13738 the rush is on, aw who am I kidding...

Winter had not left the quiet college town. The night was cold and clear, and frost was settling on the windshields and trees and grass. While the town would normally be fairly quiet, it was even more so now, because it was Easter Night. The shops were closed, families snuggled in for the night, full of Easter eggs, ham, chocolates, and warm Holiday memories.

Being restless youths, and not prone to valuing such fuzziness and family togetherness, four friends prepared for a night out. Tonight was kind of special. Mike had found some Olympic blotter acid, which he proclaimed to be the "best LSD I've ever taken" and which we were all eager to try. Arrangements could be made for buying beer, but the smoke was tough to find that day. Everybody was visiting their parents, or were similarly unavailable. We scraped our pipes and determined to make do with this pleasant trifecta of hallucinogens.

I was not well acquainted with Alex, but he seemed to be a quiet but genial and kind person, and devoid of any malice. Mike was the articulate, intelligent wiseacre of the crew, quick-witted and warm, intensely engaging and personable. He was very likable. Jeff was my old buddy from way back, an outgoing, yet private person, who tended to focus on the trivial, perhaps to avoid confronting his own voids and feelings of inadequacy.

I was vaguely troubled, that day, by some lingering Catholic psychoses, wondering whether I had adequately spent time or energy being thankful for the supreme sacrifice that God had accepted from His Son on our behalf. I remember thinking that I should have spent some time studying the word--that day, especially--as I was having a lot of questions about such matters at that time in my life.

I studied and read the bible, but often had trouble understanding the meanings of what I read. What was my role as a Christian. Should I be preaching to my friends? Why did I feel like I was the only one around me that even contemplated God? Did others feel this, too? Should I be starting a ministry? Why me? I was a devout Christian, but almost ignorant of the meanings of what I read in the bible. I had more questions than answers.

I perceived that I was the only one in the group that was even remotely troubled by such questions. Jeff was not a Christian, and I was not certain about Mike or Alex. Let's just say that Jesus didn't come up in our conversations, unless I brought Him up, and when I did, the subject was quickly changed.

I wondered about the Jewish calender. How could a holiday like Easter bounce around the calender from year to year. What did it mean? Why were there entire leap-months in this lunar calender? Do the cycles even out every so many years? What was up with that? I liked looking for mathematical patterns, but this particular puzzle was a bit too complex for me.

As you can see, my mind jumps from puzzle to puzzle. Sometimes the linkage is tenuous, occasionally lacking altogether, but I like to search for patterns, and meanings to those patterns. I like to understand what I see not just on a level of the individual event, but the event within it's larger context in life, how it fits a pattern, how it describes and affirms a larger truth and makes other unlike things also understandable.

It may seem odd, then for a person like me to take a substance like LSD. You may ask...How is that going to help your quest for knowledge? Won't it just confuse your senses and make it impossible to judge the relationships between things? Won't it make it difficult to find patterns in the jumble of thoughts, visions and stimuli?

Yes and No.

Remember that you are constantly in varying states of awareness in life. You are sleeping. You awake. You drone out watching the news. You focus on a novel. As you drive to the store, you are able to focus on a stimulating song or discussion on the radio with out crashing the car. Your focus is distributed between several different tasks, and none commands all of your attention, lest you crash.

When you drive a familiar road--for instance--you will rarely focus on details about your right foot-- how the pedal you are depressing is called the "accelerator", or, how much pressure you are applying to the accelerator estimated in foot pounds, or, the tetanus of your foot muscles is producing a slight cramp in your toe, or, what color socks you're wearing, or, how does a lever work. When we drive, we don't become lost or confused, or lose our way home--even as trees, billboards, pavement color and light of day change moment by moment and day by day.

No, we don't attend to alot of little details in life. We learn our environment, and then navigate our lives by memory of that environment. In our memory, there wasn't a box in the middle of the floor, so we weren't looking for there to be one in the way, that's why when people leave things in our way, we stub our toes.

And yet, things are constantly changing. I acquired a bad habit, many years ago, of shuffling my feet when I walk. When your little brothers leave all sorts of toys, and tiny pieces of toys, in the way, on the floor, in the hallway, and on the stairs, you learn that by shuffling your feet, you are more likely to knock such an offending items out of the way than to step on them with the middle of your arch. For me, it is better to stub your toe, than to have your whole body involuntarily succumb to the protective spinal reflex that stepping on a "Little People" affords.

I digress. But that is what I do. Digressively, we will arrive at the point, and it is always fun when we get there.

Hallucinogens have the interesting property of reducing the barriers to perception of stimuli, including ones that we have relegated to our sub-conscious, such as the feelings in and of your right foot while you're driving. In this vulnerable state, the subject of the hallucinogenic experiment is deluged with stimuli. This also applies to visual perceptions of light and shade, and to sounds, aromas and thoughts. Words. Feelings. Conceptualizations. Processes. Religions.

Enveloped in such a maelstrom of thought and feeling, one may begin to become distended, out-of-touch, alarmed, afraid. Panic is a condition to avoid at all costs. I guess this is because the nervous system has a way of descending into the fight-or-flight syndrome which is our protection from danger in the real physical world. When powerful hallucinogens are added to the natural processes in the brain, and combined with panic and adrenaline, the combination may trigger what has come to be known as the "bad trip". The images that people report while in such a state are often very terrifying and they feel a threat to their physical and mental health.

To that end, experimenters--trippers, if you will--tend to get some good beer, good friends and an out-of-the-way and peaceful environment set up in advance. The idea is to stay put, avoid troubling and threatening situations, and have comforts available if things get intense. That is the idea anyway.

You never know what the human brain is capable of until you put it to the test. The will and the human spirit are two intangibles which one is remiss to underestimate. Severe stress reveals much about people and their strengths or weaknesses. Necessity is the mother of invention. All of that.

So frost crunched under the feet of the trippers. We piled into the old but luxuriously spacious vehicle. It was as cold as the outside. Jeff put the car into gear without warming the engine. His dad worked for the auto company, so brand new vehicles were taken for granted by him. We had only just taken our doses at Jeff's house and were still waiting for the effects to kick in. This can be a considerable time, often 60 to 90 minutes. Mike had to stop at his house, midtown.

There was no hint of police that night. Knowing Jeff's poor driving skills, I encouraged him to take it slow, anyway. He seemed calm and in control, so I relaxed a bit.

When we arrived at Mikes' parents house, we were not invited in. Mikes dad was a professor at the University, but I had never met him or the rest of the family. I was little more than an acquaintance to Mike, in some ways. I had spent some time with him and his friends, but mostly at parties, so the impression I got was not based upon intimate detail of his life. I liked him and his friends, but hadn't gotten close to any of them yet. I had never been inside of his house, and at that point, didn't mind not being invited in.

As a matter of fact, I was discovering that I felt bad that it was difficult for me to get to know people. I was quiet, myself, and by nature, I distrusted people. I took my time opening up, and was always uncomfortable with new folks at first, especially women. I secretly feared being hurt, getting attached and then "losing" someone. So I kept my distance, even from most of my friends.

After high school, my small, tight group of friends quickly headed their various ways, mostly away from me, it felt to me. I cringed at the memory of one of my friends telling me that my "whining constantly" about the condition of my life had been getting on everybodys nerves, after which they became difficult to reach. You know the story. Yet, I took it hard. It was personal, and I was lonely, if a somewhat solitary creature.

Determined, in my own young and ignorant way, to not be hurt again, I was "cautious" I told myself. Of course, I was also being narcissistic, attention seeking, immature, and damn near neurotic. This is a side effect of massive doses of denial, self-absorbtion and a mix of narcotics to dull the building pain. Such was my life. I was, admittedly, a wreck!







