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Title Page (second)
A Book Called HEAVEN

About the Strongman

by

Illustrated by Jim Cim

An OmniMedia Electronic Book

© Copyright 1996 by Trumpet James

Revision 1.0:  20 April 1996


Table of Contents

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Title Page (first, with the illustration “Heaven”)

Title Page (second)

About This Book and Revision History

About the Author

About the Illustrator

Begin reading “A Book Called Heaven”

Detailed Section Index of “A Book Called Heaven”

CAUTION:  For Adults Only.


Detailed Index of LIGHTENG BOLT!!!!!
Detailed Section Index of “A Book Called Heaven”

Click on the dark blue text to move to the indicated section.

A Book Called Heaven

The Painter’s Hand

00:00:46	00:02:45	00:07:47	00:08:01	00:13:47	00:15:47	00:18:22
00:20:06	00:23:12	00:23:56	00:32:06	00:37:57	00:38:49	00:42:13
00:54:16	01:06:44	01:08:58	01:40:08	01:42:09	01:46:37	01:47:46
01:49:16	01:55:13	01:56:42	01:58:17	02:08:32	02:11:06	02:15:56
02:20:04	02:31:48	02:35:39	02:39:16	02:42:32	02:47:12	02:51:08
02:55:49	03:05:06	03:09:12	03:25:23	03:27:01	03:30:09	03:33:13
03:37:52	03:40:28	03:49:32	03:52:36	03:57:27	04:01:38	04:05:01
04:15:19	04:17:06	04:23:36	04:27:06	04:33:43	04:35:15	04:36:12
04:45:33	04:57:48	05:27:24	05:30:59	05:39:56	05:41:32	05:50:16
06:06:03	06:15:52	06:25:29	06:29:07	06:37:18	06:38:28	06:52:47
06:58:44	07:20:21	07:24:41	07:35:13	07:38:36	07:45:58	07:47:43
07:57:25	08:04:57	08:10:34	08:13:29	08:16:14	08:22:26	08:27:18
08:32:56	08:37:29	08:40:34	08:43:35	08:51:18	08:57:45	08:59:37
09:09:17	09:12:56	09:15:27	09:20:46	09:27:33	09:31:36	09:36:24
10:10:35	10:13:25	10:15:37	10:17:57	10:19:32	10:27:37	10:32:14
10:37:52	10:43:12	10:52:18	11:13:22	11:16:28	11:22:04	11:31:02
11:33:53	11:41:11	11:50:47	11:53:27	12:05:54	12:12:25	12:14:33
12:19:42	12:22:21	12:28:23	12:29:43	12:32:12


About the Author

Do you recall viewing Shirley MacLaine’s “Out on a Limb” mini-series a few years back?  Remember Shirley’s astonishment as her vehicle began driving itself, careening along mountain roads inches from disaster as her guide assured her it would drive itself?  Presumable it knew the way.

Well, who does know the way?  Perhaps a reclusive man who lived on an island who now lives on a mountain top.  The man who is Trumpet James has written many books.  He now prefers to remain anonymous so you and he can fantasize his reality.  Some hints or, if you would prefer, clues.  Trumpet James has made good by delivering reading extravaganzas to you.  He has even launched a new age of thought.  The books of Trumpet James, thought of as mind-adventures, made publishing history expanding brain capacity worldwide to brazen new horizons.

As we move toward the Orwellian world, wouldn’t you like to know what’s on the mind of Trumpet James these days?  Let this mysterious, secretive writer take you another step, deeper into his alias, Trumpet James, to streeeeetch your mind and senses to phenomenal new dimensions.  Let the doors open!

Ten years in it’s creation, the Trumpet James alias is now available to I-bahn travelers throughout the world.  Look for more electronic books in the near future!

Now, only from Trumpet James...come, look into the mind that rocked the publishing world just a decade ago...  “Come, be a guest...visit my mind.  Come see what’s here for you.”

TrumpetJim@aol.com


About the Illustrator

Jim Cim is a 44 year old artist/composer who is currently working as a house husband raising a Down Syndrome child with his wife of 24 years.  His full name is James Ciminera, but has always used Jim Cim as his artist signature.  He grew up on Long Island, New York, and has long been a fan of the “Dada” art movement, “Everything is art...........Nothing is art.”  The main influences on his art and music have been:  Marcel Duchamp, Man Ray, Francis Picabia, James Joyce, Captain Beefheart and John Lennon.

More information about Jim Cim and his work (CaKim Design) can be found at his Web pages:

http://www.infobahnos.com/~jimcim/

E-mail address:  jimcim@infobahnos.com

Illustrations in this electronic book by Jim Cim:


Heaven


Hell


Trumpet James' Logo


About the This Electronic Book
About This Book and Revision History

About This Book

A frightening, mysterious book about the dark side, Daniel Lovesong is intent on worldwide fame.  He’s a writer of lovesongs who lives his lyrics, most of the time too deeply.  His lover Natalie is a Formula racecar driver of international repute.  Yet, who really are these people?

People die in car crashes, plane crashes, and other weird coincidences, while all-the-while Daniel is visiting Jackie, a therapist, who seems to be in control of all of it.  You will venture into a covert, underground world seldom visited by outsiders, and returned from it changed.  You will experience sensual love as never before, feeling as you’ve never before felt.

And you will be shocked as never before.

Revision History

Version	Date	Comment
1.0	20 Apr 96	First electronic version


Called Heaven
A Book Called Heaven

In a time when people lived, they didn’t believe in evil.  They didn’t know there was a Strongman, until someone wrote a book called Heaven.  Heaven showed them what Hell was.


The Painter's Hand
The Painter’s Hand

I watched the painter’s hand sweep across the canvas.

The blue pastel chalk in his hand made a sea for me to see.  Then he selected orange and red…swiped here and there, then in circles creating a sunset for me.  Then he picked up a handful of green, shuffling them across the canvas, creating an ocean as vast as I have seen.  Then with earth tones he drew an island for me to stare at, to lose my thoughts in.

And I looked in and I saw and I realized it was twilight…I had become one of the characters in his work of art.

Twilight.

The sun was setting in the water between Santa Catalina Island and the Palos Verdes Peninsula in Southern California.  I viewed the canvas from the bluff called Corona del Mar.  This piece of art was so real I could smell the salty, sea air as I listened to the calls of the sea gulls.

I was thinking about the last day of my life.

If it were the last day of my life, what would I tell you?  And would you listen?


00:00:46

It was a night lost in time.

The freeways of Southern California are always a citadel of activity.  Except at two in the morning they’re always packed.  And during the peak traffic hours, the rush hours, they turn into choked and idling used car lots just from the shear number of vehicles.  Sometimes you have to shoot your way out.

And usually, on any given morning, there was some type of fender-bender that backed up traffic for miles.  Or perhaps somebody in a hurry, screaming past his off ramp, would change from the fast lane to the exit lane, scattering cars, buses, trucks, and the Highway Patrol.  Sometimes they made the exit;  usually they rebounded off the abutments, scattering themselves across the asphalt.

And sometimes the asphalt turns into a funeral pyre.

The Santa Ana Freeway was slick…the rain settling into a slow drizzle.  Visibility was impossible, a strain on any driver.  Milt had been motoring along in the slow lane, cautiously.  Every once in a while, mom would wake up and look over at him, asking if he was awake.  He would nod, sleepily.  After checking on Missy and Tiger Dan, fast asleep in the backseat, she went back to her dreams.

Suddenly, Milt saw headlights coming up on him fast.  He thought it was the Highway Patrol.  He tensed up, not knowing what to do.  His foot moved toward the brakes.  The headlights caught up with him, rocketing past him—must be doin’ eighty-five, and in this rain, damn dangerous.

“Crazy bastards,” he swore.  Sandy startled awake.

“What’s wrong?”  She sat up, bleary-eyed, steadying herself against the seat and the door.

“Oh, nothing, honey.  Just some idiots in a hot Chevy pretending like there’s no tomorrow.  Bastards,” and he eased his foot back on the gas, flashing his brights on and off as his only retaliation against those bastards who half scared him to death, “Where the hell are the cops when you need ‘em?”

Mom whispered, falling back to sleep, “At the donut shop, honey.”  He laughed nervously.

In the hot Chevy, no one was laughing.  Phil shouted, “Shit, man, you’re gonna kill us!”  He watched the speedometer passing ninety, “Come on, man, slow down!  There’s some tight turns comin’ up.  Come on, Bobby, cool it!  I want to live to see tomorrow.  I want to live to drive those Cadillacs and screw those classy girls.  Cool it, goddammit!”

Bob wasn’t listening.  His mind was on Myrna and her naked breasts—they did wave good-bye to me, didn’t they?  He wondered why he didn’t stay a little longer, to ask her if she wanted a tumble in the hay.  He steered with his left hand, elbow resting on the arm rest.  His right hand steadied the Coors can between his legs.

“Fuck it, Phil, I know how to drive this car.  I was born behind the wheel,” and he floored it, just to make his point.

“Hey, Christ, the Macy Street tunnel’s coming up, man.  Take it at thirty-five.”

Bob laughed, “at thirty-five, I’ll take it at sixty-five.  You’ll see.  Just be cool, I got it.”


00:02:45

Myron Pederson had been with the California Highway Patrol eleven years now, joining right after he returned from Vietnam.  He needed to love something after that unlimited horror—law enforcement was the boundaried resolution.  And when you couple cop’s law with the outdoors, he was in his heaven.

Freeway duty came easy to him over the years.  There were some rough spots in the beginning, but nothing could compare with Nam…he thought.

The first six months on the Patrol he rode with the experienced men.  They had lived through death scenes;  they could tell Myron what to expect and how to look for it before it happened.  But nothing could have prepared Myron for what night would bring.

It was a bleak, winter’s day, a day he would never forget.  Roll call was at 1600 hours.  By 2400 hours, if they were lucky, their duty-time on the Santa Ana Freeway would be complete.

The asphalt was slippery from a brief rain;  just enough precipitation to mix with the oil, gas, and rubber on the surface—it was as slick as a mountain ski slope.

The gray weather and ground fog would make the drivers irritable—they were expecting trouble.  Southern Californians are not experienced drivers in weather of even the mildest nature.  To them, it’s always a sunny, screwdriver day, even in the fog.  They just drive on as if no danger existed, looking straight ahead, dead to the entire picture.  To them, defensive driving means escaping from the spouse for a few hours.

The Prescott family had enjoyed a day with gamma and ganpa.  The kids didn’t look healthy enough to grammy—yet, Sissy, Missy, and Tiger looked real fine to their parents.  Tiger Dan was two and Sissy was four years old.  They were as happy as could be expected, even though they weren’t allowed to eat as much candy as they knew they could hold in their bellies.

Old Grandpa was slightly senile by now;  he just sat in his rocker all afternoon, puffing on his pipe.  Tiger would leap up on his lap and hang on his thigh like he was climbing out on a tree limb.  Grandpa would puff, puff away.  Missy, since she was the oldest, goofed around a lot—but she was shy shy.  She hung around the kitchen watching grammy making Sunday dinner.

After the gourmet feast was socked away in everybody’s tummy, including a large double-chocolate cake with fudge icing, they all decided to see a Disney movie at the local drive-in.  Grandpa chortled, these movies was sensible to see in this world of trash and bad language.  Everyone smiled and agreed with him.

At about nine P.M., the Disney movies had worn everybody out.  Four hours of nonstop craziness, watching dogs chasing people, watching dogs turn into people, watching dogs fly, and watching cars chasing one another, crashing into one another—it was enough!

The kids were plenty excited for the first hour but, after two double features, even they were pooped.

In those days, the trip from Garden Grove to Van Nuys in the San Fernando Valley was less than an hour away;  the national speed limit was seventy miles-per-hour.  Tonight, the weather looked threatening—the trip wouldn’t be easy driving for Milt.  He had to be at work early in the morning, so they couldn’t stay overnight.  The Ford Fairlane was a good old car, 1957 vintage, red and white with chrome here and there.  Milt kept it in good repair on his day off.

They waved their good-byes and the kids screamed from the back seat, Bye, bye, love you…love you, Sissy.

Sissy had talked mom and dad into letting her stay behind, to help grammy cook!

As they drove off, waving and screaming, Milt reminded himself the steering linkage felt a little loose.  He should check it the next time he had the strength to crawl under.

Soon, he was speeding up to match pace with the cars zipping along the freeway.  Some folks drove at eighty, some at ninety, some much faster.  Milt settled into the long, demanding drive, yawning.  Sandy asked if he wanted her to drive.  He refused, saying the freeway was too slippery, I really have to be careful with it.  He decided to keep it in the slow lane.

Over in Santa Fe Springs, near the Santa Ana Freeway, a couple of guys were celebrating.  Phil and Bob were machinists;  they had just completed the frame to a dragster one of their customer’s ordered for the Winter Nationals at Pomona International Speedway.

Phil Goshen and Bob Hamilton were friends from way back, buddies from high school shop class.  Phil found this job first, then Bob hired on;  ten years sped by real quick.  Phil was twenty-seven and Bob twenty-nine.  About all they cared about was enough money to pay their modest rent, some extra dollars for a few six-packs, and to have a woman every once in a while.  Their simple pleasures.

Marriage and kids wasn’t for them—they had enough to do keepin’ themselves out of trouble.  Fun for them was a few drafts, some hoots at a naked dancing girl, and a fast trip home.  They worked around speed, living for the thrill of it, but would never ride the rail they had created.  The only way to blow it off was to take it to the streets.

At about ten-thirty P.M., they were full of beer, paid their tab, and staggered out the front door with a final hoot and wave to Myrna and her bouncing breasts.  The tassels waved back.

Bob drove a hot ‘57 cherry Chevy with all the brass and chrome accompaniment that orchestrated a flash of envy in Phil’s eyes.  The dual tailpipes sounded like a Hammond organ in overdrive.  Occasionally, the shining chrome rims attracted a member of the female species who wanted to fiddle with the record player that never worked.  Maybe she really wanted to feel the tuck and roll seat covers straining beneath her naked butt.

But, as age crept up on Bob and Phil, fewer and fewer girls wanted to feel the tuck and roll, and those who did were terribly ugly and fat.  The beautiful girls were attracted by other things, not by two grease monkeys and chrome rocker-arm covers.

Bob was thinkin’ maybe he was better suited for Cadillacs…sellin’ used cars at least you got to drive one home from the lot, he reasoned.  And sooner or later, the Cadillacs and the Lincolns would rotate around to him.

This was Bob and Phil’s last blowout.  They shared old memories and old stories.  It was good they did, for there would be no more tomorrows.


00:07:47

Old Jim French had been making the Santa Ana freeway run forever.

Jim had manhandled his tanker since they built the dang thing, before them younguns’ flattened all the orange groves.  He had driven through every kind of weather condition imaginable.  Gasoline was a solid business—hauling it was good, steady work.  He had crisscrossed the freeway system for years, hauling load after load of refined to the filling stations along his routes.  He was casehardened—he had some near misses, but that was about it.  He didn’t think he was invincible;  he treated his rig with kid gloves.

He never thought it would happen to him, though.


00:08:01

The tunnel rushed up quicker than Bob expected.

His mind and vision were blurred by the beer and the rain, sheeting, now darkening the shadows.  The asphalt was slick.  As he entered into the first S curve, Bob quickly moved his right hand to the wheel, almost as a gesture of respect for the turn.

The car eased into the curve, almost gliding.  Like a race car driver who had studied the turn, knowing the subtleties of it—the apex, the crown, the shoulder—Bob knew everything a Grand Prix driver had to know to survive.  Going into the turn, Bob knew it.  Coming out of it was where he lost it.

The rear-end started to go, sliding out from under them.  Then the second S turn was on top of Bob before he knew it…then the tunnel loomed, almost as an invitation to test his skill or be killed.

But the tunnel had already won, and Bob knew it.  His moves were too brash;  he over-corrected, no finesse.  Bob hoped nobody was coming up on them too quickly;  they were entering the tunnel sideways, tires screaming, starting to spin out of control.

His Buddy Phil screamed, “Oh, fuck, we’re dead,” and they spun around and around, like they were spinning on their butts at an ice skating rink…spinning, laughing at their past, cashing in their future.

The car slammed into the tunnel embankment at eighty miles-per-hour, ramming into it sideways with a scrunch that deafened Phil.  On Bob’s side, the hot Chevy was missing three feet of its width, the friction from the first impact searing the left side of the car instantly.  Bob was now soldered into the steel of his car, a hemorrhaging, crumpled mass of ripped flesh and bone staring with empty, bleeding eyes at Phil.

Phil felt movement in the shadow of death as he listened helplessly to a hideous sound;  steel scraping against cement, tempering it, shaping it into other forms—the sound as eerie as fingernails scraping against a blackboard.

The sliding car careened off the tunnel wall, wrenching itself over in midair, slamming with a vengeance on the asphalt, crushing its top like a giant would squish a beer can.  The cherry ‘57 Chevy finally teetered to a halt, wobbling on its top in the middle of the tunnel.

Both lanes were blocked.

Phil stared in upside-down terror at Bob’s decapitated body, his head crushed and smeared into oblivion;  unrecognizable memories.  He knew he was trapped.

Then he felt a horror breathing down on him.  He turned and saw them—two sets of headlights screaming down on him.  He was helpless.  The headlights started to weave and dip as their drivers saw through the sheeting rain what waited silently, ominously, in the tunnel.  Death.

The two cars about to join this carnage started skidding sideways as their drivers lost control, trying to avoid the inevitable.  Both drivers panicked, under-controlling then over-controlling the wheel;  locking the brakes, spinning-out like tops spinning after the pull of the string.

They side-swiped into each other, playing bumpercars.  With a bone-wrenching screech their occupants awakened to the horror.  Both cars slid wildly into the wreckage, pulverizing Phil without apology.  What remained of the hulk of the souped-up, cherry Chevy, was pushed deeper into the tunnel on its top…for Phil, a rough way to make it to L.A.

The impact of steel against steel generated sparks.  Sandy and Milt wished they were back at the Disney film, watching cars crash instead of being alive in the fantasy.  They smelled the fumes.

The gasoline wrenched from the gas tanks smoldered, then ignited in a firestorm.  They heard a muffled rumble, then an explosion as fire flashed in their eyes and hair, singeing them painfully, but unfortunately, not killing them instantly.

Tiger and Missy, asleep in the backseat, were thrown on impact into the front, their hair on fire.  Mom and dad smothered the flames, covering them with their bodies, but what more could they do?

Another set of headlights bore down on them.  The ground rumbled under the weight of this rig.  The news broadcaster would say this tragedy was preordained by the Lord, and everyone was now resting on the right hand of God, the Father Almighty, licking popsicles.  Old Jim French would have his doubts about that.

The first Jim saw of this slaughter was about one hundred yards away.  At sixty-five miles an hour, in rain-slick conditions, that gave him four seconds to figure it out.  The tunnel was hidden behind the second S curve.  Whatever was happening inside the tunnel was unseen.  What Jim French did see was the first flash of flame…  “Oh, shit, we got a burn up here.  Got to shut this rig down, quick,” and he blasted his horn and hit the air brakes.

They responded to his touch.  He knew his braking system well;  that would save his life.  His cab brakes were adjusted perfectly, he always saw to that.  The trailer was another story;  it was due for service next week maintained by the oil company mechanics.  As Jim felt the trailer locking up on him, saw it crowding around, he feathered the trailer brakes, tried to accelerate to regain control…If it hadn’t been so slick, if it had rained a little more, there wouldn’t have been so much slick shit on the highway, he would tell the Highway Patrolman later.

Jim knew what was coming and tears appeared in his eyes.  He knew he would be okay…Ol’ Jim would make it, but he couldn’t stop the trailer from coming around sideways, slamming into all those poor souls in front of him, dumping its load of premium all over them.


00:13:47

Time passed silently…seconds thought to be minutes.

Then a flash explosion blasted Ol’ Jim’s eardrums.  The heat was searing, as intense as a blast furnace.  In an instant, Tiger and Missy were fried in their mother’s arms, their father shrieking helplessly, roaring lividly at God.  They would never know what happened.  And who would know what they felt?

Miles away, Sissy awoke with a start in her grandmother’s arms, screaming hysterically, frightened to the marrow, shaking.  The nightmares had begun, her dreams forever filled with fire.

“Eleven ninety;  eleven ninety!”  the dispatcher’s voice shook Myron.  “All available units, ambulances, and three engine companies.  Major accident.  Macy Street tunnel.  Repeat, eleven ninety.”

Ralph flipped on the gumballs.  Myron listened to the rumble as they started to spin, flashing red and blue, red and blue;  the wail of the siren joined in with the roar of the engine as they accelerated toward the calamity.

Ralph looked over at his green partner, his expression grim, “Sounds like a mop-up, pard.”

Myron’s stomach turned over the chili dog he bolted an hour ago.

“Unfortunately, it won’t be your last,” Ralph confided to him.  “There’s a bunch o’ crazy drivers out here.  If you get sick, get sick.  Everybody gets sick once or twice—nobody will make fun of you.  But you never get used to cooked flesh…especially kids’ flesh.  You never get used to that smell.”

Myron swallowed hard, searching for some composure as their wailing siren entered his consciousness, as the inferno raced towards them.


00:15:47

Ralph and Myron were the first on the scene.

All lanes of traffic were blocked completely.  Nothing was moving.  They raced down the shoulder as fast as they dared…and then, there it was.  The heat of the inferno reddened their faces.  Flames shot out from the tunnel like they were erupting from thousands of blowtorches, rising hundreds of feet into the air.  Intense, white-red heat, licked by an insatiable windstorm.

“It looks like a tanker burn,” Ralph nodded.

“Yeah…” Myron tried to swallow the dried saliva lodged in the back of his throat.  The lump started to move down.  He tried to size up the holocaust, “There’s the cab on its side, flipped over the embankment.  Not much left of the trailer, just flames and fumes.  God, do you think there’s anybody in the tunnel?”

“If there was, they ain’t there no more.”  Ralph was glum.

“What’s the plan?”

