosapien in three-hundred and sixty degree perception. It was a complete spherical puzzle of everything. I could highlight any puzzle piece for further analysis,then put it right back into its slot to see where it fit in its totality. It was equally frightening and blissful. I was spellbound, in universal awe.

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Afterglow
I felt like a brand new man, free from the slightest impurity. This was the highest high of my life, an elixir beyond elixirs. I lay in my bed recapitulating the whole trip to myself. How was I to know if this was real? Only my own peaceful clarity could confirm this an authentic experience of awakening and not a hallucination. Hallucination being the product of creative imagination, the delusion of fatigue or drug induced fantasy. Yes, have a very creative imagination, I was fatigued and I was under the influence of drugs. I only knew that EVERYTHING now made sense. At that moment I swore off drugs. I wanted to explore Reality in its purest, raw form without deception, arrogance, or distortion. The cosmic sweep and intricate details of the experience both awed and baffled me. I had perceived the entire hierarchical structure of consciousness itself - a living construct of which we all are pieces. All sentient beings were elements of its immensity. At one point I even detected my own earthly form lying on the bed looking up at myself, experiencing the exhilarating sensation of being at two places at once. I now felt an overwhelming oneness with all of creation, a protectiveness, and an all-pervading love. I wanted only to lose myself in the Source of this heavenly feeling. I knew this body was already a corpse and I refused to be bound by it. I was ready to give up my life to free humanity, to lift the veil of Suffering and Death. How many days or nights I marinated in this bliss I dont know. But it all faded with a knock on the door. Who could possibly be disturbing me in the middle of my revelry? Its possible the door knocked for several minutes before I finally got up to answer it. It was Michael Thomas! Not knowing if he was real, hyper real, or hallucination I just kind of stared at him. This was not the same country boy I left behind. He was now broad, muscular, and handsome. His hair was neatly trimmed and expertly parted. His clothes werent any hand-me-downs but the top notch tailor-made clothes of I wore. He too did a similar wordless inspection of me. I opened the door. He entered. We sat down on opposite sides of a table in silence for a several moments drinking in each others presence. He looked like he too had undergone a thorough transformation. I knew he was too saw the same thing in me.

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So many scenarios run through my head before any words could be spoken. Now that we were reunited, where would we take this thing? How would we begin our mission together? What adventures lie ahead? Surely the best was yet to come. Man, have I got a story for you.

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About the Authors

E. R. Ponyo Lewis is a master hypnotherapist and spiritual Eadept. Utilizing the knowledge he has gained over the last 40 years of tireless research and experiential practice, Mr. Lewis has developed a revolutionary and comprehensive approach to hypno-therapeutic programming designed to unleash ones own omnipotence in physical health, emotional well-being, healthy relationships, and spiritual mastery. The incredible adventures of his life have been dramaticized into a series of books, beginning with The Elixir of Ponyo, which he hopes will encourage millions to release their own unlimited potential and contribute to the healing of humanity.

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About the Authors

From T. H. Tabriz Lowe flows audacious aural vibrations, lightning strikes of lyricism, shamanistic polyrhythms, and eruptions of evolutionary thought - all to provoke seismic shifts in the present spiritual, mental, and cultural paradigms. Contact Info for Lewis Lowe elixirofponyo@yahoo.com www.myspace.com/ponyo1

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