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There is pain associated with this dynamic, because of the different directions one is being pulled. Introspection can be a fine thing, taken in small doses. Extroversion contains many elements of a cure for my particular social condition of the time, but I wallowed in my fear instead. Finding reason, then, to criticize myself as a coward, I heaped more negative images upon my already damaged self-esteem, and began a process of burying myself in more critiques. After a while, the build up weighs a man down. Alcohol becomes a relief and loosens the tongue, so that I could temporarily loosen up and speak my mind for a while.

However, the tongue, when loose, doesn't make sense to the sober man. The mouth is like a loose cannon, when the brain isn't at speed with it. Words are hurled for effect, for impact, for attention, but they are not well chosen, or thoughtful enough to convey what is lying underneath. Underneath, it is deep. The drunken man is shallow. In a pool of vomit.

It is well that something interrupted my thoughts. I realized with a start, that I was not very well prepared for my trip, at this point. “I must”, I thought, “calm myself down a bit and try to reference the right state of mind for a long journey. I can’t dwell upon this negative stuff,” I told myself, “I just can’t. Let’s see, what is good about my life? I love music.

I am a musician, the most wretched and miserable sort of musician, one who can kick with the best of them, but will probably continue to be kicked to the gutter, despite my fervent desire, notwithstanding originality and character, irrespective of drive or fortitude of will. Fate would always echo what could have been, if only...

If only fate had not afforded that I be born into poverty. My step-father even turned me down when I asked him for a loan for a P.A. system--a necessity for a touring band--telling me that I “would never prosper in that business,” an assessment that became--for me--self-fulfilling. My band quickly faded from the scene, and I washed dishes for a living. You know, he was probably right, but I hope he is still somewhere watching--from the grave-- as I struggle and work and grind along with still an inkling of hope, that somewhere, someone will see the value of what I am trying to accomplish, and discover the joy in the message of my art.

I gradually came to know the truth about what is an extremely corrupt and greedy business--that is: if you’ve got money or backing, you can buy your way onto the charts, but if not, good luck. People like Yoko Ono will still be happy to pry some of your money out of your along the way, leading you to believe that they’ve got contacts, and knowing full well that in the end, they can’t or won’t do a damn thing to help you, but they can help themselves to a piece of your dreams along the way (they just call it a contest entry fee).

America is becoming just like the music industry. Nobody loves you.

Again, though, I realized that I just can’t keep going down this negative path, especially now, as the ringing in my ears began to become acute. I’ve got to think happy thoughts, or I might go banana wonkers.

Another interruption. A squirrel was chasing a cardinal. They appeared to both be fighting over a small bit of food that a resident had put out for the birds. I thought briefly how the animals had weathered the winter well, perhaps better than their observer. In time, spring would be fully felt, and I would hopefully put the long cold winter blues behind me.

Mike was back in the drivers seat, now. He indicated one more errand before we could settle in for the evening. He wanted us to see the Inglis House, a place that his father worked and that he claimed possessed one of the finest hillside views of our hamlet. We agreed to go, not having any spoken objections. Though I felt somewhat uneasy about the detour, I said nothing--as was my style. I was content to follow, and not to lead.

Along the way, the psychedelic haze crept slowly in. One of the first things I noticed was how ordinary things began to take on new meaning and new appearances. At first, the trees begin to look taller, displaying more contrast between themselves and the sky. They begin to sway gently, in a sort of unseen wind. They are speaking, beckoning to you with their branches. Then they are overwhelmingly beautiful, living giants, peaceful, soaring above the houses, giving home to birds and animals. They are food, shelter and clothing, if not simultaneously, then in their time. A tree then begins to acquire an aura of the traits of a warrior; braving the cold, the tree stands solid in the face of the burden of the cold; it is fit and strong--a survivor.

In this manner, things around me began to acquire traits in such a manner that associations and groupings equated such things as blankets to mothers, chewing gum to the nipple, blood to expediency. The unexplained becomes briefly explainable--in a nutshell--as our need for our nurturing mother. All impulses arise from this basic instinct, and end with the next generation reaching out for its’ mother, in a cycle of need, reaching out for some nurturing. A true unity is found within all things and surrounding all humanity-- and it is mothers that unite us.

A blanket is my mother. Plants and trees offer sustenance and succor, as our mothers breast once did, and before that, her womb. All pain is a necessity born of the blood of birth, without which naught would be possible. Life clings to life and is remarkable in its tenacity, but always requires a womb to flourish. In a way, by proxy, everything becomes your mother, or sister or brother.

It is a remarkable feeling, one of connectedness, of the common theme that unites us all. But I also felt that a strong sense that unity was lacking at the core of humanity. Our individualistic society encourages an “every man for himself” ethos; the nuclear family, the easy mobility of people has fragmented families yet further, adding to the social disconnect of individuals. It takes a whole village to raise a child, goes one saying. However, when both parents are working, and everybody is chasing the dollars, folks are too busy to raise the kids. Kids end up raising kids. My little rag-tag bunch of tripping friends was my family today.

At the Inglis House, Mike was eager to scope it out. He wasn’t sure that the House was entertaining guests this weekend or not. He urged us to stay put while he checked it out. He disappeared down a long, curved, unlighted path into the darkness. I got out of the car to smoke a cigarette. Jeff and Alex followed. I was asking Jeff if he was feeling anything, when headlights split the darkness.

Traveling quickly down the narrow lane, the vehicle pulled slightly left around the circle, revealing a Security logo, then veered to the right to catch us and the car in its’ headlights. A young man with a flashlight quickly exited the vehicle and approached us, saying, “Excuse me, folks, but this is private property. May I see some form of ID please.” I patted myself down, happy that I had not forgotten my wallet, today. Just then, Mike appeared at the top of the driveway and smoothly said, “Excuse me, orrificer”

We three tried to choke back the laughter, as the absurdity of Mike’s exclamation hit home. Here we were about to be arrested for trespass and Mike was busy throwing veiled insults at the Security Officer. I looked at the ground and pretended to wipe the tiredness from my eyes, and tried not to laugh out loud.

“These are my friends. My dad works here. I was just going to show my friends around, if we weren’t bothering anyone. My dads name is “Ira” and he is in the directory. You can call him directly, and he will vouch for me.”

“Ah, okay, but I’m going to have to run your licenses, it’s just policy. I’ll be back in a minute,” said the officer.

Mike seemed wholly unconcerned, and turned to tell us that the house had guests tonight, so it probably wouldn’t be such a good night to see it. He indicated that the “rent-a-cop” didn’t have any authority to arrest us, so, he said, “as long as he don’t call the cops in, we’re cool. And he won’t. We didn’t do anything.”

After a few minutes, the officer returned our IDs and bid us to leave, and not to return. “This is private property,” he repeated. “Even,” he pointedly told Mike, “if your father works here. We’ve had complaints around here recently, so please, if you want to stay out of trouble, stay away from here.” We all nodded our agreement.

Mike called out loudly, “Thank you, orrificer. You’re doing an excellent job!”

We cringed again, expecting the “orrificer” to detain us further. All three of us said, almost simultaneously, “Shut the fuck up, man,” or words to that affect.

We piled into the rapidly cooling car and headed downtown. There was one last stop. We needed beer. We stopped outside a central campus beer store and parked in a no parking zone. Mike, the quick talker of the bunch, got out of the car and began approaching carefully selected strangers. The first one nodded and proceeded with Mike into the store. A few minutes later, we were the proud possessors of a case of premium imported beers.