“Check the cab, Myron—forget the fire.  Nothing we can do until the department gets here.  Looks like all the gas went up with the first blast.  Nothin’ to do but sit.”

Ralph stayed on the radio while Myron rushed to the cab.

He saw something…he man-handled a door open with the crowbar, climbing in.  He dragged old Jim out, inch by inch.  The sirens of the rescue crews and the fire department began to fill their ears.  Ol’ Jim, bloodied and dazed, started to mumble, “I did what I could…what I could.”  Myron comforted him as he pulled him further and further from the red-hot, scalding horror.

The fire crews were on the scene now, the bravest of the brave anxious to go into the tunnel, to clear it out.  The sensible voice prevailed—they contented themselves with throwing chemicals on the blaze, watching it burn down.

Gasoline burns quickly;  the inferno died down in ten minutes.  What was left behind were the charred remains of what they thought were two …no, three cars, and the ragged, blown-away edges of what was a tanker trailer, and the odors of it all—the smoldering rubber, the stifling, caustic gas fumes, the noxious, melting plastic from vinyl seat covers and dashboards, and the hideous stench of cooked flesh.

People…the souls were gone to their Maker.  The visible ingredients of the body, the skin and blood, the eyes and guts, the brains and muscles had been roasted off in the first instant of the holocaust.  In an inferno like this, the first struggling breath you take sears your lungs with intense pain, killing you instantly.  The heat was so fierce, the cremation was complete.

Even after all of his training, Myron had no idea what to do—calm, restrained panic swept over him.  Ralph let him alone, watching him as he kept looking over and over at the scene in silence.  So this is a mop-up, the words flooded into him.  Families—lives ending right here, in seconds, with no ‘thank you’ letters, no regrets, no ‘see you again soon’.  That was it?  That was death on the streets;  quick, clean, painful, with no reason behind it.  Just an accident?  In Nam you had a fighting chance.  Here, no dice.


00:18:22

Two hours later the wreckage had cooled.

Myron began a search of the ‘57 Ford—there must be something in this crypt to ID the occupants.  He moved as if in a fog, looking through the charcoaled remains for anything resembling identification.  He worked side by side with the coroner, standing next to him as he uncovered, then tagged a piece of bone.  It was a fragment of someone’s jaw…Myron saw the teeth—he felt the chili dog barking in his stomach again, turning it over, sick.

The coroner turned away, looking for more bits and pieces of bodies shattered and splintered in the concussion.  All of a sudden, he heard a hacking sound, uhhgh achhk…aughahk.  Looking up, he watched Myron heave painfully as he vomited, churning his guts out, throwing them up all over as if he had just seen into the horrors of a black chamber.  He tasted everything as he gasped for air, could barely catch his breath—the pain burned him so deep in his guts.

Then the coroner saw it.  Myron held in his hand what had earlier that day been a coveted prize.  It was a child’s toy…a car?  No.  It was a dragster—it’s frame charred, the candy-apple red paint on its supercharged engine bubbled and blistered by the intense firestorm.  And the rubber was scorched away from its chrome wheels.

Blackened night, lost in time.


00:20:06

A few miles away, the glitter from a Bel Air party lit the late-night sky afire.

In the main library, entered through massive doors carved with an Egyptian scribe working his clay tablet, a poet was reading aloud.

The smell of old books was cleansing;  the lighting was subdued.  A small group gathered, some lounging on pillows, some comfortable on overstuffed chairs;  some, in the romantic lighting, were fondling friends.  A few were listening to the poet uttering on about meaning in life, the struggle for awareness, the urge for realization, as his meter cadenced around the room, bouncing off walls.

He was finishing one of his poems…and these rocks, they separate sea from shore;  if I knew them, could I be more?

There was a titter of applause.

The poet responded, “Thank you for listening.  Poetry is the voice of the soul reaching out to speak to the hidden essence of the mind.  It speaks in symbols to the mind, which controls the body.  The body is the vehicle of life for the soul.  Poetry is a love affair with self.  Thank you.”

David Thornton, the real estate magnate, lingered as the others walked quickly from the library.  Some looked at one another, waiting to laugh to hide the feelings rising within.

David, finding himself alone with the poet, offered the typical artist remark, “Your work is wonderful, delightful, captivating.  I’m curious, how do you survive?”

The poet eyed him cautiously, “On my work, of course.”

David was ready for the joust, “On your work…how do you eat?  You’re not famous or important?”  he smirked.

“My work feeds me,” was the simple reply.

“Oh, come now, tell me…” David’s practical nature exploded, “how does your work feed you?”  He stepped clumsily into the poet’s life.

“My work brings me to a wholeness, an understanding of life, a fulfillment;  it brings me to happiness,” the poet tempted.  “As for food, a tree never worries about how it will survive.  The tree just is in the moment that it is, in the moment called now.”

“But as trees are often slaughtered, cut down, this world is not meant for poets.  This world is made for the hoarders of money,” David retorted caustically.  “Big business runs the creative capitals of the world.  Big businessmen run the poets, the songwriters.  They may sing of the common good, but they hoard the corporate gold.”

“They are not the true artists,” the poet responded gently.  “The true artists live their life no matter what the consequences.  Christ was a true artist;  John Lennon was a true artist;  Renoir, Picasso, Martin Luther King, Bach, Beethoven—these were people who lived what they were.  And the truest of artists perhaps was Vincent Van Gogh.  Do you know he painted over a thousand paintings?  He sold one in his lifetime.  Would you call him a successful artist?”

“In his lifetime he was a pauper,” David found the dollars and cents of the matter.

“He was even imprisoned in a mental institution for a time,” the poet smiled.  “Vincent had so much love in him, so many feelings to describe what he was living, no one could possibly understand him.  Society killed him the same way it killed Christ, the same way it railroaded the land from the native Americans.  Society does not understand compassion, nor love, nor nature, nor life.  Poets understand.”

David was serene for a few seconds.  Then he responded from a feeling buried inside, “Your poetry…it hits me somewhere;  it touches me deeply.”

“My poetry is written from my soul, that’s why it touches your soul.”

“Will you read me another?”  David asked.

“My poems are my children,” the poet smiled.  “I would be happy to share the love of one of my children with…”

“David…David, there you are!”  A voice walked through the door of the library, “I want you to come with me for a moment.  I want you to meet Mr. and Mrs. Kingsley.”  D’alien Thornton was excited and insistent, “They own the Kingsley Department Store chain.”

David wanted her to meet the poet, “D’alien, I’d like you to meet…uh, what’s your name?”

“Daniel.”

D’alien managed to find a smile, “How do you do…Daniel.  I don’t believe I know of you, Daniel.”

He helped her along, “I’m not an industrialist, ma’am.  I am a poet.”

“A poet?  How nice.  David, now come with me.”  She grabbed David’s arm, looking back at the poet, “We really must go, Daniel.  It’s been…delightful.”

David stopped her innuendo, “I’ll see you again sometime, Daniel.”  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of bills.  He peeled off three crisp, hundred-dollar bills and handed them to Daniel.

Daniel’s simple smile included a slight bow, “Perhaps someday I will help you in sustaining your existence.”

D’alien and David turned their backs on the poet, rushing into the main salon, searching.  D’alien chided, “A poet?  Honestly, David, why are you giving a poet hundred-dollar bills?  What good are poets anyway;  nobody even reads poetry?”

Maybe that’s the problem, David mused to himself.


00:23:12

I entered Jackie’s office.  It was plain, nothing fancy;  decorated in early insanity.

It was my wife I was there to talk about…certainly not me.  I awoke early this morning to her screams.  When I turned on the light she was beating her head against the wall screaming, “Bone Cracker…Bone Cracker do this.”

As I watched her I felt a chill that made horror a kid’s word.  I knew there was a Hell, and I knew she had been Hell’s visitor.  Let me tell you of her dreams.


00:23:56

As the morning hours ticked on, those ready to party hearty in Bel Air were anxious to blow it out.  But before the base desires of sacred fantasy could be unleashed, cliques had to cluster and clatter.

Ladies and gentlemen began to gravitate to one another, attracted by interests and beliefs, looks and ardor, blond and brunette, face and fanny.  They began to sidle off into a number of cliquish groups, which would separate one from the other according to nosh, secret lies, and surprising forms of entertainment.

The prerequisite for being an acceptable member of each cluster was varied according to the groups interests.  Of the clusters attended by women, one group attracted those interested in facelifts, boob jobs, tummy tucks, and cellulite removal, to continue the enticement of their husbands or lovers and/or others whom they planned to seduce.

Another cluster was also interested in items of bodily repair and alteration, but for the purpose of snagging the perfect man who could properly pamper them for the rest of their life, said life being uncertain unless accompanied with the power, prestige, and panache of the proper man.

Another ladies’ cluster already owned the perfect bodily improvements.  They also owned the perfect man.  To stave off the howls of boredom, they preoccupied themselves by admiring their perfect body to discover mysterious delights to entice their perfect man into allowing them more perfect orgasmic pleasures.  Another group was interested in orgasmic pleasures with whomever, whenever, regardless of what their body looked like, perfect or imperfect.

The clusters attended by the gentlemen were concerned with making money, then orgasmic pleasures.  Most of these groups concentrated on how to make as much money as possible as quickly as possible, and to stay out of jail and alive as long as possible.

A few of the groups discussed the latest chic model of Rolls Royce, Ferrari, Lear, Citation, Starship, Christensen Yacht, Bahamian estate, Sicilian villa, or other Tiffanyian trinket which they had acquired recently.  For what purpose?  To attract the perfect partner for the ultimate orgasmic soliloquy.

One cluster discussed for what purpose money could be used for.  This was the group which pondered the eternal question, Money is the means to an end, but what is the end?  A certain amount of philosophic jargon entered this conversation, offered by some of the younger members of this elite giving and getting foundation.  The poet proceeded to aggravate everyone by offering, “And what will you do with the money after you acquire it?”

The young aristocrats would reply, “Well, we would buy this and we would buy that, and then I would buy this and then I would buy that.”

And the poet would say, “And what would you buy after that?”

And they would go on and on until they owned everything on the planet, under the planet, and inside the planet.

And then the poet asked, “And now what would you buy?”

“Why, it would appear I have everything I want,” one sniffed in a rather dignified, stuffy tone as he adjusted his ascot.

And the poet said, “So what will you do with your life after you have achieved the acquisition of everything you require?”

They chuckled a little…looked to one another, tried to think of something appropriate to say, and finally responded with, “Live.  I would just live, I suppose.”

“You don’t need to own the planet to live.  All you need to do is to simply live!”  The poet smiled, bowed and walked away.

They stewed at him with a simmering hatred, a loathe for the ideal Daniel had just expressed.  If Daniel was correct, they were simply wasting their lives in the conquest of acquisition.  They could have everything they wanted, and right now, by simply feeling what it was like to have what they wanted.  Of course, this ideal, if allowed its truth, would upset all the rules of commerce, society, achievement, education, religion, success, and winning.  Their simmering despise for Daniel was understandable.

“That poet is a butthole, isn’t he?”  someone remarked under his breath.

“All poets are buttholes,” another picked up the theme, “They just can’t make it as songwriters.”

And then someone else joined in the badinage, “In fact, all artists are buttholes.  If it wasn’t for us businessmen they couldn’t exist—we book their acts, we cut their records;  we produce their videos and finance their movies…we grease the wheels of the promotion machine.  They are nothing without us.”  He pulled a long drag from his Turkish-blend cigarette, then waved it through the air, its smoke almost curving into dollar signs.

Daniel caught the words, They are nothing without us…he had heard them before, they grated him.  He knew these young upstarts felt the feelings of the artist, but never allowed themselves to show it.  He knew the expression of feelings was the essence of life.  And feelings to Daniel was the gift of life.

He had everything within him these upper-crust bullies were yearning for outside, disguising it as Yuppyism.  He knew inside for what it was—the love of all creation through the love of what he was.  And Daniel believed he lived it.

He walked easy and free to the gardens, lit sumptuously for this gathering, stopping near the spectacle of an imposing tree, its lace silhouetted against the moonlight.  He wondered why he was the only one standing here, on this spot, enjoying the free show of the universe.

He made his pipe, taking time with the fiddlingness of it, luxuriating in the pleasure of the moment, a time alone with himself …

“Do you need a light?”  a voice emerged from the night.  From the shadows beneath the mystery of a tree, a woman appeared.

“No, not really,” Daniel mumbled, “I thought I’d just suck on it a bit.”

“You’re the poet aren’t you?”  she asked.

“Yes, I’m the poet.  How do you know me?”

It would be hard not to know Daniel.  He was the kind of man other men call a boy, but women find themselves falling all over.

In his early-thirties, looking mid-twenties, his long, golden-blond hair was always falling into his deep hazel eyes, inviting fingers to sweep the curls out of the way to his lips.  His stature was slim, yet layered in muscle.  His face, the classic Germanic, chiseled cheekbones.  His complexion, perfectly clear ivory with a breath of a beard.  Sexuality oozed out of him in an almost undeniable scent.

“I’ve listened to some of your tapes, and I have one of your books,” she looked away from him.

“Which one?”  he wondered casually.

“Magic Car Love,” she smiled, stuffing her hands in the pockets of her sable coat, protecting herself against the cold…skin like a baby.  It seemed girls always wanted to take care of Daniel, almost like a cuddling brother.  Yet, in his presence, their faces flushed with the juices of incest.

“Umm,” he touched the tip of his pipe to his forehead, “it was an exciting experience creating that book.”

“Did you enjoy it?”  she asked innocently.  Young women always stop to talk to Daniel;  to visit, to ask giggly-kinds of questions that make no sense at all, just to be near him.  She was different.

“It smashed me to pieces, I should dare say.”

“How do you mean?”  She moved a little closer, for women fantasize about making love to Daniel, whispering his name as they toss and turn on a lonely, rain-swept night.  And he knew anytime he wanted, he could make love to a woman.

Daniel played the game, “Well, I never thought love, just plain, ordinary, everyday love, could be so intense.  I never conceived love between a man and a woman could reach into the ultimate explosion.  Have you ever experienced intense, mad love?”

“No…never like that,” She moved back to look up at the stars.

“Why not?”  He focused into her silken, blond hair, ornamenting her eyes, “You certainly are a beautiful package for someone to unwrap.”  He riveted into them—one twinkled blue to him, the other flickered greenish.

Natalie saw his look…  “Oh, my eyes…I don’t know why, no one has had the courage to unwrap me, I suppose.”  She played the game.

He whispered, “Imagine a place where there is no evil, no pain, and no fear.  That’s the pl, place I write my songs about, Heaven.”

In a flash, he glanced the length of her body, taking it all in.  Then he looked to the sky, searching for the star cluster she was focused in.  He started patting his pockets, hunting for his wooden matches.  She noticed and offered one of her’s.  He accepted and puffed, letting the fire die down.

“You were watching me in there, weren’t you?”  He looked into her.

“Yes, you were being watched by me.”

“Aren’t you one of the prize belles at this ball?  I kept overhearing the likely gentlemen in their conversations of amour—they think you’re quite a prize…of exceptional stock, well proportioned, ripe and ready, yet untouched by the masses.”  Daniel decided to save that line for one of his poems.

“You poets can be obnoxious fellows, can’t you,” she stole his line away from him.

“Just repeating what I’ve heard.  What do you find in this poor, starving poet?”  His eyes followed the sensuous curvature of her legs across to a statue nearby.

“Your words make me feel,” she told him bluntly.

“What do they make you feel?”  he puffed, then coughed.

She paused, “I suppose they make me feel me…make me feel alive, a woman.”

There was a peacefulness between them, moments long and too short.  Moonbeams smiled down, casting mystery over them.  She reached for Daniel’s hand and caressed it softly, a touch exquisite in its hope to find dreams and ends of rainbows.

“May I come home with you tonight?”  she whispered against his cheek.

“If you wish…but what do you wish?

“To be with you tonight.”  She asked like a four-year old, “Will you read me poems that will thrill my mind, raise my spirits, and tingle my body?”

He focused into her eyes, touching deep within her soul, “I will be for you what you wish.”

They did not speak in the language of conversation.  She wished to hold his hand firmly, not really out of affection but out of fear for the next minute, the next hour, the next year…

“I have more readings before I can leave.  They’ve paid me fifty dollars, although I would do it for free.”

“Fifty dollars?  Is that all…for your talent?”  she exclaimed, “I’ll give you money, I have money.  Let’s go!”

“No, you can’t buy…ah, rather, I must finish my commitment for this evening.  Then we can go off and talk about forever.  Perhaps you can drive me home;  I haven’t a car.”

She looked incredulous, “You don’t have a car in Southern California!  How do you survive?”

“I walk most places.  It affords me the time I need to compose, the time I need to view the beauty of the plants, the trees, and all the faces I see.”

“Sure…I’ll drive you home,” she swished her scarf around her neck.  “I drive a TR.”

“A TR?  A Triumph, that little sports car?”

“No, a Testarossa.”  Her eyes flashed lightning at him.

He backed away from the energy blast, “What, pray tell, is that?”

“It’s a Ferrari, Daniel,” she answered, nonchalantly.

“A Ferrari…what for?”  Daniel chided, “What do you need a Ferrari for?”

“Have you ever sat in a Ferrari?”

“Be serious.  They look like they’re breaking the sound barrier standing still.  You can get ticketed just sitting in one.  I’ve never even approached one.”

“Well, maybe you should, then you would know.”

He fiddled with his pipe, “Know what?”

“What masterminds can create, the thrill they leave behind for us mere mortals.”

Daniel laughed, “And I’m supposed to give you a thrill tonight?”

“Maybe you’ll take me higher and faster than my TR ever could.  But that’s a tall order…terminal speed is one hundred seventy-two miles-per-hour.  Can you handle that?”

He scrutinized her energy eyes, swept over her body with the glare of a lion tamer, and decided to take the plunge, “Perhaps…perhaps I can.  I might not be able to take you from zero to sixty in under four seconds, but I might be able to move you into thoughtspeed.”

“Thoughtspeed?  That’s a new one on me.”

“The ultimate adventure of the mind…where I’m headed.  You can come along if you want to.”

“Sounds like a blast.  Can I show you a few tricks along the way?”  she sauntered.

“If you can.  But you know how men and women are in relationship trauma.  Maybe we can be boy friend and girl friend, and avoid all the other junk.”

“Being a little girl again…back to innocence—that’s a tall order.”

He grabbed her, hugging her, “Let’s do it, faster than a speeding bullet…or would it be a speeding Ferrari?”

She laughed joyously.

Daniel held her fingers to his lips, gently brushing them, sending delicious thrills of sensation down her spine into the pit of her womb, beyond her notions of speed.  He bowed and walked back alone from the gardens.


00:32:06

The sun was setting in the sea in the window of Jackie’s office on the bluff called Corona del Mar.

The pastel hung on the wall.  The hour was past high tea, but she poured Earl Grey;  apparently the Earl wouldn’t be offended.

I sipped and said, “Other’s will say the hell I’ve come to know is fiction.”

“Perhaps your life has become a mix of fantasy and fiction.”

“Jackie, what has happened to me?”  I looked at the bird in the cage.

“Evil begins with a seared conscience, Daniel.  All the great works of literature depict characters who sin without being consciously aware of their sin.  Man’s law attempts to answer the sin accordingly, to perpetuate their society.  The sin isn’t even called sin;  rather it’s described as an act of passion.”

I wanted her to answer me, “What happened to me, Jackie?”

“Perhaps your conscience has been seared…closed off, shut down like these great characters of historic literature.  The clinical question is, how has your conscience been seared?”

“Yes, I’d like to know that, Jackie.”

“You have a talent for putting words together to create vivid scenes;  perhaps you’ll write a story.”

“Perhaps.”

“We can’t really do this subject justice by being only concerned with man’s laws;  we have to consider God’s Law, or Spiritual Law, if you prefer.”

“I see.  There is another dimension activated?”

“Yes…and because that dimension is activated, it reveals the entire purpose of existence.  If you desire to be healed, you must think in dimensionality.”

“I’m game for any battle.”

“The warring factions exist in two realms, Daniel;  we’ll call them the White Chamber versus the Black Chamber.  Think about a chessboard, each man moving to conquer his opponent;  that’s the game being played in the spiritual realms.  The king on your side of the gameboard represents your soul.”

“The battle then is for my soul?”

“Yes, Daniel.  Those who are aligned with the White Chamber and are high up, are targeted for infiltration by the Black Chamber.  You were targeted when you were very young, usually before you were five years old.  You were stolen away from your destiny in the White Chamber, and recruited for activity in the Black Chamber.  Your own talents have been used to destroy you.”

“How sinister!”

“Yes, it is.  To become a warrior for the Black Chamber, your bootcamp training emblazons on your chest a seared conscience.”

“Why?”

“You are being trained to commit heinous acts of evil.  Perhaps you’ll tell me all about them, perhaps you’ll write about them.  In order to commit heinous evil, any semblance of love, care, and compassion for others that is within you must be seared, crushed, and destroyed.  You have been forced to develop a twisted perspective.”

“Explain it to me in feels…all I know is feelings.”

“Alright.  Perhaps you feel the badness but you’ve been forced to commit the deed.  Therefore, while committing the deed, your conscience becomes seared to that deed.”

“In other words, killing doesn’t bother me next time?”  I watched Jackie’s bird rummaging around, all alone in her cage;  all alone…poor, damn bird.

“Yes, you don’t have that check in your spirit the next time;  you just kill, Daniel.”

I didn’t think I’ve killed anyone;  Jackie was just using kill as an example, I was sure.

“To be a child killer, Daniel, you have to fight against your own nature, the nature God created in you…your nature that’s sensitive to children, your nature of love and compassion, your nature of hope received back from a child in a kiss on your cheek because you’ve given them encouragement.  That’s the nature of creation, Daniel.  By fighting against your own nature, you create a denial system, stuffing good emotions down.”

“Why is there conflict if I’m so bad?”

“Operating naturally within you, Daniel, is the hope of the knowledge of good and evil.  Deep down inside you, you want to surface those human emotions so you can feel all you need to feel to be in touch with what makes bad bad, and pain pain, and hurt hurt.  This is the process of maturity;  becoming a human from an animal.”

“This is a little over my head, Jackie.”

“Perhaps when you write your story, Daniel, you can find the words to make it easy to understand.”

“Perhaps.”

“Daniel, your conscience has been seared;  it had to be so you could survive.  You’re sociopathic;  you could care less.  Why you are the way you are is the intriguing question.”

“Why am I, Jackie?”

“Perhaps we’ll discover the hidden lie.  Basically, you have no sense that your deed is wrong.  But at the same time, you want to be feeling something so you can feel the pain of it or the badness of it.”

“Why do I want to feel something?”

“Just to know you’re not dead.  Some of my other clients create different personalities of themselves so they can separate the feeling parts into some other place.  Then they can have a part of themselves that doesn’t feel, who can actually perform the deadly rituals.”

I pondered that statement in solitude.  In recollection it was hard for me to write these words— “Jackie, are you saying I am a Satanist?”

“I prefer the term Black Chamber Warrior.”

“Why?”

“Because people don’t believe Satan exists.  Perhaps they can conceive a Black Chamber as the gateway to Hell.”


00:37:57

Baby, baby…baby needs friends.  Baby, baby…baby needs love.  Baby, baby…baby needs to mend, the rhyme split his mind.  Oh baby, come baby, play with me.  Baby, baby…baby needs friends to see…his mother’s face filled his mind, her voice repeating the nursery rhyme.

He walked in the shadows, in the early morning hours, looking.  Where could she be?  What would she look like this time?  Would she scream?  Would she cry?  Would she hit him?  Would he have to run home again?  Why?  He was just coming to play with them—why did they scream?

They always had baby powder all over them, and he was baby, so why couldn’t he touch them?


00:38:49

Daniel walked into the library of the Bel Air mansion.  He was surprised by applause.  An audience was waiting for him…the small group had expanded.  Apparently, many had tired of their conversations, deciding to have some fun with the poet.

Perhaps they desire to listen to something else…

They stood as he entered.  Daniel smiled, nodding acceptance of their gestures of friendship.  He moved to a place in front of a George IV, cherry wood inlaid credenza to introduce himself…

“It is indeed my pleasure to welcome you to this library.  To be surrounded by knowledge, to be immersed in the books of the ages is the re-visitation of history.  I sometimes think it is enough to just be near them, to smell the papyrus, to feel the luxury of their bindings, to hold their weight in one’s hand.  I sometimes believe that’s enough to absorb the essence of their offerings.  For in the writings, history is carried forward, interpreted—the passage of time is understood for what it was.

“Of all the writers who scribe history, it is the poets who interpret history, who experience life, who express the adventure through the feelings they’ve felt.  They’re able to capture what they hear in their heads on the flat dimension of ink and paper—wordpainters painting feelings for others to feel.

The poet takes the flat dimension, making it ring alive and true in the ears and minds, in the souls, of all who dare to listen.  I acknowledge your courage.”

He began reading from a notebook of his scribblings.  The cadence, the rhyme, the meter filled them with forgotten sensations, murmurs of wholeness neglected long ago, overlooked because other passions more important than the search to realize what they are captivated their lives.

The readings continued past the midnight into the morning hours.  Some listened, some heard, some walked out with a scowl and a snicker.  It didn’t matter—if there was one who remained to hear these words, Daniel would remain to speak them.

And one remained, an elderly gentleman, holding his drink, wondering.  As Daniel finished the last line, he gave no applause…there was only silence.  Daniel knew what the serenity meant.

The gentleman spoke, “I don’t know who you are, I don’t know what you are, but you have moved me.  What is it you have done, Mr. Poet?”

“It is not I, Mr. Gentleman, it is you,” Daniel replied.

“Meaning?”

“You are experiencing facets of your self, sir,” Daniel punctuated.  “The reason you’ve never felt like this before is because you’ve never let yourself feel this way.  Your soul likes the feelings.”

“Ah…”

“Yes…ahhh,” Daniel nodded, beginning to collect his papers, “That’s all, it’s really quite simple.”

“And your writings, Mr. Poet, where do they come from?  How do you write them?

Daniel reflected for a moment…  “They are written by my soul, written for my mind—it’s how I communicate with myself.  All true artists realize their art through realizing themselves.”  He was fatigued.

“Young man, you…the poet;  I would like to hear more of you.  Will you visit my office in the morning?”

The gentleman handed him his card.  There was just a name and address, no telephone—

Colonel Samson

Forty-fifth Floor

10700 Avenue of the Stars

Century City

Los Angeles, California

Daniel was impressed, “For what purpose, kind sir?”

“I wish to further expose you as an artist,” was the brusque reply.  “Please arrive at ten A.M.”

Daniel felt the wave of intimidation—he sensed this gentleman’s importance in the world of power manipulation.  He jockeyed for a handhold on the precipice, “Sir, my most creative times are from one in the morning until about five A.M.—I sleep in until eleven.  Would lunch around two be possible?”

“Fine, Daniel,” Colonel Samson nodded, “I’ll rearrange my schedule.”

They shook hands, as an offering of unity from distant worlds.


00:42:13

Daniel was alone in the library, its phantom lighting casting faint shadows.

He paused before departing, gazing in awe at the books like a big-eyed little child…think of the stories they must tell, he whispered to himself, stories not just about life, but stories of the lives of the artists who struggled to survive to write these books.

His thoughts were broken by Mrs. Wright, his employer’s entertainment secretary— “Daniel, here’s your money.  Don’t spend it all in one place,” she joked.  “Can you entertain at our next soiree?  The guests enjoyed you.”

“Yes, ma’am.  As long as there are people who will listen, I will speak,” he answered, still wondering about Colonel Samson.

“Wonderful!  I’ll call you when the dates are set.  Here’s an extra twenty for your trouble.  Good night, Daniel.  Have Alfred show you out.”

She disappeared down the corridor, veering into the den of feral music and hypnotic laser beams.  The third party was being inaugurated, the eruptive affair waiting in the dream hours to seduce D’alien’s soul in the Black Chamber.  The thud, thud beat of the music struck Daniel hard, like a hammer—a wave of emotion staggered him.  In that moment, he realized he was different…he didn’t want to go into the den;  he had been there before, somewhere, in another time.

He knew the way out through the servants entrance, his employer was very proper about those things.  Alfred wasn’t around, and he didn’t appreciate showing Daniel anything.  He looked briefly in the main gallery—his lady friend of the garden was nowhere to be seen…Oh, well, she’s found another to entertain her tonight.  He shrugged his shoulders, waved good evening to a cook he knew, and wandered off down the drive.

As he strolled along, the moon beamed him light-thoughts of excitement and wonder—it was Daniel’s favorite time of the morning.  It had been a good night—he had earned money without compromise;  he was a professional artist and an extra twenty dollars to boot!  He laughed at the millions given for mansions and toys, and she gave him an extra twenty.  Value and worth, what are the compromises?

Daniel was in a giggly mood.  The security guards opened the gates for him;  the wine was blushing his cheeks.  He left the grounds laughing, looking up through the trees on the masterwork of star formations, constellations dreamed upon since people looked up.  He didn’t even notice the car as it whispered along side.

“Hey stranger, want a lift?”  Her voice sounded spicy, ringing from her mulberry-frost Testarossa.  Its twelve cylinders purred with power, waiting to launch him into space.

“Oh…hi, yeah;  it is a bit chilly.”  She opened the door for him from the inside.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” she purred.

Daniel settled into the leather, contour seat, whiffing the luxury, “I apologize for being so long.  There was an elderly gentleman who wanted to talk to me.”  He scanned the instrument panel—Wow, I’ve never seen two-hundred on a speedometer before?  Then he noticed a white blob attached to Natalie’s right thigh…

“Wh, who’s this?”  he muttered sardonically.

“This is Mitzi.  She rides with me everywhere.  Say hello to Daniel, Mitzi.”  Natalie tickled her behind the ear;  Mitzi meowed a welcome to Daniel.

“Hello, to you, Mitzi.  You don’t see many Persians riding around in Ferrari’s;  snow-white Persian cats, that is.  Does she like poets?”

“We’ll see.  Where do you live?”

“In Malibu.  A woman friend lets me rent her downstairs for practically nothing.  It’s on the beach, the waves drown out the sounds of civilization.”

“Ha, the poor, starving poet lives like a king in Malibu!”

“Kings own things,” the poet rationalized.  “All I possess is myself.”

“Do you always philosophize?”  She kidded him with a shot to his shoulder.

“Hey, easy there…don’t bust up the merchandise!  I just let it come out when it wants to.”

Natalie giggled, “Sounds like a great way to live.”

She blasted away from the curb.  Daniel yelled, “Say, take it easy on these roads.  I don’t want to be published posthumously…women drivers and all that.”

Natalie glared at him, “Are you kidding, this is a Ferrari.  These cars were made to take the curves of Sunset Boulevard at ninety miles-per-hour…or more.”  Daniel didn’t like the smile plastered on her face.

“What about the po, police?”  Daniel hated authority.

“They ticket me, I pay.  We’re friends…what’s the problem?”  she seemed so lackadaisical about it.

“Nothing…if you can afford it and don’t kill anybody,” Daniel preached.

“I can, and I won’t,” she placed heavy emphasis on won’t.

“It’s a waste, isn’t it,” Daniel felt he was skating on thin ice.

“What?”  she snapped.

“Goin’ fast, payin’ for it,” he moved further out from the shore.

“It gives me a thrill.”  She glanced at him with a mind your own business look.

“Like coke?”…on very thin ice.

“Yeah, makes me feel alive, makes me high.  Do you do coke?”  she pestered, then calculated his look.

“Once!”  he shook his head.

“What happened?”

“Well, besides numbing my teeth and nostrils, nothing.”  Daniel laughed, “I found out I’m naturally high.”

“What the hell does that mean?”  she yelled, zipping through an intersection in first gear.  The four camshafts whined like a Formula One race car, the power under the hood bucking to be unleashed.

“It means I don’t need any artificial junk to make me high,” Daniel yelled back as the torque wound up…  “I’m naturally high on life!”

She glanced at him, nodding sarcastically, then tapped it into second gear, as fast and clean as an automatic shift.  The Testarossa sped along at sixty in a thirty-five zone, flashing by the stately manors.  Mitzi, ensconced on Natalie’s right thigh, watched Daniel with her baby-blues, contented in her safe environment.

“You’re crazy, you know?”  Natalie mimed him, safe in her speed zone.

“I know,” Daniel agreed, not too content in his.

Natalie shoved the accelerator into the floor;  Mitzi’s claws dug into Natalie’s thigh for a firm hold…the pain excited Natalie.  The Ferrari whooshed from sixty to 105 in an instant—the G-force nailed Daniel into his seat.  He didn’t think he saw her shift;  she just punched the accelerator and, wham!

She cranked up the CD sound system, adjusting the equalizers with her right hand while whipping through the curves with a flick of her left wrist.  She watched the curves of the equalizer bands more than the curves in the road…the speedo kept climbing rapidly—115, 125, 145 flashed before his terrorized eyes.

“Watch the road, will ya,” Daniel screamed.

“I am watching the road.  I have superb peripheral vision.  And besides, I sense more than I see anyhow.”

“What do you mean, you sense…”  speakers blasted at him from all directions, drowning his words.  A heavy metal, hard-rock lyric, only understandable to a hard-rocker, invaded his neurons.  The bass drum beat, beat, BEAT through Daniel’s eardrums, into his brain, the soundwaves caused him physical pain.

“Jesus, will you cool it!  I really don’t want to die, and I really don’t want to go deaf,” he screamed over the din.

“Listen, poet, when you ride with me, I’m the boss— “She laughed a Betty Davis kind of laugh, “you are my captive.”

Daniel lunged for the shoulder harness, snapping it firmly across his tender chest—What the fuck is going on with this broad, he rumbled, completely out of poetic character.  Yet, there wasn’t a whole lot he could do about it.

The curves came up rapidly, rushing toward them, one after another, throwing Daniel against his harness, side to side, back and forth.  He managed to turn his head against the G-force—the speedo ran to 162 once, Are my eyes playing tricks…shit!  We’re going to shoot off the road at Pacific Palisades, flying off into the Pacific, never to be heard from again.  We’re going to be a fairy tale;  she’s going to turn me into a frog…  “Will you slow down, broad!”

“Don’t call me broad!”  Natalie whipped through the next pair of S-curves with a vengeance, slamming him back and forth.  Daniel felt the rear end breakaway, then restabilize instantly, almost responding to Natalie’s breath.

“Hey, co, come on, I’m sorry,” he tried.  “What did I ever do to you?”

“Nothin’.  I just want to show you a good time, sport.”  She laughed, “You know, thoughtspeed!”

“This kind of good time I don’t need, darlin’.”

“Chicken!  Scardy-cat,” she taunted him.

She’s nuts;  beautiful, sexy, but nuts.  He tried closing his eyes to break out of this fear-box…then he focused on the curves of her thighs, trying to touch-in with a reality base he understood.  Her long, contoured legs moved in a mysterious sensuality buzzing through him.  Her firm, powerful thighs, captive in their sprayed-on jodhpurs, rode against the seat, heating him up.

The animal scent from the leather boots wrapped around her calves rekindled the most base desires in him—he started to bulge in his underwear at the thought of it.  Mitzi hung on, staring at him, digging in her claws.

“Have you ever been in a four-wheel skid?”  she screamed over the CD, jarring him into the now.  The road was slick from the early morning mist of the ocean.

“NO!  And I don’t want to be in a four-wheel skid,” Daniel screamed back.

“The four-wheel skid is the first thing you learn to control at driving school,” she yelled over the decibels.

“What driving school?”  he managed.

“Formula cars—you know, Grand Prix racing?”

Daniel mumbled, “Grand Prix racing?”

The stop light at Sunset and Pacific Coast Highway was flying toward them.  At one hundred thirty-five miles-per-hour, she hit and held the disc brakes, breaking the tires free from the road.

The squeal racked through Daniel’s consciousness, like the shriek of a wolf pack tracking its supper.  She dumped the steering wheel into a skidding, hard right turn.  When they were sideways, she whipped the wheel back left to keep from spinning out, locking-in the skid.

And there they were, the simple, easy-going poet and this mad, lady poetnapper, sliding in a controlled, one hundred fifteen mile-per-hour four-wheel skid down the middle of Sunset Boulevard…at four A.M., a poet’s most creative hour, no doubt!

The Ferrari hugged the road…this was what its father designed it for, pushing to the maximum limits of machine.  Natalie was in complete control…this was what she was built for;  to push herself to the maximum of her mind and body.

The red light at the intersection ran toward them with a fury…the speedo showed some signs of cranking down, from ninety, to seventy-five, to sixty.  Mitzi purred—she had been through this before, had her back to it in indifference.

“Shit, I hope the light changes to green.”  Daniel screamed.

“It doesn’t matter,” she smiled, eyes riveted on the road, mind processing thousands of bits of sense information, muscle fibers twitching with instinct and anticipation…  “I’ll pull it out when it’s time.”

“When will it be time,” Daniel yelled tempestuously.

“Soon…”

The screeching of the Goodyear Eagles drowned out Daniel’s further laments.  He couldn’t help thinking about some little old lady driving her Nash, turning off PCH onto Sunset, entering into this scene, this fantastic machine sliding sideways down the dimly lit street.

PCH was three hundred feet away, the length of a football field.  Traffic was alive on the coast highway as it always is.  Natalie knew it—it was time to show Daniel her stuff.

She let off the brakes, the Ferrari grabbed the road immediately, shuddering briefly, and then, like a cougar sensing its prey, steadied and composed itself under her woman controller.  Natalie compensated with clutch, brake, power, and wheel the instant she felt any loss of control, the second she sensed the car’s willingness to break away from her—she wouldn’t allow it.

The scream of the radials ceased…the rubber bit into the road.  Half a block away, fifty mph, heading straight for the stream of traffic.  She kicked down from third gear to second in a blur, bringing the engine into play—six thousand RPM, off the power completely…completely concentrating on all she knew to tach down from six thousand, five thousand…slammed it into first.

The whine of the powerplant filled Daniel’s consciousness—four thousand RPM, forty mph, thirty, twenty.  She gently tapped the brakes, stopping in an instant.  No skid, no screech.  Stopped right before the crosswalk.

Two seconds later, the red light changed to green…the mighty machine slumbered in a gentle growl.  Natalie looked over at Daniel—he was frozen, white-faced.  She laughed, her head bobbing back and forth…she stroked Mitzi twice and blasted off, toward Daniel’s beachfront flat.

“Lady, who are you?”  Daniel whispered in wide-mouthed astonishment.

“Someday you’ll know, Daniel.  Someday soon.  Rest, Daniel, my love.  Tonight I will touch you like you’ve never been touched.”

The Ferrari was back up to eighty in a few seconds, taching three grand…just cruising, its twelve cylinders churning, storming against the crashing surf.  Natalie controlled all the power under the hood.

Daniel shook his head, What the hell, you only live once—or do you?

Mitzi stared at him.


00:54:16

The rhythm of the surf outside Daniel’s flat sang in the background.  “I think maybe you ought to leave Mitzi in the Ferrari,” Daniel suggested.

“Mitzi always accompanies me.”  Natalie was indignant.

“Well, it’s just…it won’t be a good idea to bring her in.  I have this animal.  Well, he’s a mangy, street-wise alley cat, and sometimes he doesn’t have much patience for the refined elements of the species.”

“Oh, well…” Natalie was confident, “I’m sure Mitzi can seduce him into changing his mind.”

Seduce him, Daniel grinned, it’ll be more like rape!  “You know ba, best,” he shrugged his shoulders, opening the door to the flat.  Mangy watched from the shadows, his sniffer tuning into the new scent.

Natalie’s gaze scanned the flat, remarking, “Cute, Dan, this is very, well…interesting.  I like your taste in furniture—the Early Papyrus stage of interior design, I believe.”

Daniel wondered what she was talking about, then looked at his piles of papers, notebooks, songs;  his synthesizer keyboards strewn all over, tape recorders, his guitars strung and unstrung, all embellished with layers of dust.

He defended himself, “Who has time to shop for furniture when you’re always creating, give me a break!  You like the stuff I write;  it makes a comfortable place to sit in your mind for awhile.  So the place is a mess—I can’t throw anything away;  someday it’ll fit in the weave.  When you come to my flat, pull up a pile of manuscripts and take a seat.”

A balmy, late-summer breeze fluttered the curtains over an open window, caressing Natalie’s hair.  The moonbeams glistened, the creamy light playing in her locks.

“Where did you learn to drive like that,” he asked, still a little bug-eyed.

“Le Mans.  Last year was the first time I had to handle competition in the wet.  I drove for Jaguar, an XJR-10.”

“I haven’t seen one of those on the street, have I?”

“Nope.  It’s a small two-door coupe, a little larger than a go-cart…with seven hundred-fifty horsepower under the hood.”

His eyes widened …

“We were in four-wheel skids all through the night.  Pretty exciting, breaking the tires loose all the way to two hundred forty miles-per-hour, the top cars wheel to wheel, flying blind down the straight in sheeting rain, seeing distance by counting time in your senses, praying there’s not a pile-up at Mulsanne…you can’t see in the rain, Daniel.”

His jaw dropped…

“Then we’d slide through the kink before the Indy turn, at two-hundred, gearing down through the curves faster than you can think…sliding sideways right, left, right, whip, whip, whip, dodging streetcars and buses through Arnage, trying to keep from spinning out ‘cause you’re set-up too light, ready for the long bend to the Porsche Curve…and around and around we go, in the dark and wet, finding balance in your mind, then on the track.”

He tried to light a candle, the match flame was jiggling…  “Di, did you win?”

“Rain is one of the most feared hazards drivers face,” she ignored his question.  “The wet takes away twenty-percent of your actual track vision, your safety vision.  Darkness removes another forty-percent.  Dark and rain is an ugly combination—sixty percent of your vision is gone.”

“Did you win?”  Daniel hunted for a corkscrew.

“I survived…” Her reply was terse, “some didn’t.  I placed fourth in a field that saw fifteen finish.  Respectable.”

“Did that upset you?”

“I don’t like to lose…”

“Is racing your profession?”  Daniel needed to know.

“Yes…surprised?”  Natalie walked over to the bookcase, eyeing dozens of books with strange titles.  “I started in soap boxes when girls didn’t do such things.  Now I race the Formula One circuit, the Grand Prix circuit.  Are you a fan?”

“Of what?”

“Fast cars and fast women,” Natalie smiled.

“Fast cars…to watch ‘em, not to ride in ‘em.  Women…both.”

“Both what?”  she laughed.  Daniel grinned like a little boy with his hand caught in the cookie jar.  Natalie countered, “Slow down, buddy.”

“I feel like I’m riding in a roller coaster and she tells me to slow down?  Why don’t you slow down, Natalie?”

She turned away so he wouldn’t see her grinning.  She caressed one of his books, then slid it back in its slot, “I can’t slow down.  When I slow down I scare me—I start to listen to myself;  I hear things I don’t want to hear.”

“That’s just you talking to you.”  Daniel found an expensive bottle of wine.  He read the label…no sulfites added.

“Swell, Daniel, don’t give me that New Age bullshit!”  Natalie jumped on him.  He looked up from his bottle, listening…  “Who knows what you talking to you means?  Who has the answers?  Nobody…not the historians nor the robed scholars, certainly not the church or the philosophers;  the fundamentalists and the defense department don’t know shit except fear;  maybe the drug pushers but definitely not my parents.  Sure, the New Agers can pronounce the words, but nobody’s defined them yet—nobody.”

She was fuming, “And don’t tell me you have the answers, ‘cause you don’t!”

Daniel walked to her, “Hey, settle down, you’re right.  I don’t have the answers for you;  I have the answers for me.  All I know is the search for fulfillment outside, through thrills and spills, lots of high-sensual body action, means there’s something missing inside, something missing in you.”