The caboose was not far away. An empty parking lot abutted the railroad crossing. Skirting under a breached chain-link fence, we carted our beer out onto the railroad tracks. In the darkness ahead, the shape of a water-cooling tower on top of an industrial building, loomed against the night sky.

There in the shadows was the caboose. The railroad yard consisted of one main track cutting through the area on a slight diagonal from true north and south, going from SSE to NNW . Three or four side-tracks, whose purpose was the manipulation of trains and their loads, were highlighted by a now-dysfunctional locomotive sized roundhouse foundation and(now gone) turntable. To the west side of the site, was a long row of industrial buildings, which included a twenty-four hour bus maintenance garage. To the east, and to the south, the tracks were straddled by the sprawling athletic campus of the university. To the north, a nearby lumber yard was a large consumer of the materials shipped by rail. Further on to the southwest, were the football stadium and an arena.

To the east side of the tracks, lay the utterly deserted athletic administration buildings of the university, as well as the hockey arena and baseball diamond. While it was a bustling place on a normal week day, it might contain not a single soul on a holiday night, such as this one. Within an area of one-half of one square mile, there were probably only five or six individuals besides our group of four.

Dead on the side of the tall blank wall of the industrial building, lay the humble wooden remains of one old caboose, a known hovel and hangout of bums. It had an air of urine and violence around it. This was not our destination.

As we crunched by, we whispered, but were reassured by the silence that greeted us from that direction. There were, in fact, many noises in our immediate vicinity. The whirring of fans atop the nearby buildings was joined by the hum of electric motors, the occasional rapid release of pressure--as from an hydraulic system--and the clinking and grinding of gears that accompanies large assemblies of moving parts. It was a virtual symphony of cacophony, but aside from this ever present hum of background noise, the place was as still as the slight chilly breeze.

This place was like another world, in fact. It was not patrolled by the University, nor by the local police, MIke informed us. This was “Private Property,” he pointed out, and it was only the “train people” who would be concerned with our presence here. On weekends, there were a very few trains that came through on a fairly regular schedule, so that, if we planned on being here at those particular hours, we should plan on keeping a low profile, if not bugging out of there if time permitted.

In the darkness was our quest. Mike climbed aboard and exclaimed happily, “Be right back!” He climbed up and out of sight. A moment later, Jeff motioned near my face to follow him towards the back, southern end of the caboose. Mike was pulling the door open as I climbed up. Mike began to make a welcoming speech, warning us to drop all of our “evil spirits” at the door and to enter in peace. I, for one, was taking him very seriously. I said a brief prayer, and asked a blessing for the place.

Inside, Mike was eager to show off the caboose. He said, “Man, this place is the coolest place on earth! When I first saw this place I checked it out, and I kept my eyes on it for a while. After a while, I decided to replace their locks with my locks,” he said with his eyes gleaming. “Then, last year, I was growing plants in here in the summer, and, after the harvest, well, there were, practically, people--my friends--living here,” he said laughing.

I just looked at him amazed, and smiled back. Occasionally, I would murmur, “It’s nice,” or something equally inane, but for now, just absorbed the scene. Indeed, my friend had reason to be proud. The place was well painted, clean, as though a woman had been there, and tastefully decorated with candles, posters and railroad artifacts. Small graffiti elements were written here and there, There were words and names carved with a pocket-knife into some of the hanging tables. These tables were meant to be either fastened in a down or an up position for when the caboose was in motion. They were heavy, well-built and solidly hinged.

“The seats are original”. They were padded, and--though narrow--comfortable. “We also have, check this out, the original lantern, and it works. I’ve got lantern oil, and we use it sometimes and burn it.” It was the real thing. Mike showed me through the numerous cupboards and storage spaces, some of which contained items toward the occupants comfort--blankets, candles, food. The place was enchanting me already. It had an authenticity and character that spoke of real people putting real miles on the rails, and living their lives in this very room.

“But,” Mike said, “This is the best part about this place.” He pointed to the wood-burning stove. It was bolted to the floor, iron, with a pipe that ran up to and through the ceiling. On one side, towards the bathroom, was a large area for wood or coal. Here was a good supply of logs and lumber. He pulled a newspaper out of one of the closets and handed it to Jeff, who was leaning over the wood-burning stove.

“ Jeff is the fire-master. Maybe, we should call you “Fire Master”,” he said humorously, sounding excited, as though he were contemplating a new paradigm. “He knows how to get the thing going, watch this.” Jeff, meanwhile, had been knocking some ashes so that they would fall through to the bottom ash bin, muttering something about the “airflow.” He lifted two cooled logs and placed several sheets of newspaper underneath them. He added a few new logs, in a symmetrical pile, and another piece of newspaper or two under the new logs.

When he was ready, he lit the newspaper. I was surprised by the rapidness with which the fire got going. As the smoke and heat rose into the exhaust tube, fresh air was being drawn in through a few small vent holes at the bottom of the stove. This breezed blew right up through the now-fully-engaged fire, quickly catching the smaller tinder aflame, and then causing the larger logs to catch fire in just moments. The flames danced before my eyes, a welcome sight, but one that made my eyes ache, as though tired, after the darkness and low candle light.

“This place is going to be warm as hell in a few minutes, Al. We’ll have to be opening windows within the half-hour, just to keep it mellow in here,” Mike told me. “C’mon with me.” He led me to the rear of the caboose to the ladder to the upper level, called a cupola. Here we sat, the two of us and talked for a few minutes.

“If ever you’re having a bad time, or you want to get away from a situation, or a person for a minute, this is the place where everybody should understand that you can go. So be sure to ask if it’s all clear up here before you just come up, you know?”

I assured him I did, thinking, that, this must also be the place where the guys get away for a minute with their girls, when those situations arise. He opened a window, because, as promised, the cab was already growing comfortably warm, and it had crossed my mind to take my outer coat off already. Instead, Mike led me out onto the roof of the caboose.

The cold was now refreshing, it was just a nip below freezing, with a light breeze from the north at perhaps two to three miles per hour. A recent snow had begun to give way to the early spring sun the previous day, and lay in patches in northward facing crevices and surfaces. Below me, lay the rusting remains of the old round house. The foundation used to hold a turntable, which would allow the locomotives to be serviced and switched. The snow and frost glittered back at me, dancing before my eyes in a wraithlike beauty.

Mike was quiet for once, and then pointed out, “You’re so quiet. What’s going on with you?” He smiled at me, reassuringly. I think he realized as he said it, that the question might provoke a deeper response than either of us wanted. I began to answer.

“You know, I have been having quite a hard time of it, lately. I just feel so confused and...” I trailed off, and Mike instinctively changed the subject, though I had not forgotten the question. “There usually isn’t a Sunday night train scheduled. We’re just kind of looking out, ‘cause you never know.”

Speaking of quiet, Alex was hanging out down below. He was quietly smoking a cigarette in the darkness. We climbed down the ladder and dropped to the ground. Alex was smiling. The psychedelic trip was hitting full force now. Circles of light were dancing before my eyes, diamonds of light in geometric patterns were flitting into and out of existence. The darkness was alive with light, and it glittered madly off of a million snowflakes and bits of ground frost.

Perception is interesting at this point, as all things seem reduced fundamentally to points of light and darkness. The brain is busy interpreting the millions of bits of information in order to allow you to judge an objects identity size and characteristics. When you’re at the thousand points of light stage, you find deeper meaning in a frosty rail or in reflective stickers. Every street light is a reminder that the electrical grid that lies beneath our feet, binds us together as we place in it our trust in one another and our faith in large and powerful corporations. Every reflection is a “happy photon.” What an object is--and what an object represents-- is wrapped up in an enigmatic package, sprinkled with starlight and absorbed through the eyes and senses to take its’ place in the profound evolving whole.

So with the light comes illumination, sometimes of such darker recesses as we possess. Shame and remorse. The gnawing agitation at things undone. Regret for lack of grace in change. Pain inflicted and incurred. It is this very sadness, upon which I cannot dwell, without threatening the thin strand of sanity I have tethered myself with.

It is an artificial divide that I have set for myself. The reasons are complex and manifold, but come down to this: I am afraid to have a bad trip. Such thoughts bring on a powerful panic reaction, with very real physical manifestations, such as a drop in blood pressure that makes one feel like one might pass out. There is a pit-of-stomach reaction that makes you nauseous, and fear tries to overwhelm you.

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Growing cold in the gathering darkness, I decided to go inside, where the fire was warming up the place nicely. I took my jacket off, and hug it in the closet, taking my smokes with me. Beers were passed around. Jeff was offering up a pipe full of resins, and everybody indulged for a few minutes, inhaling the heavy white smoke. Any small conversation provoked acid laughter, and everybody was eager to throw in their comments. We sat around one of the tables and smoked and joked for a few more minutes.

I began to really feel my acid buzz, and stared into the fire, which leaped and danced and twisted with such beauty, that I found myself so fascinated that I couldn't look away for minutes at a time. When I did, the darkness of the caboose made me feel that I was looking into a fog, where shapes wafted into and out of the air, mere shadows of their real selves, out of focus and difficult to discern. It wasn't blurry, as much as it was surreal. I kept looking at my friends faces, but could barely make out their features. What I could see was robbed of its natural hue and looked grey, except that the grey everywhere was outlined with light globules, which shaded all of the outlines in blotches of pink and yellow and blue and white fluorescent light. Flat surfaces seemed to be broken up into beautiful ever-changing geometric patterns that were symmetrical both sideways and vertically.

Something like a cross was at the middle of the hallucination, then, and I recognized that this was special. I had noticed long before, that every dose inspired its own "visual geometry" if you will. Some are totally chaotic and non-reflexive and others are simply reflexive left to right. Some have multiple centers which blend together in interesting interference patterns, like waves. All are wondrous to behold. A baffling phenomenon.

Even within the dancing flames, there were bold patterns and mesmerizing signs. Signs are little bit different. They are the spirit signature of a person or other living creature(usually). I can't read the signs' language, but I know what they mean, if that makes any sense to you. The sign usually hangs in the air, near the persons' head, and it indicates something about the person's spirit, whether it is peaceful or upset. This is a very strange and private vision, so when I saw signs, I never shared what I saw with the other person. In some way, it would be like me telling you what you had just got done telling me. And, just in case, I didn't want you to know that I was picking up your vibe so acutely, lest we both be embarrassed. I know, it sounds stupid in a way.

It reminded me that I had seen a sign in the air just before the cops showed up at a previous acid party I had been to. I knew they were there, but was also reassured that they were there on routine business, not to roust the party. Indeed, they merely relayed a noise complaint to the host, and then were gone. I might have otherwise headed for a window, except that the sign assured me that everything was okay.

Similarly, when there are dark spirits about, I can sense those too, by way of signs. On a previous occasion, one of my friends had had a "bad trip" and was being assailed by evil spirits. The sign by his cheek revealed his inner turmoil and his spiritual battle before he opened his mouth to say the first word. I just knew. I decided that the signs must be a part of a persons soul, and was put there by God himself, to help us recognize our brothers' pain.

I had learned to trust my instinct about the signs, mostly because I had always interpreted them correctly. They seemed to be part of my instinct and intuition. When Chernobyl blew up in 1986, I saw signs next to the rescue workers and the reactor when looking at the coverage on TV. More than one worker had a "dead man walking" sign near his face that spoke to me of the state of his inner condition, of his cells sickening and dying. The signs also told of the angels that were surrounding them--of which the workers seemed unaware--ready to attend to them in their passing back to God.

At least, in those days, I still believed that most everyone would be going to heaven. (I don't know where I got that impression, likely from the father of all lies. Satan is the great deceiver, you know.) My assessment, after these many years have gone by, is that most will not be returning to the Father with whole heart. Most people are blind, deceived by the false gods of money, power and lust--and by Satan. The path is narrow and few will find it. Thats in the Bible; you can look it up.

The truth is we shall all stand before the Lord and give an accounting of ourselves. Many of us will be judged not worthy of the life with which he entrusted us--that is--ours and the lives of those around us.

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I listened to Mike and Jeff bantering on about a connection between all beings, be they animal or plant or shoe. I was not quite getting it, as I had no experience with the will of shoes or walls, or their predestination or their ordination. I only knew that things wore out, and rusted and walls fell and buildings crumbled under the weight of neglect. Entire civilizations had risen, seen their day in the sunshine, and then vanished into thin air, leaving broken pottery shards and rubble behind. Fads came and went like yesterdays news, altogether insignificant and fleeting. People have even made a habit of trying to hold on to the past, calling their piles "collections" or "antiques".

Holding on to such things has a futile quality to it, as naked we are born and naked we will die, taking nothing, but nothing with us when we go. One persons ranch is the next persons real estate deal, and the spirits of the horses that once ran free on the plains are memories only for the oldest, and for those who heard the eldest most clearly. The proud home owner soon has a pile of warping foundations and crumbling walls and leaking roofs until he is humbled or is put to shame, or is spurred to ever greater economic achievement in order to fight the never ending battle with entropy. Keeping up with the status symbols of the Joneses becomes a double full-time proposal.

Mommy and daddy are both working like slaves to pay the bills, now and to buy the plastic consumables of our society at an ever growing rate. The kids, meanwhile, are out discovering hallucinogens, and altering their consciousness, in order to achieve a plateau understanding of just what a dysfunctional society we have become. While the parents are busy working so hard to keep a household in luxury, their relationships with one another turn sour, and grow cold from neglect. Their distancing from one another then strains their relationship with the children, too, resulting in a semi-dysfunctional family, just the type of family that spawns drug abusing children.

There is, indeed a connection between all things, but to my mind, it is the permanent and non-fleeting soul that is meant to be connected, but all I can see is disconnect. If the physical world is meant to be left behind by the soul, how have we become so blind to the truth of our soul disconnect? Our holidays don't even reflect the true celebratory meaning anymore. Easter-Ishtar is a pagan holiday made to look Christian. Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny(based on the fertility goddess of old) are somehow more palatable than the Living God and His Son. Must be all of those capital Letters that turns people off, nope that can't be it.

No, the world has learned to whore after the "Almighty Dollar" and the conversion of all things valuable into all things wealth had begun. It has been a slippery slope, built upon certain assumptions about what was of value, but mostly, what could be turned into wealth and exploited. The soul did not happen to be one of those things. In fact, any person who attains for the soul automatically becomes less fit for the consumer generation that capitalists and marketers are busy creating.

So, there was a conspiracy to make people take leave of their souls. You cannot serve God and mammon at the same time. And the mammon was getting so appealing, and easy and mass-marketed and pervasive. The rapid arrival of piles of bills, and a constant stream of Holidays and sporting events keeps folks minds occupied and far from the truth. Time is even comoditized, and is increasingly used as a business tool to ensure an adequate supply of young poor people. There are only so many hours in the day.