“Tell me what I don’t know, Daniel.”  She was glaring at him, her hands on her hips.

“Natalie, because you have money you can work out your fantasies.  But the realities you play to always leave you unfulfilled.  Your money may allow you to purchase fulfillment for a while, but sooner or later you become bored with those things, whether they’re human or material, and you seek other releases to the trauma.  What you should be searching for is withinness.”

“Daniel, don’t tell me what I should and shouldn’t do.  You sound like my Father.”  She started looking for a cigarette even though she didn’t smoke.

“Gotcha, sorry.”  Daniel backed off, picking up the corkscrew.

Natalie started wandering around the flat, snooping here and there.  In a few minutes she tried to communicate again, “You talk in a different language than I do.”

“I suppose I do…poets talk in feelings.”  He started to ease out the cork, “The words I use can only be understood if you feel them…like you feel the words in a love-action scene written by a masterful writer.  The words are just ink on paper, yet they can and do turn on seductive fantasies for the reader.  Anything that makes you feel is the beginning to being real.”

“Do you always speak in rhyme?”  Natalie couldn’t help chuckling.  She sat down on his bedroll, pulling off her boots.  Daniel eyed her;  Mangy watched Mitzi’s tail swaying.

“The entire universe is vibrating in rhyme, Na…Natalie.  In fact, the ancient dialogues of the East Indian Gods were conducted in rhyme—the words sing to you, they touch another one of your senses, the vibrations hit the soul much more gentler, more musical.”

“Well, Dan, I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, but I like to listen.”  She stroked Mitzi, purring in her lap.

“Do you know you’re a lucky lady?”

“Why is that?”

“Because you have the money to work out your fantasies.  Others spend their entire life dreaming, thinking, If only I had the money.  They never find out everything is within them, for it is the feelings of having those things that is the wisdom of experience, always and forever.”

“What do you mean, Danny?”

“Why do you drive fast cars…Nad, Natalie?”

“For the feeling, the thrill of it.”  Mitzi’s motor was racing…purrrr.

“Can you experience the feeling of it, the thrill of it, by just conjuring it up in your imagination?”  Daniel hinted.

“Sure I can.  Since I’ve done it so much, I live every turn over and over again.  Every straight is emblazoned in my mind—I know every shift point like I know my every eyelash.  I quaver with the engine whine as I would with my baby’s breath.”

Daniel nodded, “What if I told you there were hundreds of dimensions for you to live in, for you to experience.”

“More than three?  Danny, where do these ideas come from?”

“They’re a truth, my truth.  Fear kept me from exploring what I was.”

“What are you?”  Natalie was searching, looking for wine glasses.

“I’m, I’m…well, I just am.”

“You am what?”  She blew the dust off two glasses—stemmed crystal.

“Well, I’m rare, I guess.  I’m someone who can stand up proud and say, I am worthy, I can love without fear.”

“That’s a big step, Daniel.”

“Do you think so?  I’m just an artist, unveiling my manuscript to myself, page by page.”

She reached out, grasping for his hand, “Danny, why haven’t we been taught to understand feelings?”

He squeezed her hand, then moved away from her.  He started picking at his acoustic guitar, listening to a tune coming…  “Nobody’s quite sure what feelin’s are, darlin’.  We know they control folks;  to what extent, we’re not sure.  And there’s great fear attached to living in feelings—women live in feelings and we consider them powerless.  Poets live in feelings so poets are considered women.  And also, feelings are free.  They’re the panacea to all of life’s ailments—the cure-all.  If we understood our feelings and allowed our feelings, the world would change in an instant.”

“Why aren’t we taught what we are then?”  Natalie wondered.

“The Greeks taught their children…the Olympic Games honored athletes and poets.  Today, there’s no money in teaching the beauty of self.  They teach the ugly of self…” he started fiddling with some lyrics, humming, I don’t know what feelin’s are, just that they leave a deep, hurtin’ scar…and I feel so ugly about myself, just dirt ugly, ‘cause every body I see on the Tee and Vee, and every body in the magazine, is beautiful, just so beautiful, except me.

“See, Nn, Natalie, when you are everything, you have everything.  No one can sell you anything…you don’t need anything to be in.  Madison Avenue couldn’t make a nickel off a populace that has found themselves—what would they need?  They don’t need nothin’, they’ve got their self!…I’ve got myself, I’ve found myself and no one else,” Daniel started strumming.

She listened in amazement thinking, How can he convert an obscure notion so quickly into a simple song?  He laid the guitar down, grinning at her.  She suggested, “Let’s walk and talk some more before the wine;  let’s watch the darkness fade into another forever.”

The wet, cold sand oozed between as their toes dug into the dry, warm sand underneath.  They walked along a moonlit shore, the rays of the early morning sun breaking the blackness of the horizon at their back.  The waves gently lapped up and over their feet as they ventured too far toward the sea.  The fresh salt air filled their senses, a cool mist cleansed their cheeks, the soft wind mussed their hair.

Daniel kept his hands in his pockets.  Mitzi followed Natalie, at a safe distance away from the water.  Mangy followed Mitzi at a safe distance.  Their conversation left them both in resonant, contemplative thought;  mulling over words and ideas, wondering if they were the truth of fantasy.

They climbed over rocks in their path by helping each other along;  Daniel’s flashlight illuminated the unseen realities beneath the surface …tidepools teeming with life in another universe, tapestries with unfamiliar patterns of existence.

“Let’s return to the flat, it’s chilly,” Natalie tugged at his arm.  He ventured into her eyes, could see a love there…a warm and tender feeling beyond race car excitement, beyond thrills and spills.

Daniel watched Mangy make a move toward Mitzi.


01:06:44

“Daniel, one of your female characters could have a male alter.  That would really throw your readers off track.”

Jackie and I were in a brisk-paced walk on Balboa Island, the sun brightening up our conversation.  We were discussing multiple personality disorders while nodding hello to passers by.  I said hi to Cara and her prize-winning dog, Rover;  an exceptional golden retriever with a common name.  Cara is always either at Corona on the bluff or holding Rover back from a gallop around Balboa Island.

Cara’s voice sounded like an infants, “Hi, Daniel…I like your new song.”  It was as if she never grew up.

“Thanks, Cara.”

They passed by, Rover dragging her along.  I laughed, then remarked to Jackie, “I don’t want to throw my readers off track, my mind is confusing enough.  But mixing male with female would be intriguing.  Is it possible for a multiple personality female to alter herself into a male?”

“Oh, yes…easily and conveniently.  An alter can even change their eye color and their facial structure.”

I was shocked;  “How could they possibly change their eye color?”

“I have no idea…but they do.  You figure it out.”

The walking pace quickened as we tried to keep up with Rover—puff, puff.

“If I turn into a female alter, would I switch into a transvestite?”  A logical question, wouldn’t you say?

“No,” Jackie responded, a little out of breath;  “since each of us has a male side and a female side within—you have a female side, you’re a male;  I have a male side, I’m a female—our opposite sex side of ourself can take on strong characteristics.”

“How?”

She thought for a second…  “Let’s say I’m associating maleness with a strong, less-feeling personality.  I’ve been raised to believe that;  I’ve grown up to believe that.  And then maybe on one rainy, miserable, disastrous day when it does no good to be female, I develop a male alter who’s protective of me, who’s tough against my enemies, who doesn’t cry and smear my make up, who likes to wear inexpensive boy’s clothes, does typical boy things, and speaks with a lower voice.  I start walking like a guy,” and Jackie started walking like a guy, strutting, like a fullback, not gliding along like a woman in high-heels, but strutting like she had something dangling between her legs.

I looked and watched in amazement;  even Rover noticed a difference, sensed a more powerful authority present.  If I didn’t know about Jackie’s breasts, I might have guessed wrong about her.

“Now Daniel, let’s say I’m wearing pink and blue, polka-dots and bows with pantyhose, and my he comes out.  He’s going to curse, ‘Oh shit, take this stuff off of me, now!’  He’ll wash my makeup off, sit with his legs apart at the next rest stop, and smoke a cigarette like James Dean.”

“Unbelievable…”

“Then when they switch and she comes out again, she’ll put the little fox back on, the bows back in her hair, spend an hour putting her makeup back on.  At the rest stop she crosses her legs and her perfume extends outward for fifty yards.”

I shook my head in laughter, taking in a more observant view of our passers by, wondering if she was really a he or a she out for a stroll.

“…and, of course, she talks with a high voice.”

“Yes,” I remarked in a falsetto voice— “Jackie, I have to ask you, do the alters have any idea about the sexual organs their wearing?  I would think the equipment list would help determine who is what.  Let’s say she is out, and she discovers extra equipment between her legs.  Wouldn’t that discovery change the alter’s perception about themselves?”

“Would she use the men’s room, you mean?”

“Well, more than that.  When she’s holding he equipment in her hand, wouldn’t that cause the lights in her mind to go on?”

“Perhaps she would question, ‘Where did this come from?”

“I suppose it would depend on how big this was, but yes, the this is not something the average female finds in her bulging pantyhose.”

Jackie couldn’t stop her laughter, “And if she is really a he, would she know how to use it?”

“Probably not;  it does take a lifetime of familiarity.”

Rover barked on that one and stopped at a tree.

Jackie added, “Perhaps that might explain all the sexually frustrated females wandering around;  they’ve encountered a he who forgot how to use it.”

“Jackie, that’s a below-the-belt comment.  I thought we were talking about a she who was really a he who never knew how to use it in the first place!”

“Come on, Daniel—if they can change their eye color and their facial structure, they sure can make it erect from limp.”

“You’ve a point there, Jackie.”

“More than a point, Daniel.  Not only do we have AIDS to contend with, we also have charades.”


01:08:58

The early morning light at Malibu Beach rippled across the sea—moonbeams became red fire on the horizon.  “What does a vagabond poet do all day?”  Natalie’s lips touched her glass.

“I listen, I create,” Daniel gulped his wine.

“All day?”

“Creating is all the time.  Everyone has an inner voice telling them stuff.  Most people don’t listen to it.”  Daniel sighed, wondering if she would ever settle down.

“You know, I’ve always wanted to be a writer,” she offered.

“Everyone wants to be a writer because everyone is;  they’re writing their own life’s story, living it every day.  If you read your scraps a few years down the road, you’ll see your progress in this…game called…” he stared into his glass, dazed, off schedule, fading away… “life.”

“Read me some of your scraps.”  She patted an empty spot for him to sit on his bedroll.

“I’m really exhausted, Natalie.  Could I read to you when we wake up, please?”

When we wake up, it sounded so innocent to her.  “Well, I don’t know,” she said shyly, “I don’t know if I’ll want to hear anything when we wake up.”

He drummed his fingers a bit, then started humming one of his songs.  He whispered a few verses to her…  “My woman, my love, my only delight;  you give to me my eternal life.  You take my soul beyond this show, you teach me what there is to know.”

She was swaying to the cadence so he continued…  “My woman, my love, my only delight, you give to me my eternal light;  to shelter near my waiting breast, to love and protect its preciousness …” Mitzi’s tail was swaying to the rhythm.

Natalie rested her head on his shoulder, “Who did you write that song to, Daniel?”

“To a feeling.  I thought I was writing it to a woman, but I was writing it to describe a feeling within me.  That woman could never live up to the expectations of womanhood within me.”

She sensed a deep, hidden pain had surfaced.  She looked into his eyes, “I could, Daniel…I could be the woman you see in your heart.”

Daniel felt a twinge in his soul, “You, Natalie?  I’m not sure any woman on this planet could be my Princess Charming except a Black Chamber seductresses.  Maybe if I could make my own woman…a goddess in looks, a genius in intellect, a wizard with the checkbook, a caring, sharing mother, and a nymphomaniac.  And she can support me in my craziness, living through all the phases a maniac writer goes through, always loving me only.  And occasionally she’ll pat me on the head like a puppy dog.”

Natalie laughed, “Well, I am a goddess in looks, fair with the checkbook although the accountants take care of that.  I do have my phases of nymphomania.  I could support you if I wished—it might be nice to have a poet laureate around writing poems about me, telling me how wonderful I am.”  She giggled, “As far as a mother is concerned, that’s a way off;  I have my career and my own paranoias I’m living with.  And if you want to be petted…Daniel are you a marvelous lover?”

“I’ve been told.”

She snuggled up to him, laying a blanket over their legs.  “Read me some love poems,” she commanded.

“P.G.  or X rated?”  He felt a pang of energy.

“Innocent love first.”

Daniel rose and staggered feebly to the wine cart.  He poured another glass…the classy stuff for her.  For himself, Thursday’s vintage was fine if it was smooth and alcoholic.  He began fumbling through his files, pulling out a bound manuscript.

He sat down beside her remarking, “This poem’s from a new book of mine, soon to be published in Europe, Passion Lover’s Lies…

I lay down beside you

I look deep inside you,

I feel all of your presence

I’m inside your essence,

I float around in there

just to feel your care,

I feel great comfort there.

I lay down beside you

no need to possess you,

just a need to let you

deep inside me.

I lay down beside you

to love you completely,

I lay down beside you

to love you free,

I lay down beside you

to find me.

“Danny, I love it,” she cheered.

“Yeah, I like ‘em short and sweet, and easy readin’.  No Shakespearean sonnets for me.  Was that innocent enough for you?”

“Yes, now tantalize me,” she said coyly.

“Okay, let’s try this one.  It’s called Imagery…

A Woman’s hair is made up to take down.

A Woman’s perfume is put on to be licked off,

A Woman’s skirt is fluffed to be pulled away.

A Woman’s panties are drawn over her hips

to be taken down to be found waving around

one of her ankles.

Love is Wild.

Natalie stared into the rouge of her wine glass, nodding back and forth in unison to some ancient energy coursing through her veins.  She snuggled next to him, gently caressing his calves with her bare toes.

Daniel moved slowly, lighting a candle;  the flame flickered along the curves of her beauty.  Natalie stirred in the shadows;  she opened her arms to him.  He rested his head on her shoulder, his chest against her breasts softly yielding to his masculinity.  She stroked the nape of his neck as he brushed her fingertips with his lips.  She gently bit his flesh;  the impulse shot into his soul.  It startled him…he hadn’t been here before.  Mitzi snuggled up to Mangy.

Daniel felt her thigh rubbing against his as she opened herself up to him, laying back on the bedroll.  The rush of the waves crept into her consciousness.  He rested his hips comfortably in hers, their hips just laying together, generating their own heat for each other.

She ran her fingers through his golden hair as he whispered about the cream of her skin, its texture, its flavor, its perfume.  She smiled with her eyes resting, head swaying gently back and forth to a music she could only hear.  She wrapped his hair around her finger, caressing the length of his leg with her toes, spreading her thighs even wider, letting him rest deep against her passion.

“Daniel,” she whispered, “the poems have made me hot enough.  You can just go ahead, Daniel.  We don’t need to play any games.”

There was something between them;  it was clicking—something electrical, laserial, quantum leapish…like gods and goddesses making love.  And as they did, so the heavens sang, for creation was continuing in its foreverness.  There is art in everything;  lovemaking is the greatest of arts.

Daniel found some words, “Through the exchange of passion’s juices, creations continue to exist.  Through lovemaking, we remake ourselves—we provide bodies, vehicles for our souls to exist.”

Natalie, reaching low, found his belt.  She pushed him away to loosen it, slid her hand under his pants.  He didn’t stop her.  She surrounded him, holding his essence in her hand with the love of a mother caressing her child—protecting it, soothing it, cuddling it.  Love is just love, she mused …wherever it appears, whenever it appears.  You just have to be brave enough to accept it.

Daniel became poetically lost in Natalie’s mouth, tasting everything that flesh could yield to him.  Her tongue followed his around and around, exchanging juices, intermingling frenzy with calculating movement.  He found the root of her tongue, deep inside of her.  He licked the edge of it, awakening it to a new sensation.  Then the tip shared the joy as she relaxed, open-mouthed, her heated breath adding a sensation of warmth as Daniel inhaled the air from inside her.

He moved his hips against hers as she held onto his manhood, the back of her hand rubbing patiently against the bonded mouth of her intimacy, then rapidly out of control.  She felt herself, wet and hot, as her jodhpurs slipped down her thighs.

She released him, then surrounded his bottom with both of her hands, fingers spread wide to feel every inch of his flesh under his denims.  She kneaded him like fresh bread dough, running her fingers up and down his contours.  Daniel strained against her through the limitations of cloth.

Her panting began to carry her to a gentle moan as her breath heaved deeper into her body, stirring the fire in her womb.  She began lifting her hips into his, rubbing his length into her, trying to bring him close to her opening as she fought to free herself from her panties.  They would not stretch over her thighs…they were spread too wide, overpowering her mind in anticipation.  Nor would they move past Daniel’s hips as he flexed inside hers, swelling, pulsating with the raging energy of a racehorse.

In an uncontrollable instant her juices flowed in a torrent, soaking her through and through to Daniel’s pants in the fever, permeating the room with the fresh scent of a woman starved for passion.

They were wet against each other…fresh-made love.

With his left hand, Daniel began caressing her bonded mound with the raw innocence of a teenager partying in the back seat of his Dad’s Buick.  He rubbed and rubbed her through her panties, gently, then harder and faster until he felt the heat was unbearable to her.  Her head moved from side to side, her fingers twitching in a frenzy;  she whispered in the language of love.  He supposed it was time.

Her eyes were glazed with the sugar ecstasy of the moment.  Her legs lay limp and spread wide for him when he wished.  He delicately eased her panties down an inch until they exposed her, everything sweet there was.

He admired her in the candlelight, moonbeams playing on her ivory flesh.  And then he saw it…on the inside of her left thigh, only visible when her legs were open and taut, like they were straddling the back of a wild stallion.  One wing was easily seen, its body soaring, split by her hairline;  the other wing was buried beneath the cotton-candy of her sex.  It was her birthmark, the shape of an eagle in freedom’s flight.

Natalie felt his breath touch against her wetness, the vulnerability of her essence opened to him as he marveled at the beauty of her creation.  And then he lowered his mouth against the mouth of her womb, pulling her into his lips, pressing her totality into him.  She arched her back in one great ahhhh, pulling at his hair in savage heat, flowing quickly again into freedom’s place.

Daniel was writing a love sonnet in his mind as he tasted the insides of her life, as his tongue darted through her barriers, beginning to deliver her to a heaven she had never known.

He pushed away his pants…his manhood searched gently for her opening.  She guided him into her, moment by soft moment.  They moaned together at every advance, until he was completely engulfed in her warm pulsations, completely submerged in her rhapsody.

His surging blood pulsed against the walls of her nest.  Every sense of her felt his heartbeat.  His mind laid there softly, savoring this instant of divine pleasure until she began moving slowly against him, timidly yet profoundly under his hips, sliding him to and fro, up and down, inside of her, squeezing him.  The scent of her washed past his senses, igniting some long-lost animal instinct for the conquest of pleasure.

She began to heave against him, running the skin of her long, exquisitely shaped legs against every touch of him as he, completely on her, completely inside of her, surged his full force.  Their tongues swam deeper into each other as their tender strokes of secret, intense pleasure leapt and rode into long, hard, pulsating, insatiable thrusts of wild, unlimited creation.

They rode against each other, higher and higher, along this path to oblivion.  Every move, every touch, every moan reached them further into a reality of their making—the bedroll disappeared to their bodies…the world to their minds.  They were catapulted into the clouds where they ravaged each other, as the gods and goddesses who watched applauded their act of love, because it was love.

And as their shuddering revenge came and came in waves of tumultuous ecstasy, they were no longer two…they had each been inside the soul of the other, giving that much more back in return.

It was momentous, it was classic, it was hall-of-fame lovemaking.  Their bodies were created to fit into the other;  every curve, every nerve, every muscle alive to the touch of flesh.  And it was glorious, the coming of their ecstasy, as they both melted into another time, another space, a place of pure, total love, unconditional in its demands.  And they melted into each other knowing there were no other lovers.

She wept and he comforted her.  They were not tears of happiness or joy, they were tears of fulfillment.  They had completed themselves and had felt what it was…and now they knew what they had always missed.  They had discovered a wholeness within themselves.  Together.

Daniel kissed her forehead tenderly.  Then he kissed her eyelids open to look through, into her soul.  The candlelight flickered, recalling to him the memory.

She smiled completely, yet consumed, answering by brushing the length of her beauty against all of his handsomeness.

Never had she imagined such ecstasy, such camaraderie, such intensity, such bliss.  Never had she felt what superlove could be;  never had she felt what she could be.  She lay there completely within, feeling the essence of her in him.  She hoped it wouldn’t end this time…she hoped this would be the end of time.


01:40:08

California Highway Patrol Captain Myron Pederson remembered that day, almost twelve years ago.

He was quoting verse and testament to his wife, Cyndee.  “The Bible says it’s so,” Myron pointed to Zechariah 14:13—At that time a Fountain will be opened to the people of Israel and Jerusalem, a Fountain to cleanse them from all their sins and uncleanness.

“Yes, a fountain will be opened,” Cyndee repeated, taking a long drag on her Virginia Slim.

“Cyn, should we adopt Sissy?”  Myron needed to know.

“I don’t know…I just don’t know.  Just because you witnessed her whole family fried in that wreck, why do we have to witness to her?”  Cyndee inhaled the fumes into her lungs, “Why are you so attached to her, Myron?”

“I don’t know, Cyn.  I’ll never get that scene out of my head.  Never…it’s burned there forever.”  He saw the Macy Street tunnel again, its firestorm sweeping away the breath of those it had trapped— “It makes me sick every time I think about it;  the fumes, the stench, the severed jawbone.  Jesus shed his blood for our sins, Cyn, and maybe these people did, too.”

“Oh fuck, Myron, that’s blasphemy.  You know that, God damn it.”  She grabbed at her stringy, straw-blond hair.

“Is it?  Oh…well, I need to adopt this little girl, Cyn.  I feel she’s part of me now.  Her grandparents are too old and poor to care for her;  they’ve given me their blessings.  She was orphaned right in front of me.  Cyndee, I tried.  I just couldn’t save her family…” and he broke down into sporadic tears.