And thus, with a stigma on being poor, and the American Dream beckoning so many to "get rich quick" and "hit the jackpot" or "strike the mother load", we are all assured that, on the basis of our raw efforts, we, too, can become rich and famous and wash that grey right out of your beard. We are told that through hard work and effort, anyone can become the next Henry Ford, right in your own garage. You can build a better mousetrap, and then the world will beat a path to your door.

Right.


So I pondered the disconnect between money and soul, realizing that people were making this choice in a million small ways, and being lead by a thousand small voices that called them to be smarter, richer and more successful than the next guy. Why would one be called to attain to the soul in such a circumstance? God is reduced to a few plaques, a few prayers and the force behind the Easter Bunny. The "God Is Dead" movement never proved its' case, but such a lie, repeated infinitely, can convince even a stone, and, absent any further evidence, or reason to attend to the matter, the lie is accepted as truth, eventually.

Do I sound bitter? I probably am. I hope I don't come off as a free-thinking anarchist. Wait. I am a free-thinking anarchist. I am sure some will accuse me of being a communist or something equally meant-to-be derogatory. Whenever I novelize, I can see the therapists coming out of the woodwork, saying, "you've got issues". I do like attention. And I do love to be loved. And I want to be wanted. Are those issues? I bite my nails. I worry alot. I used to worry so much that I lay awake at night thinking about life and what I should do with myself. And with women? I am so nervous that I feel embarrassed to admit it. I always look women in the eyes, and I often get the feeling that they would rather I look at the rest of them, but I find it difficult, like, that would be rude, right? I think I make them nervous, too.

When I was younger, events sort of ruled my world, and there were a lot of distractions. Now, as I direct the action in my life, as I take the reins and try to conduct, I feel totally inadequate. I feel as though I am making stupid decisions(such as hanging out all night tripping, though, it is more fun than a week at Disneyland), casting about futily in a search for meaning that no one else bothers with. I think, what the fuck, am I crazy? Sitting around thinking about God when everybody else is out in a mad dash for money? I think, well, if God wants me to be rich, then I will be. But, so far, I'll take it as a "No!"

-----

Mike and Jeff were still talking, with Alex giggling occasionally, but not really saying much. It was as if they acknowledged Alex without deeply engaging him. I was also out on my own engagement at this point, but I decided to follow Alex out into the night for some fresh air. I asked him how he was doing, out of concern and as a matter of exploration. He laughed and said, "It's pretty intense, man," which I agreed it was. The Olympic rings were special, alright.

Outside, I got a glimpse of the "Purple Haze" of which Jimi Hendrix spoke. It was as if things had taken on an aura, and the distant, diffuse streetlight was bouncing off of the remnants of snow, casting a purple tinge to that once-yellow light. Of course, other colors beamed from every angle, but there was an overall purple hue to things.

Mike said that he wanted to take a walk. He and Jeff were going to go "look for something good." He said he didn't know exactly what he was looking for, but it was going to be good. He was so enthusiastic, it was infectious. He was serious and humorous at the same time and his eyes twinkled beneath his almost white hair and brows. He reminded me of someone much wiser than he was old, a rare combination these days. He showed me the lantern, but it was not lit. He and Jeff said good-bye and sauntered down the tracks.

Alex stood beside me, not talking, listening to the factory sounds. His spirit signature was strong and positive. He was also making the best he could out of a situation that was rough. He was living, he had told me, with his foster mother, and whom he referred to as "my foster mother." He also had several foster siblings, who he claimed to get along with. Thinking of putting up with my own brothers, I found it a bit hard to believe. When you're in foster care, he told me, you think of all the worse places you could be--and have been--and you toe a fairly straight line. That, I believed.

Alex worked and went to school. He was studying to be a graphic artist. He was good, too. He could sit down with a crayon and make a sketch of anything in the room. He said he was trying to develop to the point where he could just see something in his head and then draw it. It reminded me of my music, where I wished to be able to play anything I heard, just by hearing it.

I turned my head suddenly. It was a cop car, cruising moderately on the street, some 150 yards away. I was amazed that I had been drawn to observe that lone vehicle, but thankfully, we had not been observed in the dark. Nor were we likely to be observed. We were in our own little world, adjacent to, but not part of the world at large, the world that was full of people who were right now climbing into bed to ready themselves for yet another business day. I tried instead to focus on the deep and abiding peace that we had found in this humble place. At least for this moment, it was the only place on earth.

Alex and I, having cooled down again, went into the cozy confines of the caboose. We sat, smoking and staring at the fire. Although we were kindred spirits, and were sharing an intense experience, we did not feel the need to talk much. While I sat with him, I briefly worried that I should be more open with what I was thinking, but I had learned to be afraid of speaking too much, or too little. If too much, I felt like a clod, talking all over people, failing to be a good listener. If too little, I feared a bit for my sanity, based upon other experiences I had had with other people who were under the influence. Sensing that he was not offended, I relaxed.

I was looking into the fire. Thoughts again ran through my head, coming and then fleetingly vanishing, thoughts of Indians and altruists, amoebae and antlers. Within the fire, famous faces would sometimes pop out, like Marilyn Monroe, Mussolini and FDR. Sometimes, the images seemed related to what I was thinking, but at other times, the images swayed the course of my thoughts, and led me down new alleys of perception. I was still thinking about the connection between things, when a small voice seemed to call from the fire.

"Take heed. The Millennium approaches and the time to save souls is at hand. The harvest is great, but the workers are few."

Immediately, I recognized that this voice was not mine. The entity was quoting the scripture, as best I could tell. I, however, could not. So, I knew that I was being spoken to by an angel. Now, as to whether it was a good angel or a bad angel, I couldn't say for sure, but I believed in both. And if you want my opinion, it was an angel of the Lord. Satan isn't concerned with saving souls. Now, I know I heard this angelic voice, I know it wasn't me, because, I'm thinking, I'm supposed to start here? With these people? These people who are stoned out of their minds, and talking metaphysics and ginseng oil? And if not them, who?

I was getting anxiety about this time. The angel said "Fear not." I contemplated and meditated the angels message, but just kept coming back to, what the hell am I supposed to do? I don't even know the bible, I hardly read the book. I'm confused about my religion. I was raised a catholic, then moved to a protestant church as a teenager, when the Catholic Church refused to recognize my mothers' divorce. She wanted to remarry so she left the church. So what do you want from me?
I felt that my lack of denomination was really a strength, though, as I felt that it kept religion from getting in the way of my relationship with God.

------


The encounter had left me trembling. My nerves were on edge. I continued staring at the fire, wondering what this angelic vision had meant. I do believe in the apocalyptic visions of Revelation--of judgment and antichrist. In fact, there had been many occasions that I wondered why it was taking so long for Jesus to come back with the sword. It was obvious to me that the world hated the Lord Jesus Christ. I was reading the good book, but I was still not very biblically literate; I failed to understand that many prophecies had not yet been fulfilled, concerning the antichrist--who is to deceive the whole world--and the apostasy of the church whoring after antichrist. Revelation describes this "end time" vision.

Perhaps I was being deceived? There are many priests who would argue to you, that the only spirits that would approach you while you are on LSD must be devils or demons. I can only state that I was taking the Lords promises to heart, especially, "I will never leave you, nor forsake you." As a matter of faith, this doctrine is of paramount importance. This phrase describes a God who is forgiving, ever reaching out for the hand of His children, waiting for them to turn to Him to be healed. Why would He then leave His little children, especially when they are spiritually vulnerable, as they might be under the influence of such a heavy substance? Although he does not forsake us, it is his children who often turn away from His eternal presence.

As I feared a bad trip, I had been praying for God and His angels to be with me, and for Him to keep the bad spirits at bay. I kept praying that "I am one of Gods' children." I asked him to keep me safe from the evil spirits, and so in this moment, I decided to trust that He had done so and was doing so. I decided that the angel was--in fact-- the angel of the Lord.

But--wow!. Souls to save? Wasn't that somebody elses gig? I contemplated the future, as a young man might, but was not comforted by the prospect of apocalypse in my lifetime. Now the angel were recruiting me for some sort of celestial job that I felt neither qualified nor prepared for. Am I to become a priest? I wondered. I certainly felt no calling to minister to others. I felt too fucked up to be of any use to others, especially when I evaluated myself from the terms of the world--jobs, degrees, offices, authority.

The implication of this message, was, that I couldn't be of much help if I was too fucked up. I had come to view myself in a bunch of negative terms--loser, druggie, indecisive, a follower, underemployed, lacking prospects, lacking education. Again, my focus had been upon how the world viewed me. How employers viewed me. I was reminded that God had created me for His pleasure and purpose, and that God doesn't make mistakes. He knew my heart, and to Him that is all that matters. I realized that people in high offices or in lofty executive positions were the least likely to make their decisions with God in mind--you cannot serve God and mammon at the same time. He obviously needs people in low places, humbled and ready to do Spiritual work. "But I'm not ready," I prayed.

I realized that I must become ready. He was calling on me, and I did not wish to disappoint Him. At the time, I remember thinking, is it now that I'm to act or later. I think I assumed it would be later, based upon my self-assessment as a tool in His hands. I'm not worthy, I'm not prepared, I lack something...

The guys were back. They were very excited about something, but I saw no sign. They had had an experience of some ecstatically spiritual nature, and they were dying to tell us about it.

"First, you guys gotta sit down, to hear this story. And you gotta smoke some of this!" He pulled out a sack, and said, "This is the Whip!"

The whip? I had never heard it put that way.

"We met a Grok In The Road, man..."

"Now listen, man. So, we left here with the lantern," Mike began to explain. Jeff just sat there with a wild grin on his face, and truly seemed speechless. Mike, however, was rarely speechless. "It doesn't even matter which way we went..." He trailed off. "It is just so bizarre. We walked off down the tracks with the lantern, and we came to a crossroads. What road it was doesn't even matter. I set the lantern down by the sidewalk, just to fuck with peoples' heads, to see what they would do."

We took turns inhaling the pot. It was very nice tasting, and sticky--a very promising combination, which none of us had seen around lately.

"Well, me and Jeff just sat off on the side, out of sight, waiting to see what would happen, and of all the people in the world, here come two brothers, in a total pimp mobile. The one guy is like hanging out the window, looking, and he says "Stop, man," to his bro. The one guy starts to get out of the car, and he kinda looks around. So, I step out of the shadow and said, "Excuse me, that's mine." I walk over and introduce myself.

"They turn out to be lost!!! They're from Detroit, and they've never been to this town, so their just riding around, looking for some girls, or the campus, or whatever. So what do they have with them? The WHIP!!! the guy calls it, and he hands me a sample, and I say, "Damn!!! That's the Whip?"

""You know it, man. That's the Whip!" the brother man said.

"It was a Grok in the road! It was only forty bucks. It is the Whip!"

There was apparently more, now, to the story, but both Mike and Jeff began to speak excitedly to each other. "Everything's connected, man" Mike was saying again, and Jeff babbled incoherently, as he often did. He had an annoying habit of talking so low that you had to drop everything you were doing and lean forward, and cock an ear to hear him. It was about coincidence and chance. What an amazing confluence of unlikely events it was that had brought strangers together, some of whom were completely lost. And the signal had drawn together those who had need, to those who could provide--us with The Whip, them with directions.

I pondered it closely just then, because, it is a very large world. That their two paths could cross so happily--could it be a cosmic accident? Or was it part of Gods design, as I tended to think. This is one of the great mysteries. Do things happen in such a way that is pre-designed to be perfect? Or do we make our own decisions, interfering with Gods' plan for us, so that we end up unfulfilled, and unuseful to the master? Perhaps the truth lies somewhere in the middle. I think there is an overall plan, but people either fulfill their given purpose, or they don't. The work still needs to get done, but somebody else is going to have to do it if one person does not complete his task.

They were beginning to really "grok out" about what had happened. As I came out of my mesmerized silence, I began to say something to Jeff. Mike shushed us all briskly and then loudly declared, "Silence. The corner speaks." He was referring to me.

I was the corner? what did that mean? It meant something to him, obviously, but I could not quite take his meaning. I stammered over my speech, because I wasn't sure that what I was going to say was all that coherent--though he seemed to think it was of significance. I was going to tell them what I had heard in my vision, but I suddenly became very self-conscious about it. Perhaps, this vision was too personal to share in this setting? Maybe the message was only for me? Maybe I would sound stupid, or like some kind of Christian freak. I could only imagine their reactions, but I assumed at that time, that it couldn't possibly be much more than a downer to them. I froze, not knowing what to say.

Now, my revelation was difficult to speak of. My story was bound to unimpress. After all, it didn't have any of the element of their wondrous story. It didn't have an exciting start, middle and ending. It didn't have a dramatic finish. In fact, my story had none of the enticing elements that Mikes' story had--the mysterious people in the dark, darkened crossroads of chance, a happy ending.

No, my vision was apocalyptic--a warning, a command and a calling. I didn't perceive it to be the kind of story that one tells at a party, but Mike's story fit exactly that description. So, I muttered something, barely coherent. Mike was on a roll. Everything was a new piece of his magnificent new theory.

"Beautiful, beautiful!" he said, then quickly darted to his left to hug Jeff playfully. "It's all part of the same thing, man." He was tripping hard, and his excitement grew moment by moment. I wanted to tell them about my quiet little vision, but I didn't want to interfere with whatever he was going through. I remember thinking that he might be led to come to some of the same conclusions I had made, that our shared vision, from the same God, would lead us to the same place.

And anyway, Mike was at the center of attention, a place he was comfortable with, and I was not. I shrank back in my seat, and accepted my role at the fringe, in the corner, on a siding. If I hadn't already, I began to really feel like the third rail. In my mouth was party poison, a truth unvoiced. By not opening my mouth, I was selling out my Lord for the sake of the company and approval of my friends. I did not want to risk being unpopular with them at that moment, even though I really only had hints of their adversity to Christ. I didn't know if they knew, cared or loved the Lord at all, but I was too afraid to take the time to find out. My opportunity was there, but I let it go, being fearful, being faithless. It was a subtle defeat, one that would take me years to get over. It seemed to me to be a weakness of will, a stifling of the spirit, to suit my tender ego, which I was afraid of getting bruised.

It would seem to be a sin of omission, rather than commission. The angel didn't specifically tell me to start then and there, nor was it commanded that I speak then and there. Yet, I got the feeling that it was there that I should start. I had my chance, and I let it slip away. In retrospect, the act of speaking would have cleared the way for me to overcome those fears and doubts I had. I told myself that I wasn't prepared to save souls; I wasn't even sure of my own status with the Lord. Satan gained another easy victory, that night. I've heard it said that all it takes for evil to win is for good men to stand by and do nothing. That, I came to decide, described me to a tee.

Instead, I determined to wait for a more perfect moment. Looking back, one thing that I've learned, is to not take any such opportunities for granted. Each one is precious, and like souls, they are here and then gone. The "perfect" moment never came, and a moment like it never again came. Even as I sat there and watched my window shrink, instead of getting up to do battle, I succumbed to the fear, and to my own worst impulses. It is a regret that I still carry with me to this day.