Cyndee was surprised.  She stepped back, taking another long drag, milking the nicotine out of the cigarette into her body.  She watched him carefully, then nodded saying, “It’s okay, you can cry.  Cops can cry, can’t they?”


01:42:09

“When do the alters decide to switch from one to the other, Jackie?  And when does the core person come out?”

Rover was way ahead of us;  our gallop around Balboa Island returned to a stroll along the boardwalk, passing yachts and docks at our leisure.

“Their tendency, Daniel, is to switch when needed.  If there’s a conflict and the core person is overwhelmed, they will bring out an alter who can deal with the conflict.

“Is that why the alter was created in the first place?”

“Yes.”

Jackie and I were approaching the ferry landing, just past Hickory, Dickory, Dock.  We waited to board the small, three-car ferry that sails from the Island to Balboa Peninsula, a grand distance of two hundred yards.

“Daniel, let’s suppose you have a dominating authority figure over you;  one who intimidates you.  You might decide to switch into a child to soften the situation;  by being childlike to that person, they may switch into a more childlike personality if they feel safe enough.  Otherwise, they might bring out a protector who will be rough and tough and aggressive to stand up to your alter.”

“Wait a second, Jackie—are you saying if I have a tendency to switch into altered personalities, others who I come in contact with may also switch into their alters?”

“Yes.”

“Well, how do we know who is who?”

“We don’t…that’s why the world is in a mess.  But, Daniel, consider that your child alter may be one who will never be seen except when you’re alone, or perhaps with your counselor.  The child simply does not want to expose herself;  she was frozen into her childhood because of the heinous trauma that beset her.  But you can…she can safely regress into a child when she is alone, but the child would have a tendency to try to hide herself.”

The ferry pulled away from shore with a toot, toot—we were on our way to the Fun Zone on the Peninsula!  The house of mirrors was my favorite;  you never knew who you were in there.

With the sea wind blowing in my face, I commented, “A multiple personality truly lives an intriguing life, Jackie.”

“Her life is made up of scene after scene filled with a variety of characters.  She plays all the parts in her drama and also writes her script.  A complex core personality is actually the scriptwriter, the producer, the director, the casting agent, and all the actors and actresses playing all the scenes of her drama.”

“I bet she is excited around Halloween time.”

“Yes, very…for she gets to act out legally characters she has been denying herself.”


01:46:37

And it began as a murmur, a voice carried on a whisper.  It entered Daniel’s essence to sing him a song.  Caressing his consciousness, the words would ring, bringing him closer, before Natalie was gone.  He lay in a dream next to the rhapsody, smiling within, listening to her song…

Every once in a while, in an eternity, someone comes along, almost as if in a dream…

That someone is the perfect mirror for another, brilliant in its light.  And to look into the eyes of the other is to catch the light of the stars;  the feelings felt within are a radiance within the soul.  And to feel the breath of the other is to touch the gentle wind of eternity, for it breathes new life into you.  And to brush the lips of the other is to taste the sweet nectar of all that is.  Each is the sustenance for each of you.

And to look into her eyes will put you in toyland, in a joyland.  And you will want to win your way with her, and she with you.  And you will learn to let her win, and she you, for you love her beyond winning.  And her eyes will glance upon another and you will feel the despair of jealousy.  And your eyes will glance upon another and she will feel the pain of separation.

And there will come a day, in eternity, when you look into the eyes of your other and see, in a brilliant flash, the glory of you.  Then you will know the simple joy of love, in freedom.  And you will float gently with the breeze, and dance gaily with the angels, and weep softly with creation as it unfolds into the eyes of all.

And then you will know love, every once in a while, in an eternity.


01:47:46

Baby, baby…baby needs friends.  Baby, baby…baby needs love.  Baby, baby…baby needs to mend—the rhyme hammered his brain, throbbing, pounding.  Oh baby, come baby, play with me.  Baby, baby…baby needs friends to see.  Where?…where is his mother’s face, filled with the smile that jingles his heart?  He could hear her voice singing in his head—tinkle, tinkle, tum;  it’s time to come.  Tinkle, tinkle, tum…

The shadows were cold this night.  Lonely.  He was looking for warmth.  His silhouette moved like a phantom, from shadow to shadow.  Where could she be?  Would she scream?…fright.  Would she cry tonight?  Would she hurt him?  Why did they always try to hurt me?  I am baby, so why do they try to hurt me?  I don’t want to run home again, crying.  Why do they scream?  I’m just coming to play with them…

All the girls on those nasty videos were always calling me.  Well, weren’t they…oh, baby;  come, baby.  Since I’m baby, isn’t it okay if I come to play?  Isn’t it okay to pull on their hair, to touch them, fingerpaint in their baby powder, smearing it all over them?  Isn’t it okay to play with them, to chase them?  I’m baby…tinkle, tinkle, tickle tum.  It’s time to come, tickle tum.  It’s time.


01:49:16

Jackie and I were in the house of mirrors at the Balboa Fun Zone, trying to figure out who was who.  Jackie was standing right next to me, but she looked so flattened, then extended…then round, then square, I sometimes couldn’t tell her apart from me.

I listened to the giggling and laughter of the children racing around in there, hiding from the images.

While observing a rather triangular version of me, I asked Jackie a serious question— “At what age does the personality split usually occur?”

When she spoke her mouth looked three feet wide in the mirror, “It’s very unlikely for a person to split after the age of five.  It can happen, however;  they can split as a teenager, but only rarely.  Our understanding is the split takes place in the early developmental stages.”

One of the mirrors made me look like a midget, “Jackie, I can’t remember any of my childhood.”

“Any?”

“Just brief parts of it.”

“Well, then you’ve blocked it, Daniel.  It was so traumatic for you, you’ve blocked it.”

“Yeah…yeah, I don’t remember the early years at all.”  The mirror I was looking into made me look twelve feet tall and twelve feet wide;  I was a square!

“Something happened to you, Daniel.  Something either happen and then you just blocked it out, or there was continuous abuse and you kept blocking it out.  Or it could have been just one event so terrifying your brain was implanted.”

“Implanted?  That’s a science-fiction term.”

“Science-fact, rather.  An implant means the next time your brain receives comparable inputs to that so terrifying moment, it suspects a more terrifying moment is about to occur and blocks everything out, you split.”

“So for the rest of my life, anytime similar situations present themselves that alert my brain to severe trauma, I close it off.”

“Yes.  You’ve learned to do this to survive.”

“So I’ve blocked certain moments out for the rest of my life.”

“Yes, if those moments come close to triggering the denial mechanism in your brain.”

“So good things could be about to happen for me, and because the input resembles bad things that have happened to me, I will block the rest of the input and split into another personality?”

“Yes.  The terrible moment could have been a constant state of reinfracting abuse.  It’ll come up again and again;  the fracture keeps cracking until it bleeds all over again.”

“Yeah…I’ve got that feeling, probably in the process of writing this book.”

The mirror I was looking in split me up into a bunch of round body parts, scattering me all over.

“You’ll be surprised at what comes out in your book, Daniel, because your subconscious might be oozing its way out giving you some of your ideas.”

“You mean I might begin receiving flickers, little pictures in my mind of little glimmers of memories.”

“Yes, they’ll flash through your mind causing wonder about them.  If that’s the situation, there has to be some real grief work commenced;  grieving over those losses.  And anger work, and forgiveness.”

“It’s easy to say, difficult to do.”

“It has to be done eventually, Daniel.  If you’ve forgotten your childhood, that’s a lot of stuff to be buried.”

“Do you remember when you were three or four years old, Jackie?”

“Yes…a little bit;  not a whole lot that early.  Subconsciously I remember it;  I’ve been able to recreate it.  From four on, I have pretty good awareness.”

“Those years seem to be missing…my lost years.  A whole segment of my life seems lost.”

Jackie and I emerged from the House of Mirrors;  we voted for a jaunt on the carousel…or is it called the Merry-Go-Round?  Either way, it’s wooden horses on sticks you ride up and down, around in a circle, going nowhere…just up and down.

Jackie yelled over the steam-calliope song, “If you have absolutely no memories of your childhood, that’s more concerning.  If you have little bits and pieces, certain incidences you remember between ages three and four, it’s harder to remember infancy.”

I shouted over the song, “How can anybody remember what happened when they were just a midget?”  I was trying to remember the name of that song…

“Daniel, listen…some people can remember what they did when they were two, but you don’t hear about that as often unless you’re in some regression work.  Then your client might remember their birth scene, infancy, and the like.  But that tends to be experienced vicariously through the adult.”

“Meaning…” I shouted from my red-painted horse, riding up and down, up and down.

“Meaning the adult personality adds-on experiences they’ve seen, heard of, or felt,” Jackie shouted from her yellow-painted horse, riding up and down…up and down.

“Is regression work inaccurate, Jackie?”

“Yes, very inaccurate,” she shouted.  “Consider all the scenes an adult has participated in by the age of, let’s say thirty-three.  Then add all the scenes witnessed at the movies and in front of the television.  Then add all the fantasy scenes prompted by reality, films, television, and all the scenes suggested in music for those thirty-three years.”

I yelled to her, “Jesus, how do we know what’s real?”

“Good question, Daniel.  Your memory is filled with literally hundreds of thousands of scenes;  it’s very difficult to discern which scenes really happened to you and which scenes you watched, read, or heard about.”

“Perhaps by only discerning physical pain.”  The elusive name of the calliope song was driving me nuts… “Jackie, if you fell off your horse and hurt yourself you would know it happened to you, right?”

“Yes, but if you saw your TV hero fall off his horse and hurt himself, you would suffer emotional pain while he was acting out the physical pain.  Twenty years from now, could you discern whether your pain was physical or emotional?

I thought about it while I rode up and down…up and down…  “Life then is a jumble of scenes.  With a selective memory, we develop our analysis of our experiences within those scenes?”

“Yes, Daniel;  if you were raised with a critical parent, you will always be critical of yourself, selecting scenes where you screwed up, were a failure, just to prove your parent right.  After all, god knows what is right for you.  If you were raised with supportive, secure, safe parents, you will always be encouraging to yourself, selecting scenes where you’ve succeeded to fill your memory banks.  Which person is more likely to split, Daniel?”

“The critical-parent person.”

“Correct, Daniel.  Which person is more likely to kill themselves?”

“The critical-parent person?”

We dismounted from our horses.  I stood still for a moment while the world continued to spin around me.


01:55:13

It was ten A.M.  at Daniel’s Malibu beachfront flat.  They didn’t sleep much last night, the fresh scents enamoring their senses.  The sun bathed Natalie’s form in white sparklers as she walked into the kitchen, laughing.

She held a scribbled note in one hand.  Daniel was struggling with a Swiss cheese and mushroom omelet—timing, timing!  She hugged him from behind, “Danny, this is hilarious, the note Mangy wrote to Mitzi,”

I felt I needed to write you…to let you know how I feel.

I normally don’t sleep around with any cat I meet.  And especially not on the first night!  Something was just magic between us.  Even though you played it cool, I know you have  to be feeling what I’m feeling.

I guess what I’m trying to say is, I don’t want you to think I’m some kind of tramp who gets high on catnip and sleeps with just any animal!  I’ve been waiting all my life for a relationship like this—you must be my soulcat.  And the way you stretched out on the pillow—I hadn’t been that turned on since I was a naive virgin alley cat, a few weeks back.

I know many would say ours is an impossible relationship, especially because our roots are so different—I’m so refined, you’re street-wise.  I don’t care!  I’ve learned so much about myself in just the brief moments we’ve spent intertwined, I know it can work.  How about it?

[a cat’s paw]

Mangy

“Daniel, you’re so out of control!”

She whacked him on the butt, then kissed his cheek, excited.  “Danny, I want you to come with me to my next race.  I want to show you off to the ladies and gents of Monte Carlo.”

“Show me off?”  He was attempting to form the omelet, cursing it…too loose, overcooked, or scrambled eggs—timing!

“Yes,” Natalie went on while she grabbed at him, trying to tickle him, “maybe I can help you with your career.”

She was radiant in an ivory, silken gown she found stuffed in Daniel’s closet.  Her blond hair cascaded across her shoulders, the shimmering sunbeams setting her whole body alive in vibrating light.

“Don’t tickle me while I’m cooking!”  He was adamant, trying to squirm away, laughing.

“We go to Monte in two months.  My Formula cars are being prepped at Willow Springs.  I want you to see them and meet my team.  You won’t be scared of fast cars and fast women after I’m through with you!”

She pulled him away from his eggs, turned him around, and started exploring his pajama bottoms.  They kissed, his tongue tasting hers again.  And she ruined his omelet.


01:56:42

When the world stopped spinning, Jackie and I walked to the Newport Bay cruise boats.  A pelican splashed nearby, hunting for lunch…sea gulls danced in the bright blue sky.

While we waited to board, Jackie advised me, “An entire generation of Americans is suffering from the critical-parent syndrome, a Black Chamber tactic.  They are now graduating into manic-depressives, literally on the verge of insanity;  they are our addicts.  Many of those on the verge severely lacked nurturing.  For instance, thumb sucking.  An infant who is deprived of affection sucks his thumb.”

I joked with her, “I just stopped last week.”

She took me seriously, “Well, perhaps it’s not so funny.  As an educated guess I would venture you severely lacked nurturing.  Perhaps you were very physically neglected.  Does your mom ever talk about your babyhood?”

“No, Jackie… never.”

“That’s not a good sign, Daniel.  She doesn’t tell you what you were like when you were a baby?”

“Never.  Sometimes it doesn’t even feel like she’s my mother.”

Jackie screwed up her mouth over that comment.

We boarded the Island Cruiser for our tour of Newport Bay.

“Daniel, your mom’s hiding somethin’.  Does she act like…the past is the past and let’s not dredge it up;  let’s live life as today is the only day.  Doesn’t she talk about things;  is she living in denial?”

“Well, it wasn’t exactly ‘Home, home on the range.’”  I thought about my comment, then remarked, “It’s difficult to consider your mother may be sick…a mentally sick woman?”

“Yes it is, Daniel, and it’s even more difficult to consider you were raised up in that sickness.  And what about your father?  You never mention him.”

“Uh huh,” was all the response I could muster.

The Island Cruiser exhaled a toot, toooot…and we pulled away from shore, sipping our diet cokes in silence.  I munched on a lemon-orange muffin from Kelly’s Gourmet Coffee shop.

We sailed off in search of reality.


01:58:17

Daniel stepped off the elevator on the forty-fifth floor, into a magnificent suite of carved woods and imported fabrics.

Flowers bloomed in silver and brass containers, while crystal chandeliers graced muted lighting everywhere.  This was the Century City law firm of Samson, Bristone, Goldstein, Hellinsky, and Kingster.  Daniel walked softly, almost silently, on plush, emerald-green carpet to the receptionist.

“Colonel Samson, please.  I’m Daniel Brukenchld,” he announced, a little intimidated.

“Yes, Mr, er…Brickendield.  Colonel Samson is expecting you for lunch.  He’s on the phone, but it shouldn’t be long.”  She smiled and took a call.

Daniel wandered over to a Louis XIV loveseat, or maybe it was George VIII, he couldn’t tell the difference.  A tune was sneaking into his consciousness;  he’d been humming it for days…hum, humm, hum, hum, the tune went up and down the scale in his throat.

And then it hit those high notes in his mind, and he never could reach them with his voice.  He didn’t think he would ever be a great singer;  good maybe, but not great.  And then again, Bob Dylan wasn’t a great singer, but he hit.  So why couldn’t he, Daniel, hit?

He picked up a copy of Billboard and flipped through the pages—big bucks, chartbuster songs, lots of hype, gold and platinum albums for everyone…but these lyrics are shit.  My lyrics are better than that.

“Mr…Mr…ah…Backenfeld,” the receptionist called out to him.

“Brukenchld…” he corrected her.

The receptionist tried again, “Yes, Mr. Bre, Brecken-shield.  Colonel Samson will see you now.  Please follow me.”  Daniel wondered why his name was so difficult to pronounce.  It was just a Bruk, then an en, and then a chld.  Simple.  Brukenchld.

Samson stood when he entered, “Daniel.  Greetings!  Glad you could make it.  I was anxious to dine with you.  I’ve ordered our lunch catered;  I hope you’ll enjoy it.  Do you like sushi?”

“Ah…sure, Mr. Samson.”  Daniel settled into an overstuffed winged chair, decorated with a bright garnet and lemon-drop floral pattern on a pink-granite ground.  It felt real elegant to his rear-end.

Samson guessed, “It is expensive, isn’t it…sushi?  Well, we’ll try to ensure you can afford it more often.  Here’s lunch now.”

The ornate double-doors to Samson’s private suite opened gallantly.  An elaborately arrayed cart was rolled to the center of the suite, complete with an ice carving of two musical eighth-notes.

Samson pointed to them, “The eighth-notes are in honor of you.”

“Me?”  Daniel was astounded, “Why?”

Samson sidestepped the question, asking, “Would you care for some wine?  Fray Vineyards, organic, no sulfites added.”

“How did you know my taste?”  Daniel inquired, half smiling.

The Colonel poured, “There are lots of things I know, Daniel.  It’s my business to know.”

He held the glass, “I’ve been thinking a lot about you, Daniel.  You may have a rare talent.  I think you could make it in the entertainment business.  Make it how big is a question only you can answer, but perhaps if we put your lyrics with some commercially productive musicians, we might have something pretty special.  Do you sing?”

Daniel reached for the glass, “I do, sir…well, sort of.  I sing to my girlfriend and she seems to like it.”

Samson laughed, “At the least, she likes to kiss you after the last note.”

Daniel grinned, “Ah…yes, sir.”

Samson turned and walked over to the antique Chickering grand piano, “Have you ever sung in public, Daniel?  In church, or done the bar circuit?

“Nope…I stay out of both those places;  meat markets.”  Daniel sipped the wine, eyeing the sushi—super fine stuff, I can dig this, he mused.

“Well, church isn’t so bad, that’s where Elvis found his voice.”  Samson poured Daniel’s glass to the brim.

“Elvis?  Well…church is okay for some folks, I guess.  Oh heck, I guess I’ve sung Jesus Loves Me a few times in church;  but heck, I don’t know if that’ll win me a grammy.”  Daniel started pickin’ at a…a;  he wasn’t sure what it was.

Samson chuckled, “It’s tako.  Try it.  Have you ever heard of Lisa Bonnan, Daniel?”

“Are you serious?  Of course, Mr. Samson.  Her album is killing the charts.”  Daniel bit in and swallowed hard.

“I manage her.  When I found her, she couldn’t carry a tune, but I knew she had it.”

Daniel stared at him incredulously.  Samson selected uni, followed with hotatégai, licking his fingers to taste every molecule.  He answered Daniel’s stare after another bite…  “Yes, it’s true, I made her.”

“Well, what happened?”  Daniel choked after swallowing too much ginger.  He started hunting for a napkin.

“I sent her to Beckham.  He turned her into song.”  Samson chewed.

“What’s Beckham?”  Daniel coughed.

“He’s eight-five now.  He’s trained every great voice that’s been recorded.  He says it’s the mind that’s musical;  if you can hear it, you can sing it.  I want you to see Beckham, right away.”

“Well, okay,” Daniel swallowed more wine, clearing his throat, “but what’s this all about?”

Samson moved to pour him another glass.  “Like I said, I know some people who I can connect you with.  They’re big  people in the music business.  I think you could be hot.  Do you want to be a star?”

“A star of what?”  Daniel gazed through the wine glass at the silver service on Samson’s credenza.

Samson jolted him, “A star of the world.”

Daniel slugged the glass empty, “Of the world?  What does that mean, sir?”

Samson walked over and filled his glass again, “Do you want your music to electrify the world?”

“Ah…Colonel, I never thought of it in those terms.”  All of Daniel’s purposes were being questioned, examined, “I just wanted my songs to electrify me.”

Samson wouldn’t get off of it, “Do you want to electrify the world, son?”

Daniel acquiesced at last, “Sure…why not?”

“Can you handle the heat?  Try that one, it’s squid;  tasty.”  Samson watched.

“What’s to handle…heat?”  Daniel eyed the squid.

“All of it—fame, fortune, drugs, women, managers, demands, tours, talk shows, recording schedules, media, gossip sheets, scandal.  It’s fucking grueling, Daniel.  It killed Elvis, or should I say his managers killed him.”  Daniel sat up to listen;  he hadn’t heard the Colonel use the eff word before.  As an attention getter, the word works well.

Samson settled in, “Did you know they pushed Elvis to do one thousand ninety-four performances in one-hundred thirty cities in seven years?  You have to know when to say No, Daniel.  He’d be alive today if I managed him.”  Samson reached for a piece of squid and slipped it down.  Daniel was impressed.

“Listen, Mr. Samson…this is pretty new to me;  I really haven’t given it much thought.  I do know my stuff is pretty good.  I don’t know how commercial it is—I guess time will tell.  But if you’re willing to manage my career, I’m willing to give it a go.  Whether or not the world listens, well, I don’t know.”

Samson dashed right to the point, “Daniel, you have something in you that was in Elvis in his early days.  That boy was sending out a lot of light;  the world caught it and rocked with him for a lot of years.  He burned himself up with his light, but you don’t have to.  You could be another Elvis.”

“Me…another Elvis?”  Daniel reached for the squid.

“You have the looks and style.  And you have the same upper lip he had.  It almost snarled when he sung the OU vowel—it drove the women crazy because it looked like a kiss.”

“I rather fancied myself like John Lennon—you know, the songwriter part of me.  Lennon really moved the world through some deep shit in the sixties.”  Daniel laughed, “I guess Elvis was the great entertainer, and Lennon more of the minstrel.”  He became serious, almost sullen, “Sir, I haven’t given being another Elvis any thought.”

“Well, thought is what makes it happen, son.”  Samson reached for a piece of eel.  Daniel’s mouth twisted up, all except for his upper lip…it kind of hung out, poised in a kiss.

“But, Mr. Samson, Elvis died so young.”