So I sat back and watched Mike go off on his own trip, spinning and talking and banging the walls and pounding his fists. He was increasingly excited and commanded the attention of the trippers. He was obviously enjoying this a great deal, the equivalent, I suppose of the very drunk person who gets his second wind, and wants to kiss all the girls and play loud music. He was literally bouncing off of the walls. At one point, I remember him saying, "no, that's cool, man. You just fucked up my counter-clockwise spin, though."

Alex and I sat smoking and listening to Mikes' banter, occasionally laughing and commenting to each other how intense it all was.

Jeff was holding a beer. Mike told him to put it down.

"Hey, man, do you want to try a little experiment?" Jeff grinned and nodded his agreement. They huddled together in the cab, like footballers in the huddle, getting ready to call a play. Mike began to utter a chant, and to say a prayer, inviting in the "good spirits" to be with us in our caboose. He continued chanting and moving his hands about, like a magician who waves his hand over the hat, just before he pulls out a bunny. He traced his hands in the air a few feet from Jeff, outlining his head, shoulders, torso, then legs.


Then, they stood in the middle of the room. Alex and I looked at each other, then at the unfolding experiment. They stood, about two arm lengths apart, and raised their arms with their fingers distended to each side, there fingers aligned along the same paths. They slowly brought their hands closer together. Mike said, "Just let the power flow through you, Be a conduit, a willing conduit, and let it just flow through." They stood, their fingers almost touching, their eyes closed.

Suddenly, as if lightening had hit, the two of them dropped to the floor. They were laughing and crying at the same time, and rolling and writhing on the floor, in what I could only interpret as some sort of religious ecstasy. Instantaneously, some force had leaped between the two of them, blasting them to the floor, sending them into paroxysms of joy and agony. Alex and I immediately sprang to their sides, to lend assistance. I knelt by Jeff. His skin was warm to the touch, and there was a very real sweat running down his face. His eyes were still closed, and his muscles were firing spastically, as though he was having an epileptic fit. They were gasping and trying to catch their breath, and both yelling out "Oh my God. Jesus Christ. Oh my God!!!" I had never seen such a thing before, and certainly never have again.

They slowly came to their senses. I lent Jeff a hand to rise from the floor, and he collapsed against me in a sort of hug. He was still exclaiming, "Oh my God", and struggling to catch his breath. He finally tried to speak, but all he said, was "Al, Al, Oh, My God".

I felt cold, so I sat down near the stove and stared at the fire again. I wondered, is this the same sort of revelation, or what the hell is this? I pulled deeply on another beer, and thought. I wonder what happened to them. They are tripping out! They were still laughing and smiling and joking, so I assumed that this was not a bad trip.

"Sshhhhhhh. The Corner Speaks."

" I just wonder what do you guys think just happened, there."

"This has been going on since before we left with the lantern. This confluence of events, this magic, the Grok In The Road. I was trying to explore this life force idea more thoroughly, and I expected something to happen, but I wasn't expecting this! I don't know how to explain it, but it's BIG! There is something going on here."

I couldn't deny that. But just what was it that was going on here? Were these spiritual forces all on the same side, or was there some sort of little war going on here. I mean, we're at peace inside our little warm box, and we're free to explore, and if fact, compelled to explore our inner selves and spirituality here in a small group, during a very moving and powerful experience. On one hand, I felt protected by God, because I had asked him whole heartedly to be my shield as I took the blinders off. On the other hand, Mike had invited in who-knows-what spirits to the party, and for that matter, what are Jeffs or Alexes angels like?

I had known Jeff since Junior High school, when neither of us was favored by the in crowd. His father was an engineer and his mother an artist. They lead practically separate existences, eventually getting divorced. In the seven or so years I had known him, there was never any indication that they belonged to a church, or attended any. There were no religious symbols or books in the house. I had talked to him about his faith only once that I remembered, and his views were of the "religions start wars" variety. Did that make him atheist? No, he believed in God, he just didn't believe in all of that Bible stuff.

Alex, I knew even far less. I had only recently made his acquaintance. So I asked him. "Did you go to church when you were growing up?"

"When I was a little kid, I went to a church. I don't even remember what kind of church it was, maybe Lutheran? Then my parents started fighting worse, and we stopped going."

"So do you believe in God?"

"I'm starting to more and more," he said, looking over at Mike, who was still moving about the place in counter-clockwise circles.

"You should pray. I think he listens," I told him. Then I left it at that.

I still couldn't speak of what I was feeling. I was scared to mess up the festive mood, I was scared to be the bearer or bad news, I felt that I already bored Mike intellectually, that he was tons smarter and sharper and wittier than I was, so that contributed to my quietness. At least, that was one of the excuses I found.

As much as I wanted to connect with them, I let a host of concerns rule me, and I remained quiet. There was a whole list, now, of reasons not to speak up. Its a downer. I'll wreck their good time. I'll spoil the mood. They'll think I'm stupid. They'll think I'm a religious zealot. They won't understand. I don't understand. If I try to talk, I'll fall off of my mental cliff and turn into one of those babbling, incoherent, over-the-edge bad trippers. I'm afraid. I must think of something else for awhile.

It was certainly easy to become distracted. Here it was. Mike and Alex had been talking. They wanted to try the experiment again, with all of us, and all of our energies. They wanted to see what would happen with four of us combining energies. Jeff and Mike were eager to try again, to experience what the had felt before.

I immediately wished that I had told them about my vision. I didn't really want to participate in what I viewed as some sort of parlour trick type quasi-religious experiment. It was like having a seance. Now blinded by my own guilt, over not speaking up, and weak to the whiles of the other spirits in the room, I again sinned, in that, rather than speak up for my Lord--who I did believe in--over these pseudo-Gods that my friends were playing with, I decided again to keep quiet and just go along with their plan. I didn't want to be a downer.

It just kept getting worse and worse. You know you should deal with things up front, but you decide to put it off. Meanwhile, the unconfronted problem doesn't diminish or disappear, it magnifies itself, it rears its' ugly head, despite your best attempts to avoid it. In the end, the energy spent avoiding a problem is at least as great or greater than the energy that would have been expended confronting it.

The only thing we have to fear, is fear itself, I told myself. I chose the easier path, and stood up to participate. The four of us stood in the middle of the space. Mike was murmuring, saying a prayer, or a spell. I said my own prayer while he was speaking, and didn't focus on what he said, but it resembled what he had said before, during the first experiment.

Then, as he called for our complete attention and focus, i tried to focus my energies toward my friends. I thought of my own angel, who had hastened me to something large and important moving within the spirit world. I prayed that His will be done, even here, in this room, even through my actions, if not my words. We stretched our hands out lining our fingers up, one to one around our circle. I closed my eyes, still praying. Everyone was motionless, in prayer, waiting for the event to take place.

A minute or two later, Mike broke the silence, saying, "It didn't work. I feel a resistance to the force." Instantly, I was overcome by more guilt. He must be talking about me. Did he know that it was I who had made the experiment fail. I was not playing on equal ground, and not praying to the same spirit that they were, I thought, and that's why it didn't work. I had interrupted the flow of their energies around the circle.

I sat by the fire again, anguished by my predicament. Why hadn't I just spoke up? Why must I screw things up by not being honest, not being myself? I stared and began having visions, dancing in my head, sparked by the fire. Faces would form, then vanish. Animals and fish would run through my vision on their way to and from the eternal. In my mind, I was outside the caboose, in the darkness, ministered by angels. They were talking to me again.