Samson was watching Daniel’s eyes as he swallowed the eel…  “So did Lennon.  But you don’t have to burn yourself out.  Elvis was lost in the illusion of himself, delivering what he thought his fans wanted.  He was only happy on stage.  Performing was the only thing that got it up for him.  The stage is like a drug—it’s very easy to get hooked on applause and adulation.  Suddenly you lose sight of what you are, just an ordinary human being;  somehow you think you’re superman.  I see the light in you, Daniel.  You have a lot of energy your audience could feel;  you could make them feel real…alive.

“Daniel, you sing love songs, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir…”

“Jesus, Daniel, you need a new name.”  Samson rose from his chair and began wandering around the suite, almost thinking out loud.

Daniel was a little edgy;  some of the raw fish was swimming in his stomach— “A new name?  What’s wrong with Brukenchld?”

“There’s nothing wrong with it, Daniel, but how long did it take you to learn to spell it?”  Samson stopped pacing, waiting for an answer.

“Probably until I was fourteen.”  He started to chuckle.

Samson inquired further, “And then, when were you able to pronounce it?”

“I think at about sixteen.”  Daniel laughed out loud.

“See, there’s nothing wrong with it.  The public just doesn’t have all those years to learn your name!  Let me think for a second.  You sing love songs…love songs.  That’s it!  Daniel Lovesong.”

“Daniel Lovesong?  That’s corny…isn’t it?”  Daniel giggled.

“Are you kidding?  The girls will eat it up.  Just be careful they don’t eat you up!”  Samson clapped like a little kid, then buzzed his secretary.

Daniel murmured, “Lovesong.  Daniel Lovesong.  I think I like it—it kinda changes my personality instantly, like a new hairdo.  I’m not a Bricken…Brachen…feld anymore.”  Daniel suddenly felt different about himself.  A smile of genesis appeared on his upper lip.

Samson’s voice slipped back into his thoughts…  “Okay, done.  I want you to start with Beckham right away.  My secretary is calling him now.  A limo will be waiting for you at the lobby level.  Beckham’s the best vocal coach in the country.  He’s trained them all and is he a character!  Go, Daniel, learn how to sing lovesongs.  Learn how to make the young girls cry…and the older ones, too.”

“I’ll do my best, Colonel.”  Daniel finished off his glass of wine.  As he was walking through the door, he turned, asking “Sir, what’s tako?”

“That’s octopus, son.”

“Oh…” Uck, he held his stomach as the elevator dropped him down forty-five stories.

A white limousine was waiting as he sauntered out into the light.  The chauffeur held the door for him, even calling him, Sir.

Daniel eased back in the seat cautiously, it’s plush velvet cushioning his tender behind.  Somehow, his butt was worth more than it was a few hours ago.


02:08:32

As we sailed past the homes of the mostly rich and almost-famous in Newport Bay, Jackie’s voice continued to reveal my past to me— “Parents often don’t realize how important their child’s first years of life are.  If the child is to be healthy when he grows up, Daniel, the first three to five years are extremely important.”

I swallowed hard on my muffin, “The first five years?”

“In fact, researchers are discovering how important your newborn to toddler years are.  There are a whole slue of developmental experiences that go on in the first three years.  And then by five you’re set;  you carry that stuff with you for the rest of your life.”

“Is that the hell I’m encountering now, Jackie?”

“When you’re in counseling, you tend to work on those first five years most of the time.  You can be talking about anything in any time, but you’ll still be working on the hell of those first five years primarily.”

“As a baby, we don’t have much of a chance, do we?”

“No…adult life seems to go back to babytime.  The infant is taking in everything through its senses.  In babytime you’re just one big, bundle of feelings, watching and taking in all kinds of things.  You’re learning how to live while learning what life is all about.  In particular, you learn who sustains you and cares for you.  Babytime is your only reality base…you’re claiming your god.”

“My god?”

“Yes, Daniel, your parents are your god because they are the masters of your universe.  You respond to their touch, noting whether or not your needs are being met.  It is a very sensuous time;  signals between parents and baby are often mixed.  Incest is just a breath away.”

I wasn’t sure I wanted to consider this, but I breathed the words, “Incest…leading to abuse?”

“Or abuse leading to incest, Daniel.  As a child, you are very graphic about expressing when your needs are not being met.  If your parents want to control you, they will deprive you.”

“You mean, like starved for food?”

“Yes, it’s why you seek instant gratification as an adult;  your needs were not met as a child.”

“To what extent?”

“It depends upon the degree of the injury, but if self-esteem is low in your parents and insecurity is rampant at home, you may be their whipping boy.”

“I remember a few whippings…terribly painful.”

“The physical part probably wasn’t as bad as the emotional trauma;  remember, this is God taking a belt to you.  In babytime you learned you were a very bad person, shamed with their words and their acts against you.”

“Shame, shame on me…I remember those words.”

“Once you’re damaged internally, salvaging the body and mind requires seasons of healing time.  It’s not like a broken leg;  you can’t just set it and wait for it to heal.  Emotional traumas may never be healed.”

The Baycruiser’s skipper voice pointed our vision to John Wayne’s estate along Newport Shores.  I remembered sitting in front of the television with my six-shooters buckled on, fighting the Injuns right next to big John.

“So as a baby, Jackie, in babytime, I was one big, bundle of instinctual needs?  Because my needs weren’t met, I was broken as a human being, like a horse is broken by a cowboy?”

“Yes;  your parents broke you, your friends broke you, your lovers broke you, and society breaks you.  You’re broken into bunches of pieces, Daniel…a broken child.  Your music reflects your brokenness.  Your millions of fans share your brokenness, discovering awareness from your songs.”

Daniel wondered, “Is that why they’re so popular?”

“The world is full of broken people.  When we come out of the womb, we’re not quite done baking.  In your case, your bakers used the wrong recipe to make you.  And you’ve never been allowed to bake completely.”

I wanted to talk about something else— “I’ve spent a lot of my time trying to slide back into the womb, figuratively and sexually.”

Jackie laughed, “Men are that way.  Daniel, when you’re a broken child, life is like playing cards with a deck of fifty-one cards.”

He thought about it…  “What card is missing?”

Jackie had the answer, “The Ace of Hearts is missing.  You see, your development has to be completed outside of the womb as you ingest physical reality, your environment, and your relationships.  Outside the womb, you complete your birthing process.  Often the voyage is very cold and dark…chilling.”


02:11:06

She heard a scratching.  Just the night animals…she denied the feeling.  You’re a sissy, she thought.

Minutes passed…she stared into the darkness from under her bedcovers, shaking.  Then she knew there was another presence there.  And she knew she was totally vulnerable, totally unprotected.

A hand flashed out of the darkness—his fist muffled her screams, squeezing the sound from her mouth into fervent pants.  She felt the bedcovers pulling away from her body.  She felt fingers searching for her secret passages.  She screamed in a terror she had never known.  No one heard it as the sound died by his hand.

The voice said, “Don’t move,” and she felt the pressure of a blade against her throat.  She froze in silence.  She felt his flesh against hers.  The callused fingers of a hand moved harshly under her gown, up her thighs.  Before she could fathom the horror, they brushed her cloth deep in her thighs.  Then they pressed hard against her.  She tried to jerk her hips away in a natural act of self-preservation.

The voice said, “Don’t move again.”  The blade ticked her throat.  She bled.

The voice commanded.  She slowly pulled her knees up, opening her to him.  She felt the fingers skimming against the inside of her thighs, then pulling at her hair as he scooped the cloth aside.

She felt a callused finger at her opening…a rough-edged fingernail, slightly moving, looking for the passage.  Then it pushed into her in a smooth, full thrust.  She felt it deep inside her…cold, dry, hard against her as it stirred inside her innocence.

The terror was unbearable in the absolute darkness.  She could smell the cheap wine on his breath as it quickened.  And she heard a strange sound, words mumbled then formed into incantations.  Words she didn’t recognize, in a language sounding as ancient as language.

Fingers moved inside of her, to and fro, to the rhythm of the incantations.  The louder the voice, the harder his touch, in and out, hard and then soft, opening her up.  Then he stopped.  There was no sound, only his excited breath seeking the hideousness of forced pleasure.

The fingers slowly slid out of her, squeezing her hard at her tender lips, feeling every molecule of sensuous pleasure they could rape in the darkness.  She was terrorized at what could be next.

And then she felt it, hard and cold, sliding in between her moist lips.  She moved her hips against it in a strange sensation of pleasure, then relaxed her muscles to allow it in deeper.  If she didn’t, she knew it would hurt her.

The pressure of the blade at her throat increased.  She opened her thighs as it moved further into her tender tissue.  Then he jabbed it full into her.  She yelped uncontrollably, the blade pressing against her throat.  It felt like a rod or a bar was inside her…cold at first, now strangely warm and seductive, bringing eerie visions of sporadic memory to her.

The incantations returned, now sounding like a chant.  Were there others in the room?  As the volume of the chants rose, the force and thrust of the instrument rose as it plunged deep and shallow, deep and shallow, inside her tenderness.

And in one last plunge, it rammed into her too far.  She screamed in agonizing pain, lifting her torso, biting into his fist.  Then, in a faltering whimper, she totally surrendered herself to this priest of darkness.

The nightmare ebbed toward its zenith.  She felt a thumb, wet with a slimly, warm liquid touch her forehead in a downward stroke, then across.  The voice in the darkness growled, “Don’t move, this is just,” and the blade was pulled away from her throat.  In a flash she felt a tear on her left thigh.  She could feel herself bleeding, smelling the pungent odor of her own blood.

She tried in vain to pull away but she was being held down.  Then, his fingers were in it, rubbing it all over her virgin lips, sliding down, kneading it all over her cheeks, rubbing, soaking it into her hair, fingerpainting it all over her thighs down to her knees.

And then a torch flashed in her face, and then another flashed next to her womb.  She could feel the heat…she was dead, in hell, Satan was her master.

But somehow she was still conscious.  She could see it all now in the torchlight—all her private treasures of innocent youth, drenched in her own blood…bright red, fresh smelling, starting to coagulate, crinkling.  As the shame touched her senses…justice, she fainted dead away, clutching her rag doll.

The feelings of innocence she knew, would be feelings she could never touch again.


02:15:56

I looked out the window of Jackie’s office in Corona del Mar, out beyond the ocean to Santa Catalina.  It looked so peaceful there without the trauma of the mind.

Her voice invaded my consciousness…  “And then the dark alter can access those parts of Hell within them in order to perform their ritual duties.  A Black Chamber warrior knows how to trigger you to perform a sacrifice.”

Perform a sacrifice…is she crazy, I wondered.

“By triggering a dark alter within you, Daniel, you perform the sacrifice even though you given your life to Jesus.”

“That’s bizarre, Jackie.  Are you saying within one person lives many people?”

“Within people who have been mentally or physically abused or molested, or ritually abused by Black Chamber warriors…yes, Daniel.”

“What happens to me?”  I had to know.

“Because of the anguish and the hideous trauma of your pain, your personality splits.  Therefore, other personalities inhabit your body;  there could be thousands of persons in one body, depending upon the depth of your abuse.”

I wondered, “What about normal people, people who haven’t been abused in some way.”

“All normal people are abused in some way.”

“All of us?”  I was shocked.

“Yes, by the family they’re raised in, by the culture they live in, and by the careers they choose.  In other words, we are forced to alter our core personality to become an acceptable member of the family, the culture, or the company.

“I don’t understand, Jackie.”

“Every morning women put on their makeup and men shave, donning shirt and tie;  they are altering their core personality by putting on their work alter.  At five p.m., they alter their work alter and put on their happy hour alter.  And occasionally some of these perfectly respectable contributors to society just flat go crazy, cram a clip into their automatic weapon, and blast anyone within scope range.”

I knew more about another type of switch, “Or they go off on secret weekends, drinking like a fish and screwing like a bunny, seeking instant sexual gratification?”

“Yes.  Unfortunately they usually end up filled full of holes, bodily holes and holes in their soul.  Crimes are committed by sick people, not criminals.  To eliminate crime, heal the sick people.”

I watched Poor Bird rummaging around in its cage, “Sounds simple to me.”

“Daniel, I feel we’re near the beginning of understanding on this subject, the inexplicable disaster of people’s lives.  It’s explainable—a dark alter took over the host body, drank like a fish, screwed like a bunny, and killed like a murderer until it felt better.  Visit your local prison and interview the inmates cell by cell;  you’ll see a pattern of early, childhood abuse and molestation emerge.  And you’ll also see witness to a society who locks up instead of heals, who kills instead of saves.”

I’ve often wondered about this;  “Jackie, do you think there is a dark alter in all of us that could be thought of as an antichrist?”

“Interesting question.  I believe all of us have a sin nature, and a place where our learned sin behaviors need to pool.  That’s why the Apostle Paul says the very things that I want to do, I don’t do, and the very things I don’t want to do, I do.  Paul is referring to sins, our old man and our new man.  Our new nature is becoming like Christ;  the old nature is what we were, our sinful nature.”

“Sin is a word I have trouble with, Jackie.”

“Your not alone there, Daniel.  The brain is a complex organ;  we know only tiny fractions of what it’s all about.  Part of us can be living a totally different life from another part of us, with intimate relationships with entirely different groups of people and families.  And in the case of a multiple personality, one that’s been split and fractionated by trauma, sexual, and ritual abuse, the host person may be appalled when the dark sins of the altered self are revealed.”

“What about my wife?”

“Your wife’s dark alter has no sense about what they are doing;  her act doesn’t register as wrong or bad.  Your wife’s dark alter is completely willing and able to perform whatever heinous implant is triggered, no matter how evil.”


02:20:04

The white limousine eased into the rustic driveway of Beckham’s, voicemaker to the stars.  Riding in the back, Daniel had seen the world from an entirely new perspective—from the inside of luxury looking out.  It felt comfortable to him, maybe a little too comfortable.

Using the vanity, he studied his upper lip, noticing the curve of it;  how it just sat there above his teeth being inviting, sexy.  He hadn’t ruminated about his upper lip before…who gives their lips much thought?  In fact, he didn’t know why the various body parts, or the expressions formed by them, create feelings in others…must be some sort of magic.  He just accepted his looks;  he was appealing, period!  Why not use it?

The chauffeur opened the door for him.  Daniel looked out over the Tarzana hills, all the way to San Fernando and the mountains beyond.  He felt like he was on top of the world.  The chauffeur escorted him to the door, rapping the musical-note knocker a few times.  In a matter of seconds, a deep, basso voice vibrated the door, “Come in.”

A Welsh Corgi greeted Daniel, sniffing him to make sure he wasn’t a cow to be herded.  Daniel hadn’t seen one of these before;  she looked like a large hot dog, with stubby feet and tail, and a tongue that could lick you silly.  Her personality was dangerous—if she caught you off guard, she might run up to you, trying to knock you over so she could lick your face off!  You’d either throw-up or kiss back.  Daniel was the throw-up type;  he knew where her tongue had been.

The little Corgi escorted Daniel to Mr. Beckham, who waited at the black Baldwin concert grand amidst piles of sheet music, music books, signed photographs, and postcards from singing stars the world over.

“You must be Daniel.  The Colonel told me about you.  Take a seat, lad.”  Daniel slid into an upholstered rocker next to the piano.

Mr. Beckham grinned at him, “Ol’ Samson said he wanted me to find your voice.  Where did you leave it, boy?”

Daniel giggled, “I’m not sure what you mean, sir?”

“Well, you were born with a voice, weren’t you?  What happened to it?”

Daniel had never thought about it, “Well, I’m not sure…”

Beckham’s gleaming smile said, “I know.  You were told to hush up, and be quiet, and look before you leap, and don’t speak before your mind is in gear, and not to laugh too much.  Your voice has been taken away from you by intimidation.  You fear what you sound like to others.”

“I’m not even sure I have a good voice.”  Daniel looked down at his feet.

“What is a good  voice?  And who’s the judge?”  Mr. Beckham’s basso voice filled the room, the vibrations pushing Daniel back.

“Who’s the judge?  The world is the judge.  If they love you and your music, and your voice, you can live.  If they don’t, you die…inside, anyway.”

Beckham laughed, “The only thing the world can judge is the weather;  whether it’s good or bad.  If you sell a couple million copies of Dung over the Hill, they’ll listen and think you’re great—it doesn’t matter what you sound like.  And then, on the other hand, you could write twenty-three hits in a row, and they’d never even know your name.  What does that tell you, lad?”

Daniel fiddled with his fingertips, thinking, “The public just reacts to what they’re told to react to…what they hear about.”

“Well, then son, what’s the music business all about?”

“Bein’ heard by as many people who will listen?”

“And how do you do that?”

“Press, promotion, media, parties, performances, air time.”

“And how do you buy that?”

“By being a nice guy?”  Daniel tried.

“By being outrageous…and then by saying something worth hearing.  By rocking the world, Daniel.  If you can carry a tune and stay in the right key, I can find your voice.  And if you have something to say, you’ll be given the voice to say it.  But it’s you who walks out on the stage alone.  It doesn’t matter how many backup singers you have ooing and ahing, and swaying their hips behind you.  You walk out there alone.  And who’s the only judge of your performance?  Who’s the only person who could know you bent a note, or dropped a word?”

“The critics?”  Daniel wondered.

“Who’s the worst critic there is?”  Beckham eyed him.

He deliberated, “My girl friend, my mom, Colonel Samson…you?”

“Son, you are your worst critic.  When you can allow yourself to be imperfect, you become perfect to the world.  That is how you electrify the world.  Tam…here Tam.”

The little Corgi raced up to Beckham, her tongue dangling, her tail wagging like a humming bird’s wings.  He handed her a doggie cookie.  She propelled herself with little pitter-patter movements, settling under Daniel’s chair.

She started chomping on the cookie, crunch, crunch;  crunch, crack.  Daniel leaned over, watching her, thinking about how much he didn’t like dogs.  Somehow this one was different.

“Daniel, so who are you singing to?”

“Myself…” he guessed.

“And who is listening?”

“Myself?”

“I’ll buy that.  Now, Daniel, here are the four principles of singing to remember.  The first is really all it’s about—it is your mind that is musical, not your body.  This means I’m working with concepts, not with muscles.  You have all the muscles.  I understand you play the guitar a little?”

“Yeah, I know three or four cords.”

“Then you know nothing happens unless it happens up in your mind first.  That’s the area that trains the fingers and the rest of the body.  Concept two—singing is extended speech.  If you can speak, you can sing.  And your speech isn’t that bad.  Do you remember when you could cry?”

Daniel’s lips pursed together…no, he couldn’t remember.

Mr. Beckham didn’t wait for an answer, “All the tears you wanted to cry, you can express through a song.  Now, the third premise to remember is, there are no such things as high or low tones, not in the way you think of them.  Now, Daniel, you don’t have tones on the ceiling or on the floor, do you?”

Daniel laughed, “No.”

“And when you plunk a key of the piano, you push the key for the high notes with the same effort for the low notes…and you hear an equal sound, a sound that just changes in pitch, right?”

“Right.”  Tam started to lick, then bite Daniel’s shoe.

Mr. Beckham continued, “Think sound instead of pitch.  Your vocal cords will vibrate to the sound you think.  Do you know how large your vocal cords are?”

“No…I never thought about it, sir.”

“Do you know where they are?”

Daniel was silent, trying to remember his high school biology class.

“In the male, they are about seven-twelfths of an inch long.  In the female, five-twelfths.  They reside in your Adam’s Apple, the little nub that sticks out of your throat.  You sing through your throat, not with it.  The fourth thing is, the average person breathes correctly only when they’re asleep.  That means, to teach you properly, I have to put you to sleep.”

Daniel chuckled as a white, Persian-looking cat started to climb up his right pant leg.  Daniel was under a love attack from the animal kingdom.

The hour sped by.  Just when Daniel was in full swing, Beckham handed Daniel a tape…  “Take this home, my boy.”

“What is it, sir?”

“It’s the voice of one of the great ones.”

“Caruso?  Who?”  Daniel wondered.

“Elvis, singing one song, Always on my Mind.  I want you to listen to it over and over.  Listen to the emotion in it;  he recorded it just after Priscilla left him.  Listen to what he does with each word, especially the vowels he plays with.  Most vocal coaches call it phrasing—I call it expressing deep emotion;  some call it pain.  Listen to the phrase, You were always on my mind.  That phrase represented all that killed him.  Next time I’ll tell you why.”

“All that killed him?”  Daniel was puzzled, “The drugs killed him…the uppers, the downers, didn’t they?”

Mr. Beckham laughed, “It’s not the drugs that kill, son.  If you are in a place where you don’t want to live, it’s you that pours ‘em down your mouth.  There are no victims, my boy.”

Tam snuck over to Beckham’s foot and sat on it.  Beckham chuckled at her, smiling joyously, rubbing the hound’s head, looking weary.  “Tam is telling me it’s time to rest.  See you tomorrow, lad.  And Daniel, don’t practice snarling your lip too much.”

Daniel laughed out loud, catching his joy in the mirror.  He was starting to like what he saw, but what would the world think?


02:31:48

The renewing of the mind.

How could my mind slip into such a Pit of Hell?  How could I loss it all?  I’m young, handsome, virile.  How in the hell did I become so confused and damaged?  Who do I blame?  Who stole my childhood away from me, casting me on this Sea of Despair?  I am a stolen man;  will I ever find dry land?  Will I ever walk on the Shore of Peace?

Poor Bird couldn’t give me an answer, just staring into its mirror…then Jackie’s words clanged me out of my thoughts, “He wants us to be whole;  God wants us healthy and free again.”

“When?”

“Now.  Your mind is remembering all the inconsistencies and the confusions;  then it bounces off itself and measures what is good and not good.”

“Measuring good and evil again, aye, Jackie?”

“Yes, Daniel, in Genesis the Serpent offered us the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil.  Knowledge is the key word here.  If you know what is good or evil, you’re ahead in the Battle.”

“How can we know what is good and what is evil?”

“Quite simple—God is the Creator and Satan is the destroyer.  God builds the castles, Satan tears them down.  God makes babies, Satan destroys babies.  God makes lovemaking;  Satan makes fucking.  It’s simple, Daniel.”