They took me out into the night, high above my humble city, where the rest of the earth seemed stretched out as a sheet. It seemed to contain past, present and future. There was Jerusalem, there was the Pharaoh, directing the building of the pyramids. In all the earth, there was nothing so valuable as the souls, but they resisted God and each other. There was a big lie that had infected the populace, drawing them to fleeting riches, and away from unity. A battle was drawing near, the forces of good and evil cannot co-exist, without the whole being divided or ultimately, wholly corrupted.

There were certain truths being whispered, of which I was only remotely aware. God was not dead. That was one of the many vicious lies with which the world was being deceived, day by day. The whole world would have to choose. People would be deceived, and the deception would increase, with many souls being lost, few saved. Those who chose to trust their riches would be utterly destroyed by those very riches; those who trusted the Lord would be saved. There would certainly be an apocalypse, and Satan and all who followed him would be destroyed by a triumphant Jesus Christ, upon his returning to the earth. This time is coming to the earth, and history is poised upon the brink of these things coming to be. A host of souls is almost ripe for the harvest, some to go on to eternal life, and others to be burnt in the fire, to cease to exist, so that Gods' holy and faithful children can inherit his promises.

I was almost surprised to hear that Jesus was coming back. Many people of my generation have decided that that also is a lie. I was simply wondering what was taking him so long. Every day, I heard about some new atrocity: genocide, war, people killing their own children, dismembering corpses, spilling blood. When, I prayed, would enough be enough. Couldn't all people be fed and valued and housed and loved? And, if not, what was this two thousand years supposed to prove? What is the Lord waiting for? When will enough be enough?

There was an answer from an angel. Not until the full measure of souls is won. The work is not yet done. We were all young and idealistic, and I certainly felt, that most people held the same values at the core, that I did. God, family, country. Work ethic. Honesty, Integrity. The angel gently reminded me that the corruptor was moving about, to and fro upon the earth, seeking whom he could destroy. Their lips speak great things towards me, but their heart is far from me, saith the Lord. Oh but that they would turn to me with their whole hearts and thus be healed.

Looking away from the fire, things looked considerably different. With the glow of the fire and visions still before my eyes, the cool darkness seemed somewhat menacing, but somehow, my prayers, and meditation and the angels protection had caused all of the evil spirits to flee. The caboose was peaceful. At the rear of the caboose, Mike shouted out, "Half Moon. Oh my god, look, its the half moon. He described what he saw rather than the technically correct "quarter moon." There in the crystalline air was the half moon, surrounded by the halo that ice crystals in the atmosphere present. The rising of the half full moon was just before midnight, and I related this back to my vision.

Midnight, end times, armageddon, apocalypse, end-of-the-world-as-we-know-it, show time in the o.k. corral. How close? Twenty years? thirty? within my lifetime?

The music was intense. We had listened to several classic rock albums, such as Terrapin Station, Close To The Edge and the likes. I was very peaked by the guitar oriented rock, and it made me wish I had my guitar with me. At this moment, as I listened to the grooves, I was hanging on every beat of a powerful, melodic, visionary rock album. I wanted to learn how to play like that!!! I was inspired and began writing a symphony in my head, imagining the poignant silences and thunderous crescendos, the theatre and the drama of a huge rock show designed to blow peoples mind, and make them break down and weep. I wanted to experience that from stage. I found that I was crying.

That is kind of funny, cause, sometimes, when I listen to a song, I get so involved that it makes me cry, It brings up feelings and emotions so deep, that I cry. Whenever an artist does that to you, you NEVER forget it. Elton John has done that to me, Prince, Sinead O'Conner, Genesis, YES. I'm sure you have had that experience. Or have you? Maybe it's just me. Does the mere suggestion give you the creeps, or can you relate? If you've read me this far, you can relate.

I had read somewhere, that crying is a very good release, and since I did it so little, I did not restrain myself. I felt the vague comfort of the now quiet angels. Certain revelations came again to me as I cried. I cried for love lost, for childhood, for poverty, for pain. I felt the sadness of a generation that did not care to know their neighbors, nor their God. I quickly began to feel sorry for myself, though. I began to think about myself negatively again, and saw myself as a poor, broken, worthless, listless, trapped soul, no matter how well I meant, I still couldn't bring myself to confront my fears, and my demons. I prayed for forgiveness, and admitted that I was not a good servant, nor a worthy man.

I was tormenting myself again. how foolish. How was I ever going to be fit for anything. I was a fool. Blah, blah, blah. Finally, I decided that I must get over my fears, no matter how it hurt and at least try to relate what I had seen. Trouble was, I could barely speak. I tested my tongue, it was thick and dry. I tested my lips, they felt numb as though I was just back from the dentist. I tested my voice. It croaked. I took another swig of beer but my mouth still felt dry.

Too late. Mike was on another bent about being on a counter-clockwise turn. He was dancing now, floating through the caboose gesturing with his hands, gracefully. He went to the front end of the open room, to the door. It had one oval shaped plexiglass window, mounted at eye-level in the steel door frame. Mike began pounding the side of his fist against the glass, in a diamond shape, counter-clockwise, right, up, left, down, right, up, left, down, making a sound like a chugga chugga chugga chugga. He pounded faster and harder, round and around, chugga chugga, chugga chugga.

Suddenly, the window broke. We all startled, even, Mike. He stood back and said, "Did I do that?" which I took to be an odd question. I didn't think you could break plexiglass that easily, but I thought that its' age and the temperature and the pounding could possibly break the window. Believing that the enemy was back, I was startled by his remark. "Did I do that?"

Who else, but the spirits he had invited in? I knew I shoulda said something. Would now be a good time? MIke seemed mellower now, and it was time to sit down and smoke another bowl. I tried to speak. Mike started rambling, about his experience, proclaiming profound things, and Alex and I again just giggled and looked. I started to speak again.

"Silence. The corner speaks."

"I think I should tell you guys what I saw." I said

"Saw See. See-Saw. Teeter Totter. Oh, I said Teeter," Mike cracked everyone up. A session of one liners about broads and beers and blues ensued. And it was funny, but in the process, my story got passed up for a better one liner. I shoulda said something when I could. I had lost my train of thought again. I was lost on the train.

Again, in our advanced condition, mirth is the more appropriate emotion, anyway. Going in and digging into your dark side is a fine thing, but it has its place and time. This was not one of those times. And so mirth and camaraderie had their place. We laughed until our outsides were splitting and we were gasping for breath, and we rolled out of our chairs, and we laughed some more. We laughed until our jaws were sore, and tears came out our eyes. Those are some of the finest times you can have. And we had one.

We stepped outside in the dead of the night to lear at the half moon, and to get a bit of air. The moonlight danced playfully off of the snow and ice particles, a symphony of light. There was still a hint of the strange purplish hue, but the moon had chased much of the shadow away. The air was crisp and cold, and almost still. Our breath hung in front of our faces.

Looking at the ice crystals through which the moon shone, I knew that it meant a gathering storm. The forecast for tomorrow was for an inch or two of snow. But for now, the moonlight made the darkness less oppressive. The town was perfectly still. A bridge in the distance--the main roads' bridge over the tracks--only occasionally carried a car or two. There was the intermittent sound of machinery, but there was not a sound from the bus depot. I imagined a skeleton crew, who were watching television and not planning on doing much work. We stood in the half light, still talking and joking. Mellow and content in our trips, I again decided to put off telling my story, thinking that a better time would come. I succumbed to the peace of the night, and relaxed. I would tell them later.