“Perhaps it’s simple for you, someone who has studied all this psychology stuff, who has treated mindsick people.  But it’s not easy for me.  When a girl comes on to me, I used to think she wanted to love me, so I feel in love with her and write a song about her.  Now I know she just wants the feel of the fuck.”

“You’ve learned the difference between a good and evil fuck, Daniel.  That’s something to feel good about!”

“Yeah…but will it matter next time?”

“That’s how strong evil is, Daniel;  even if you know wrong is wrong, next time you still might not choose the right.”

“Why, Jackie?  Why are we so screwed up inside?”

“It’s partly based on our makeup—too hot feels uncomfortable;  our brain kicks in and we pull our hand out of the hot water.  But that hot Jacuzzi feels great.  How hot is hot, that’s the question?”

“And who’s the judge?”

“That’s even a bigger question.  Too hot, too sexually starved, too status quo, too hungry, too normal and boring…these emotions are triggers.  The responses to these emotions are almost automatic, instinctual.

“These emotions trigger me into actions to fulfill my needs?”

“Yes, Daniel.  These messages say ‘Help, something’s wrong!’  If these messages are being patterned into the brain frequently, we develop distinct patterns.  The patterns establish a core base, a foundation, our roots which becomes our belief system.”

“Then we perpetuate our belief system throughout our life?”

“Yes, until God does a healing.

“How, Jackie?”

“Sometimes God supernaturally heals;  sometimes He heals through people.”

“Through people?”

“Yes, through relationships;  we get what we didn’t get through people.”

“Or we create people to give us what we didn’t get.”

“Yes, creating them in the Castles of your Mind.  Know this, Daniel;  the people who come into your life are brought there to heal you…”

Poor Bird was still staring in the mirror as Jackie finished her sentence… “they are your healing characters.”


02:35:39

“Natalie?”  Daniel screamed into the telephone, “Is that you?”

Natalie held the receiver away from her ear, lowering his decibels— “Danny, are you drunk?”

Daniel screamed again, this time louder, “Fuck, yes, I’m drunk!  I’m sick, Natalie.  My stomach is killing me!  My mind is hammering me.  Can you come and be with me, please?”

Without hesitation she responded, “Of course, my darling.  But what happened?”

Daniel took another gulp from the bottle…  “A college buddy ju, just called me from New York…just back from South Africa.  He’s…he’s black and he was arrested by mistake.  And, Natalie, they beat him!  Those fuckers beat him ruthlessly.  God damn it!”  he screamed into the world.

“Danny, it’s okay—it’s okay!  I’m here,” she tried to soothe him.  “It’ll be alright.”

“No, it won’t be alright.  It’s happening right now.  We don’t hear about it because there’s a media blackout.  They’re beating people, hurting them for no reason—kids!  My friend was taken for a South African black.  Natalie, they broke his arm, then his jaw for no reason.”

Daniel sobbed…  “Then they kicked him in the balls so hard he still aches.  He was crying when he called me.  This guy was the foo, football star in college, crying to me because he hurt so much.  Oh, Natalie…” and Daniel broke down, weeping.

“Oh God, Danny—why?  Why?”  Natalie tried to hold back her tears.

Daniel sobbed, “For no reason…just ‘cause he was black.  He doesn’t have any kids.  Now he’s not sure he will he hurts so bad.  Oh, Natalie, this hurts me so much.  Shit.”

Daniel took another gulp from the bottle, tipping over backwards…too far.  He stepped back to steady himself, and tripped over a guitar case, “Ohhhhh…,” falling flat on his back, landing in the middle of his tender, potted plants.  The telephone crashed against a ceramic pot.

“Danny!  Danny…” Natalie was frantic, “are you alright!”

Daniel shook his head, blinking his eyes, and started moving his legs and arms like an upside-down turtle.  He began to fumble for the receiver amidst the devastated foliage…  “Natalie, are you there?”  he shouted.

“Danny, what happened?”  She was in a panic.

“Oh, I…I fell into a wine waterfall.  There’s white wine all over me.”  He started laughing, then the sobs caught up with him again, “Natalie, come quick!  I’m sick to death, and scared…” and he retched, starting to vomit all over the new cowboy shirt she just gave him.

This is serious, Natalie worried, he doesn’t drink white wine…  “I’ll be right there, sweetie.”

“Please hurry.  I need your love tonight,” and Daniel started crying, sobbing violently, retching his feelings all over his beloved plants.

“Danny, that’s a song title.”  She listened for his laughter but heard only the sound of silence…  “I’ll be there as fast as the TR can hustle my butt—I love you.”  Natalie slammed down the receiver, grabbed a coat, and flew out the door.

Daniel struggled, then lifted himself out of the dirt, picking torn leaves off of his vomit-covered shirt.  He felt a trickle…rubbed his chin with the back of his hand.  One of the shattered pots cut his chin, maybe this is a dream?  He wiped the blood away, now coagulating on the back of his hand.  He looked like a man back from the war.

He staggered over to his writing desk, chanting, “God damn it…feelings come out of me.  Emotions leave me alone, give me peace.”

His bloodied hand started to tremble and quiver.  He grabbed a pen, tried to steady his shaking hand.  It began to scribble to him, almost in blood, black ba…babies, white babies, all the same…and the lights went out.  He blacked out, collapsing against one of his synthesizer keyboards.  It teetered from his weight…then gave in, falling over toward the TV.  Mangy ducked, sidestepped the crash blam, and then ran helter-skelter into the kitchen, his tail twitching madly.

Daniel was out like a light.  A video tape started to roll on his mind-screen.  Soon, a smile returned to his face.  And different kinds of tears.


02:39:16

Her senses were excited, salivating to taste the forbidden experience…his face is melting into mine.

D’alien, the prim and proper wife of David Thornton, the Beverly Hills real estate magnate, tripped deeper and deeper into her dreamstate.

She squirmed, trying to deny her feelings.  They held her there, showing her the way;  the silver chain clinked as she tried to move her head away.

They were watching her, having felt what she was about to feel.  The heatwave of their bodies burned into hers, inflaming her.  She was ravenous, and soon they would force her to feel it.  Would he hurt her?  Or would he open her up to sensations never touched but supposed?

She felt the flaming rage as they moved toward her.  She lurched…the liquid gushed all over her.  She licked it off her lips—it tasted pungent, yet alive.  It gave her life!  In her wildest dreams, she could never invent a moment like this, a moment never meant for a sissy.  And now it was happening, to her.


02:42:32

Natalie’s Ferrari wound through the Calabasas hills towards Beckham’s— “How do you feel, sweetie, after last night’s trauma?”

“I’m better,” Daniel whined, “thanks for asking.  My head is still hammering like a KISS bassline;  Gene Simmons is stomping around in my skull with those crazy platform boots, wham blam!  wham blam!  thump.  And my stomach has a lead ball in it, honey—it feels like my digestive tract is blocked.  I’m so woozy…”

“No wonder, darlin’.  You drank two bottles of wine…wine with sulfites!”

“Two?  Drat, I knew I was into it when I woke up in the plants.  Sometimes that’s the only thing I can do when the emotion clobbers me;  down a bottle of wine.  I just feel things differently than other people, I guess.  Sweetie, could you slow down just a tad?  I hope I can sing for Mr. Beckham.  My head is pounding like Big Ben.  Thanks for takin’ these curves easy…honey!”

“Sure, darlin’.  I take good care of my baby,” and she slowed down to fifty-five.

“Speaking of babies, I wrote the song and saw the video last night.”  Daniel glanced over at her, holding his temples.

“What video?”  She reached to caress his thigh.

“Babies…”

Natalie eased the TR through the bends in the road, trying to keep it under seventy, “I didn’t know it was on TV.”

“It wasn’t.  I created it, honey—I saw it in my head,” Daniel chugged from the Evian bottle.

“Oh.  What’s that all about?”  Mitzi watched Daniel from Natalie’s thigh.

“Well,” Daniel paused for a second, “it’s about slavery, and crimes against humanity, and assaults against children, war against peace…” and he added an afterthought with a nod, “and love against hate.”

“I think it’ll find an audience, darlin’.”

“Oh, Natalie, don’t make me laugh.  I could die…I could just die, my head!  This feels like my first high school drunk;  I puked for days.  We stayed up all night drinking cheap whiskey straight, watching the Carson Show.  I was sixteen—it was a long night but the next day lasted forever.  Have you ever had a nicotine and an alcohol hangover at the same time?”  He didn’t give her a chance to answer, “This is Beckham’s drive coming up, Nettie.”

Natalie hit the breaks, lurching Daniel forward against his shoulder harness.  Mitzi dug her claws into Natalie’s thigh.  She turned and zipped into the drive.  Daniel unbuckled, opening his door.  He gathered his notes and papers and tapes into a pile, fumbling, dropping things…damn it.

“Danny, I’m going to buy you a bag to carry all your stuff in.”

“I have bags everywhere, hon.  They’re all filled with stuff I’ll never need but can’t bear to part with.  And I have empty bags too, laying around everywhere—I just can’t find them.  That’s the way my life is;  it’s laying around everywhere but I can’t find it.  Can you pick me up, sweetie?”

“Darling, I have to meet with Ron, my chief mechanic.  We’re readying the equipment for some time-trials next week.  I’ll call Samson’s office on the cellular and have them send a limo.  Get well, Sweetie.  I love you.”

“Love, bye.”  They kissed softly.  Daniel licked her upper lip noticing, “Yours is as sexy as mine.”  She pinched him on the cheek of his behind, as he hobbled off to the voice-magician’s domain, clutching his throbbing head, practicing, La, Na, Ca, Ga, Ra, Ta, Da, sticking the stick in his mouth.

He turned around, yelling to Natalie, “Hey, honey!  Do you like this honey, sweetie, darling shit?”

“Hell, no!”  she screamed over the Ferrari’s revs.  Peeling out the drive, she honked a good bye and cranked up the CD—give me some good lovin’, give it to me sweet;  give me some good lovin’, it ain’t cheap.

“That boy is so sweet,” she copied the rhyme in the word, “What does he see in me?”…beauty lady, you ain’t cheap …  “I wonder how long it will last?”…only the lonesome learn how to cheat.


02:47:12

Daniel entered the voice-magician’s domain.  Tam, the Corgi, greeted him, sniffing his crotch.  He pushed her away gently—Why do dogs always do that to me?  Do female dogs do that to man dogs or just to men?  Do they have gay dogs?  And how do you know if a dog is gay?

Dan’s mind was in rare form.

“Good morning, Daniel.  Please sit.  Did you listen to those exercise tapes we made yesterday?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How many times, Daniel?”

“I listened to them all day and all night, sir—maybe twenty or thirty times.  I had to buy rechargeable batteries for my Talkman.”

“Good boy.  Are you the type of learner that has fun while he learns, or do you put yourself under the gun?

“Under the gun?”

“You know…have to, must, the only way?”

“I guess that’s th, the way I am,” the shy boy stuttered.

“How?”

“Intense…but it has to be fun, sir.”

Mr. Beckham chuckled, “Did you practice your exercises?

“Yes, sir.  My voice sounded better with the stick between my teeth.  Why is that?”

“It opens your mouth, young man, and at the same time, relaxes the entire instrument—you’re beginning to hear your resonance.  Resonance is a strange one for the beginning vocal student to understand.  Essentially, you hear your tone from the wrong side;  you hear it vibrating off your facial bone structures.  Now, did you listen to the Elvis tape?  Did you hear the emotion tremble in his voice?”

“I did.”

“What did it do to you?”

“Well, it’s killin’, sir.  I heard for the first time why people call him the King with a capital K.  His delivery shot right into my soul.  I don’t understand how he did that—do you know?  Is that how he sold five hundred million records?”

“Five hundred million records, quite a tale, yes.  At two bucks a piece, that’s a billion dollars.  Not bad for a hick country boy from Tupelo, Mississippi.  Yes, Daniel, not only was his voice naturally executed and perfectly free, but his delivery was almost ethereal.  If you study close-ups of his film clips, you can see him almost become the music, growing into the actual vibration of the tone right before your eyes.”

“How did he transfer the emotion to the audience, Mr. Beckham?”

“Sound is a vibration, Daniel.  When you sing, you’re vibrating an air mass.  Like a flute player blowing over the mouthpiece, she’s vibrating the air in the tube—the tone is formed inside the instrument, where it resonates.  That’s why tonal quality is different for each man-made instrument and for each person.  Elvis’s instrument was of a very unique tonal variety, for the human body adds what no man-made instrument can add—the emotion, life.  Until it is sung, emotion remains unseen.

Daniel knew the feeling, “To Elvis, life was a song.”

“Yes, he breathed each song alive.  When he was singing, he was in his state of bliss;  he was music in those moments.  In trueform reality, his wife was the stage, the place where he could make love to what he loved—music.  I believe that’s why women went crazy for him.  Anytime he formed the Oou sound with those incredibly sexy lips, the women went absolutely berserk.  He was kissing them, and they kissed back.”

“Well, why couldn’t he make his marriage work?”

“Daniel, listen carefully.  Within every man there are many characters, all activated by the sexual drive…the base drive, procreation.  To live a harmonious life, you have to be at peace with all of those characters.  You recall the story of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde?  That was a simplification.  There’s a race going on inside of you—one day, Mr. Hyde wins;  the next, Dr. Jekyll.  There’s a time when all the characters can win every race—an element of balance appears.”

“Balance…”

“Looking for balance in Elvis’s case, he had no mirrors to play to.  When he looked into the eyes of his audience, he saw an incredible, million-faceted mirror to himself—that mirror reflected faces just as lost as he was.  He was his own mirror, as we all are.  Perhaps he didn’t like what he saw.”

“From what I’ve read, Priscilla loved him very much.”

“But the real question is, did he love himself?  You see, Daniel, you can’t ever rely on anyone to be your mirror—not a wife, not a manager, not fans, not anyone.  Elvis would be alive today if he understood that.  Yes, the drugs took hold of him, but he never really took hold of his life.  Can you?”

Daniel didn’t know how to evade the answer any longer…  “Yes, sir.  If you and Mr. Samson have faith in me, trusting I can do this, it’s time for me to grow up, beyond the struggling, starving artist character I’ve cast myself in.”

Mr. Beckham chucked, “It’s not that the Colonel and I have faith in you.  We’ve seen too many stars blast off meteoric.  Then, gravity catches up with them and pulls them back down—they blast extra-large craters in the earth, exploding themselves and digging big holes.  We don’t want that to happen to you, son.”

Daniel was giggling, “Yes, sir.  I’ll keep my eyes open for gravity.  What does it look like?  Is it shaped like a woman or dollar signs?”

Tam ran over to Mr. Beckham, starting to lick his hand, “It’s shaped differently for everyone who runs into it, Danny boy.”


02:51:08

Jackie displayed an interesting piece of art on her seabreeze office wall in Corona del Mar—a jetliner on final approach, just clearing tall pines.  A Pacific Northwest mountain towered in the background, a giant moon hanging over the jetliner’s left wing.

Her voice broke me out of my thoughts, “Symbols play a major role in Black Chamber operations, Daniel.  Animals represent power in the Black Chamber world.”

I looked over at the bird cage, “Is Poor Bird Satanic?”

“No, Daniel…Poor Bird is just trapped in his cage.”

“Her cage.”

“Yes…her’s.  Suppose you were the chosen one, Daniel, the one chosen to rule.  Only a Black Chamber operation could demonstrate who and what you are in the Black Chamber realm.  This is the operation—we’re going to disembowel a boar, a high animal in the Satanic kingdom.  In you go;  we’re going to put you inside the boar, and guess what?  You are going to be birthed through the boar;  you’re going to emerge representing the symbol of what that boar’s all about—swift, powerful movement and calculated, deadly force.  Hence, your new identity.”

It felt like my lunch was coming up.  After a lapse of time I remember saying, “Believe it or not, Jackie…I have heard rumors depicting horrors like that.  Does it actually happen?”

“Of course, for the birthing ceremony is filled with Black Chamber power.”

“God, how repulsive…how horrible!  Is that why they’re killing babies on camera now?”

“Yes, for the power released in the evil realms.  When you prove to the Evil Commander you’re capable of any heinous act, you move up in the power structure.”

“What does God have to say about this power?”

“Apparently, He has all eternity to evaluate it.”

“Why doesn’t He do something about in now?”

“Perhaps it fits some sort of scheme of His.”

Poor Bird was scratching his wing, looking at the jetliner on the wall.  It’s times like these when my mind short circuits…

“There’s a nice, little, neighborhood church they go to,” Jackie continued;  “And they have these nice, little retreats and cookie bakes and car washes…all this cutesy, church stuff.  And while everybody’s asleep, half the church group is meeting in a downstairs place, leading innocents into Satanic worship and sexual abuse.  But who would know?”

How heinous does this shadow fall?  Her voice expanded— “We own orphanages, of course.  Where else would we acquire the victims for this Black Shadow operation?  We own the orphanage.  One witness told me she actually saw children being shipped from Mexico in cardboard boxes;  a voyage to a ritual.  To be murdered.

“Oh, my God…”

“Yes, Daniel;  you’d better have God with you in these days, for the Black is turning blacker.”

“Babies…”

“Yes, if the ritual requires a baby, just grab one from the Train of Doom.  For certain rituals, however, you can’t just sacrifice any baby;  you have to deliver a baby birthed from a special particular person.  It has to be pure, it has to be innocent;  it has to be perfect for now it represents their perfect, sacrificial lamb—a shopping-mall baby, stolen away while mom’s attention is distracted.”

I cringed, “Stolen right out from under her?”

“Yes…and the oddest things happen at midnight parties, Daniel.  A crime investigator I spoke with told me at a particular school, a particular young lady is in a lot of trouble;  she’s in a coven.  The trouble she’s into is, she doesn’t realize she is the sacrifice.  The plan is now being executed.  She has no idea what she’s into;  her parents think she’s Miss Cutesy Cheerleader.  The date has been set, August something;  that’s the day the Black Chamber sacrifices a blond-haired, blue-eyed woman, nineteen.”

“She is the Chosen One?”

“The chosen one, Daniel.  But before they plant the dagger in her breast, they will convince her it’s an honor to die for Satan.

It didn’t take much for me to say, “It’s murder, that’s all…just murder.”


02:55:49

The Formula One racing circuit encircles fond memories for some, tragedy for others.

For the lucky ones, the challenge was accepted and won.  For others, for most of the others, they finish in second place, only losers.  In the racing game, there is only one winner.  For the rest of the gladiators who survive the arena, there is next year.  For those who leave their blood smeared on the asphalt, there is nothing.

Natalie had plenty going for her—she feared nothing, pushing her racing machines to their maximum.  They either carried her to the winner’s circle or broke into pieces.  She pushed her men with the same vengeance for life, as if she was forever looking under rocks, hunting for the next treasure.

She traveled the world at a tender age, modeling, selling her body, before a wealthy sponsor went head-over-wheels for her in Italy.  She was street-wise by then.  Their love affair lasted about a year, her average time frame for romance.  She was sixteen;  he, forty-five, totally lost in her eyes—the left, azure blue;  the right, blood green.  She was innocent:  he, rekindled by the flames of youth and budding breasts.  It was illegal…forbidden, but it was wild.  Time threw water on the coals—he wanted a wife;  she still wanted to play.

How many sixteen year-old girls have devastated the lives of middle-aged men?  Is there someone, somewhere, maintaining this statistic?  he soothed himself with humor.  Maybe he could keep her by strapping her down, racing his cars around the world.  And maybe one day, she would return to him in one piece.  For now, he would content himself with surprises.  The next was scheduled at Monte Carlo.

For Natalie yesterday, one man, one lover just wasn’t enough.  Today, maybe the cornucopia had been savored, although it was always filled, waiting.  She wore the shoulder-length, crystal-blonde hair of a goddess—you could see it sparkling, its thickening layers shimmering, even in creamy moonlight.

Her looks were striking, the stop you in your tracks appearance of beauty.  Five feet, five…just over a hundred pounds;  taut breasts, she moved like the breeze.  When she blew into a room, everything stopped—women mad with the rage of jealousy, staring into her beauty;  men seething with the fury of obsession, mesmerized into her body.

She could have anyone she wished, and she did.  It all became a bore to her.  She decided men had forgotten how to make love.  All they knew was a yuppie version of good old in and out.  In her terms…

“All those dirtbags know how to do is fuck in style.  You know…fly you to London to lick your pussy style.  What the hell happened to romance?  They know nothing about passion, they don’t even take the time to kiss with seduction—slow dancing, remember the feelings?  They have no idea what their tongue is for.  They think if it’s long and they can wiggle it faster than the next guy, they’re hot shit.  Oh, go lick your eyebrows into delirium, but stay away from my thighs—it’s not a contest, you know!

“I think they’ve forgotten how to kiss on the mouth.  They’re all a bunch of penises with eyes, passionless dickheads.  They see you, they want you now.  They come up with some story, some line, try to impress you with whatever saga will lay you spread-eagled in the sack.  And it’s all so lovey-dovey.  I don’t care who he thinks he is and what he says—you still wake up with this slime-bucket laying beside you.

“And then when its over, they add your pussy to their wall, like the head of a tiger on a collector’s wall.  And every once in a while you catch some disease.  That really brings you down to the animalism of the sexual act, when a straight-faced doctor stands there with his clipboard reading the list of viruses you’ve contracted.  Yet, you need it…you need fucking sex!  Those damn vibrators are so unloving;  cold, passionless plastic, like the clothes most people dress in.  Polyester and vinyl—it feels like you’re wearing a shower curtain.

“Cotton, I want to wear cotton.  I want a cotton lover—not cotton balls.  Cotton love.  You need to hold somebody once in a while, somebody who knows how to hold you;  somebody who can whisper sweet lies into your ear, lies that make you feel like a human being instead of a sex machine.  Wanting.  Needing.  Somebody who knows what a tongue is for—sweet, succulent kisses.  Somebody who knows what a body is for.  Have you ever had a slow fuck against a wall?  You’d remember it.  You need it.”

Then Daniel appeared on her scene with his poems and songs and his sweet lies.

He was even a good lay—she felt hot pants for him.  Funny…she had learned to be a harsh, crass bitch.  Daniel kept telling her she would never be that in his eyes.  To him, she would always be beautiful just the way she was.  It felt good to her, it felt real good.  But something would happen to fuck it up—Daniel is too damn good for me.

Natalie pulled him along by the hand as they walked briskly through the pit areas.  She shouted over the engine revs, “Everybody’s fine-tuning for Monte.  You get your team together over here—everything is twice as tough to make perfect at Monte.”

They arrived at the Ferrari pit, “Danny, meet Ron.  He’s the chief mechanic of the American team.”

“Hi, Daniel,” a rough-handsome, tanned, middle-aged man pumped his hand, “I’m delighted to meet you.  Natalie’s been bendin’ my ear over you.”

Daniel smiled shyly, “Good to know you, sir.  She says you’re the one who makes these little go-carts move!”

“We keep her drivin’ around in circles—keeps her out of trouble.”  Ron’s eyes fell to a magnificent racing machine, “This is one of ‘em, Dan.”

“My heavens, what a beauty!”  He stood mesmerized, stooping low, feeling the machine, touching the dazzling painted aluminum and fiberglass, running a hand over the grit on the tires, then …

“Careful with that, Daniel,” Ron admonished.

He pulled his hand away quickly.

Natalie reached for him, “That’s the wing, Daniel.  If the wing isn’t set right, you go flyin’.”

He was big-eyed, “What do you mean!”

“Well, think about it,” Ron wasn’t much comfort.  “At Monte Carlo, comin’ out of the tunnel, she’s gonna be hittin’ a hundred seventy miles-per-hour—that’s from pullin’ out of the du Portier turn at about fifty and slammin’ through five gear changes within a quarter of a mile;  you’re up to top before you can blink.  Then you’ve gotta count yourself down from seventh gear, seven, six, five, four, three, two, that fast, to slow yourself to sixty for the chicane comin’ up.  All that happens within about half a mile.”

“Do any of these cars have cruise control?”  Daniel wondered.

They were torn up, giggling.  Ron composed himself, “The wing works in conjunction with the braking system, Dan.  When she hits her brakes, the leading edge of the wing tilts down—the wind resistance forces the rear-end down on the pavement to maximize traction.  Otherwise, you’re goin’ so fast, you’d be planing—literally flying.”

“I had no idea.  I thought you just strapped yourself in, let out a whoop, punched it to the floor, and went for it.”

“Some of us do, Danny,” Natalie sniffled.

Ron winked at her, “The entire course at Monte Carlo is only two miles long.  We break it up into sections.  Half of the course is one mile;  she’ll cover it in forty-four seconds.  In the two straights, your lookin’ for top speed, but only at a point allowing you to set up for the curve at its max.  That’s the groove she’ll be lookin’ for.  And it all takes place within seconds, not minutes…eighty-eight seconds to be precise.

“Eighty-eight seconds?”

“Yes, so in Netty’s mind, the course has to break down into feet—you only have so many feet to accelerate to top speed, only so many feet to decelerate to turn speed, only so many feet in the curves to whip through the exit, accelerating into the straight, and around and around she goes.  The straights are staging areas for the curves.”

“It sounds a little bit like life…” Daniel shrugged.

“What wins these races, Dan, is the ability to slow time so you can fit into the cracks.  Think about tackling a straight—accelerating from ninety to one hundred-seventy, back down to sixty, all within two city blocks, counting twenty-two seconds.  No mistakes.

“Wow…incredible pressure,” Daniel shook his head.

Natalie stroked Mitzi gently, “I owe it all to Ronnie.  He’s the one who makes ‘em right;  he sets ‘em up to win.”

“If fate doesn’t step in,” he cautioned.

Natalie changed the subject, “When will number two be ready for a trial, Ron?”

“Ah, everything’s about set,” he composed himself.  “The track crew has moved the barriers to simulate conditions at Monte.  Two’s ready, except for the steering linkage;  just some last-minute fine tuning.  About thirty minutes.”

“Okay.  We’ll head over for some coffee and something light to munch.  See you in about forty-five.”

“Right nice meetin’ you, Dan.”  Ron extended his hand.

Daniel shook it vigorously, “Thanks for takin’ such care of this lovely lady.”

Ron grinned while he watched them walk away;  Daniel didn’t seem like the others.  He was happy for her, as he would be for his own daughter if she was alive.  She was a horsewoman, working toward the Nationals.

One day she clipped a jump and went down with her favorite horse—she had nursed her from a foal.  The horse panicked, kicking her in the head.  All Tamara saw was the flash.  She lay in a coma for two weeks, then she left Ron.  After a lot of years of misery and tears, he discovered the only answer…fate.

Natalie and Daniel almost skipped away from him, living in their happiness, marching to the Checkered Flag Restaurant.


03:05:06

I’m in Jackie’s office on the bluff.

Today I walked over from Balboa Island.  Don’t think I’m a hero;  it’s a short, pleasurable walk.  I parked my car on Topaz Street on Balboa Island and ferried over to the Peninsula.  On a foggy morning I enjoy black currant tea and a blueberry muffin.  Kelly’s Gourmet Coffee shop makes the best.  Maybe I’ll met you there one day.

Walking up the bluff, the cars cornering along Bayview Drive reminded me of the smoldering rubber smell lodged deep in my nostrils.  It seemed like it was a symbol I needed to investigate.

“When we think of normal people, Daniel, we’re really at a loss.  Can you define for me what is normal behavior?”

I thought about Jackie’s question;  “I can’t…no.”

“Then covertly, the splitting process goes on within all of us, but not to the same degree as a Black Chamber victim.  Us supposedly normal people are more buried about our trauma;  usually we have control because we’re not disassociative…we don’t have the amnesic fugues.”

“The feud, was that the word, Jackie?”

“No, fugue—the state of separation between normal and abnormal.”

“That’s a eerie topic for me to consider.”

“Visualize the rooms in a house, Daniel.  When you’re downstairs with your bathroom door closed, you don’t know what’s going on in an upstairs room, correct?”

“Yes.”

“There can be two different conversations going on in the same house, but you don’t hear them;  you aren’t aware of the activities behind those doors because the doors are closed…you’re far away from them.”

“Behind Closed Doors, I remember the song.”

“That’s what an amnesic fugue is like, Daniel.  The fugue represents the part you don’t remember consciously.  It’s buried deep in your subconscious;  you’ve forgotten it until that particular abreaction occurs, or until that particular alter surfaces.  Then the memory of the moment of rape surfaces, but you’re not conscious with it.

The moment of rape?  What was Jackie talking about?  I’m a man, how could I be raped?  Her voice began to fill in my thoughts…  “The fugue is the space between your consciousness and that horrific experience, the space between your thoughts.  The fugue, the memory loss, is the survival mechanism God gave you to survive the abuse you provoked.  The fugue was your release value;  the abuse you incurred should have kill you.”

“I should be dead?”

“Yes…what you provoked should have killed you.”

My mind caught on the word provoked— “Are you saying I provoked the abuse, Jackie?”

“By the mere fact that you exist, you have provoked the abuse.”

“That’s a little radical, isn’t it?”

“No, Daniel…certain people, because of God’s will for their lives, are major threats to the Black Chamber Underworld.  They are targeted for destruction at any cost.”

“You’re arguing I’m one of these people?”

“Accept it, Daniel, because of your God-given talents at composition.  One song of yours could tip the scales.”

“What scales?”

“The Battlescales.”

“Back to the war again, Jackie.”

“Yes, Daniel, always remember the war.”


03:09:12

Natalie and Daniel marched into the Checkered Flag Restaurant.

“Daniel,” she warned, “anytime I go into a restaurant, I’m recognized.  Most of the time it’s just for an autograph or somebody wants a date.”

“Thanks for your concern, pumpkin.  I’m really enjoying being with you, enjoying your fame.”  Daniel was walking along like a kid, head bobbing, arms swaying to and fro, “Maybe some of it will rub off on me.”

“Danny, listen to me.  Since Monte is coming up, the press is around.  Sometimes they’re very unnerving, but a necessity—Ferrari sells cars to sustain their racing effort, and me;  I’m one of their salespersons.  We’re playing the big-bucks game, sugar.  My TR lists for $145,000 a copy.  Ferrari limits manufacture to only a thousand units per year.  They’ll gross a hundred million this year from just the Testarossa line.”

“A hundred and forty-five thousand dollars for your car!”  Daniel stopped, looking astounded.

“That’s not the half of it.  The TRs are so sought after, there’s a two year waiting list.  The dealers sell them for two hundred and twenty thousand when they can floor one!”

“My God…”

“If you own a Ferrari, you own a collector’s item.  A 1963 GTO just sold for five million dollars.”

“Are you serious?  All of 1963 wasn’t worth that much…and people are starving all over the world?”

“Somethin’ funny’s goin’ on.  Whataya think, Danny boy?”

His soul shuddered while he hugged her tightly—she knew what he was feeling…  “The planet has forgotten how to live with the poets, Daniel.  You’re a lost species, maybe the missing link to our souls.  If fame comes to you, pretzel nose, you’ll have to be the leader, not a follower.”

“Pretzel nose?”

“I’m not as clever as you are with our new nicknames, honey.”

“Does my nose look like a pretzel?”  he felt for the shape of his nose.

“No, sweetie.  Maybe I’m hungry for pretzels and…chocolate decadence ice-cream, dripping with hot fudge.  Maybe I’m pregnant, wouldn’t that be a kick?”

“No, that would be a kid.  A kick is the part of the blade of a pocketknife that acts as a stop in closing.  Obscure, little known facts, brought to you, courtesy of…” he bowed, “Daniel Lovesong.”

She tried to kick him in the pants, then pecked at his cheek.  They laughed, snuggling a little as they walked along, bumping each other playfully.  She squeezed him, “What do you think those football players will say about your love sonnets, Danny?”

“Probably call me a sissy.”

“A sissy!  I haven’t heard that word since high school.  Will that bother you, dumplin’?”

“…much better than pretzel nose.  Bother me?  Nope, I’ll be able to allow it.  Fame won’t assassinate me with its cruel remarks and gossip—I’m Superdan.  I know what I am, and I live it.  Dum, de, dum, dum…daaaa.”

Natalie broke up, “I’ll tell ‘em you’re straight, Superdan.  And if you’re only seen with beautiful women, they’ll be more envious than nasty.  Stick by my side.”

“Like glue, I like you, I do.”

She grabbed for his rump, not really caring who was watching.  Daniel opened the restaurant door, mumbling, “You see, chivalry is still alive.”

“You really know how to treat a lady—what a guy,” she curtsied.  They giggled and played a little, until he noticed they already were quite a spectacle to the lunch bunch.

“Two, in the corner, please.”  Daniel motioned to the hostess over there.  She stargazed at Natalie as the sunlight bloomed off her luminescent hair.  When Natalie wasn’t watching, she glared at Daniel—this guy must really be hung to have that on his arm, or rich.

As they moved through the restaurant, it felt like conversations stopped—images from eyes and ideas flashed into minds of those who watched.

Daniel felt like he was with a movie star.  She wore a cream-white, flame-retardant, racing suit—all the available light was glimmering from it, embellishing her sparkling hair.  Lavender Z’s highlighted the suit in all the appropriate places;  three crimson streaks pinstriped her pants.  Historic and colorful Ferrari racing patches decorated the suit, accenting her name written in script above her left breast.

Daniel began to feel a bit inadequate.  He wore his dilapidated, powder blue, ultrasuede sportscoat with his faded denims.  A laundry-worn flag-red, alabaster, and buttercup checked cowboy shirt accented nothing.  His cowboy boots weren’t covered with cowshit, but he felt like they were.  Ink-marks decorated his sportscoat—he looked like an artist or a nut.  He pulled the chair out for her.  She slid into it like she did when she fit herself into the formula Ferrari.

“Good morning, Natalie,” the waitress appeared.

“Millie, how have you been?  How’s the newest addition to the family?”

“She’s the cutest bundle of joy, but the constant attention.”

“I know, I know.  When do you find time to work?”

“Have to, have to find time.  Who’s gonna pay the doctors’ bills?  What will you folks have?”

Natalie reached over to Daniel, “Millie, I want you to meet Daniel.  He’s a poet.”

“Well…I’m very happy to meet you.  It must be serious;  Netty usually doesn’t introduce me to her latest.”

“The pleasure’s mine, Millie, on both counts.”

Natalie scanned the menu.  “Something light, I have to make some test laps—a small fruit plate and some coffee, and a piece of datenut bread.”

“Sounds good.  For you, Daniel?”

“The same;  except for tea, with real cream, please.”

“You don’t like powdered chalk in your tea, Daniel?”  Millie looked serious.

“It’s just not for me, Millie,” Daniel missed the joke.  “Do you have honey?”

“Sure.  What are you, a health maniac?”

“Nah.  Sugar and chemicals just make me sick, that’s all.”

“Sure, okay.  Can I offer you a cigarette?  Just kidding, just kidding.  I’ll be right back.  Nice seein’ you, Nat.”

“I’m so happy for you and your husband.”

Millie turned and shouted, “Be happy you don’t have the bills.  Be right back.”

“Sweet lady,” Daniel remarked.

“Yeah, she’s been around the track for ages.  We spent some time together at the beer bars laughing with the gents.  She’s really beautiful, isn’t she?  She found her man and that was it.”

“You sound jealous.”

“Do I?  Yeah, I guess I do.  Not jealous of her life;  jealous of her happiness.”

“Is happiness that simple;  a husband and a kid?”

“I don’t know…never tried it.”  She reached for his hand, “Have you been married?”

“Nope.  Never met the right lady.  Tried a few on for size;  nothin’ fit.”

“It’s tough if the shoe doesn’t fit.”

“Really—the corns hurt like hell.  Where do you start and stop in the relationship game?”

“Who knows, who really knows?”  She looked off into space.

“Miss Combers,” a voice intruded into the conversation.

A man approached—Daniel felt uneasy.  He appeared friendly, “I’m William Ransom.  I’m a free-lance writer.  May I chat with you a minute?”

“Um, well, I’m in the middle of brunch.”  Natalie tried to evade the inevitable.

“I do appreciate that, but I find you fascinating and my readers do too.  I’m penning a cover story for People Magazine on the upcoming race.  They want a women who win theme and I’m on a deadline.  It’ll only take a few minutes.  May I join you?”

“Well, if it’s okay with my friend, Daniel, it’s okay with me, Mr. Ransom.”

Daniel watched Natalie for a reading…  “I don’t want to stand in the way of somebody making a living.  Please sit.”

Ransom sat down between them, “Miss Combers, when you’re hurtling down a straight at two-hundred thirty miles-per-hour, do you ever hear a voice saying, What if the brakes fail?

Natalie smiled, “Now that’s what I call a gutsy opener!”

“I have a lot of sketches about you already.  I just need some fill before I can finish what I’ve planned.”

“What do you have planned for me, Mr. Ransom?”

“Your career is newsworthy, Miss Combers, especially how it relates to the ambitions of other women.  You make good copy.”

“I see…well, I appreciate that and so will Ferrari, but from which point of view do you find me newsworthy—sexual sensationalism, women’s libism, dogmatic fanaticism, or feminine insecurity?”

He laughed nervously, “Ah, as a freelance writer faced with the struggle to survive, the same as we all are, those devices must be included in my writing.  But to answer your question, I like to dig deeper, giving my readers something to sink their teeth into, instead of just the usual attention-getting glitter.”

“Well, a true journalist in these days of sensationalism?”  she questioned.

“Yes.  Don’t you think the readers are tired of pure sensationalism and hype?”

“God, I hope so.  Someday there won’t be readers who will want to read that shit.  I’ll be happy to help you in any way I can, Mr. Ransom.  Just don’t quote my shit words.”

He bellowed, relieved, “Never!  Thank you, Miss Combers.  Does fear ever intrude when you’re running down the straight?”

Daniel felt suspicious;  Natalie didn’t hesitate, “Sometimes, for an instant;  then I control the feeling.  Fear will keep you from living life if you let it.  When I hear fear, I throw it out of me without hesitation.  In the process of throwing it out, I focus tremendously.  Some people call it centering.”

“Do you think fear will ever stop entering your consciousness?”

“Well, fear is a pretty basic emotion.  I guess everybody is afraid of death, so fear of death is the base fear.  I heard somebody say fear is the original and only sin, because fear keeps you from living.  I guess you can print that—print, Life is my God, not death.”

“But, Miss Combers, in another interview I read, you, quote—blast down the straight as if chased by a raging demon;  the fear of being caught by myself—unquote.”

“Did I say that?”  She looked at Daniel in amazement.  “Could I be a poet, too?”

He smiled.  Ransom insisted on a reply, “What else could you have meant, other than a fear of the demon of death?”

“Ah hah!  You heard it the way you wanted to hear it.  The only fear I have is the fear of myself.  When I sit alone on the starting grid, I feel this electric emptiness inside my whole body.  I used to think it was the fear of death—I accepted it and challenged it.  I found it was the fear of life;  the fear of living life to find myself.  That quote means what it said—I fear the quiet moments with myself, the moments right before I fire up, when the entire world is blocked out;  when my head is covered by my helmet, my eyes covered by the smoked visor, my ears plugged to protect them from the roar, and my body covered in a flame-retardant suit.  It’s only then I can’t sense the outside.  It is only then I hear the inside.”

“What do you hear?”

“Everything I fear…the fear of the inside.”

Ransom was silent.

Natalie rode the wave, “According to my psychologist, how I understand it now is I fear the self I am.  According to her, everyone has the same fear.  We keep busy living the mundaneness of life, hiding ourselves away from the essence of life.”

He was relentless, “What is the essence of life?”

“Daniel, see how he takes my last thought and tells me to explain it, almost trapping me.  What is the essence of life?  How the hell should I know?  If I knew that, I probably wouldn’t be here racing around in circles.  I’d probably be in some other place of existence—existing, I suppose.”

The wave started to break, “What would you be doing there, wherever that is?”

“Are you sure you’re not a New Age warrior?”  Natalie smirked, “What would I be doing there?”  she paused, glancing around the room at all the other faces watching hers…  “Your guess is as good as mine—trying to stay out of depression by staying high, chasing men, and racing cars, I suppose.”  She exclaimed, “What the hell else is there to do?”

Everyone burst out laughing.  Daniel couldn’t resist scribbling this scene on a napkin.

“Goddammit, Daniel—stop your scribbling.  I don’t want you to write about me;  I want you to love me.”  Natalie turned to Ransom, “Listen, Bill, thanks for the interview, but I don’t want to think about this anymore.  It depresses me and I don’t like to depress myself, especially before some test loops.  Maybe you should go talk to the local priest.  He’ll tell you what we’re living for and where we go when we…die.”

“I have talked to the priests, and the rabbis, and the gurus.  Their answers don’t work anymore.  For that matter, their answers never worked,” the wave rushed to shore.  “At least you live life—they live by avoiding life.  Maybe that’s what we honor with fame;  someone who’s living life in spite of society’s rules and regulations.”  He rose, “Many thanks, Miss Combers.  This will look good in Playboy, too.”

“In Playboy?  What do they care about me, the inner me?”

“Sure, they require plenty of sensationalism to grab the reader—skin and sexual innuendo;  Playboy competes with all the other rags out there.  But when they grab a reader, they have to give ‘em something to sink their teeth into.  Most writers have no idea how to fulfill a reader’s expectations.  I try.”

Ransom shook Daniel’s hand, acknowledging his position.  Then he bowed gratefully to Natalie, leaving the table, searching for another driver.

Daniel studied Natalie, trying to cheer her up, “I find these conversations about death extremely debilitating.  It seems as you move towards forty, they enter your consciousness more often.  Honestly, I can’t ever envision myself without life.  And to think of you lying in a coffin, your beauty and spirit to be laid out and buried in the dirt…” he realized he was disheartening himself, “simply paints a scene of unlimited horror within me.  I’ve only known you for a matter of hours in the scheme of destiny, yet I can’t envision life without you.”

His hands reached for hers.  The sunlight streaming in the window glistened in her eyes for an instant—he almost saw himself in there.

They finished only bits and pieces of the fruit, conversing little, touching hands, holding fingers…she brushed the hair away from his eyes.

Millie thanked them for the tip as they left the restaurant, moving into the brilliant sunlight of an early Fall afternoon.  The roars and whines of the pristine racing machines rekindled the smell of excitement in Natalie’s body.  She began to psych herself up to test the track.

Daniel’s nostrils filled with the fetor of smoldering rubber.


03:25:23

Smoldering rubber.

If I was a novelist, I’d believe I was trying to confuse my readers with symbolism.  I’m not a novelist;  I’m a songwriter digging into my past.  Smoldering rubber seems to be part of it.

“If you had to stay conscious through all your abuse, Daniel, it would kill you.”

Jackie never used the word kill lightly during these sessions in her seaview office.  What was this splitting process she was talking about?

“The Evil Commander is very familiar with the splitting mechanism, Daniel.  His Black Warriors are aware they can use the mechanism against you for their advantage.  This is the Black Chamber’s most powerful weapon.  They are the experts on this mechanism.”

“Is this the mechanism invoked to create the split?”

“Yes, and your Enemy knows how it’s implemented;  they also know how to manipulate it.  I’m not saying every Black Chamber Warrior is well versed in this tactic, but they know enough about it.  We are constantly a few steps behind them in terms of trying to understand it.”

“Jesus…it is a war, isn’t it, Jackie.”

“I’m beginning to believe we’re all terminally ill, Daniel—nobody gets out of here alive.  Perhaps all we can hope for is a big picture of eternity.”

“Yes, Jackie, with one caveat…the hope the big picture includes salvation.”


03:27:01

Baby, baby, baby needs friends.  Baby, baby…baby needs love.  Baby, baby, baby needs to mend…the rhyme split him, devouring him in its frenzied playfulness.  Tinkle, tinkle, tum;  it’s time to…Tinkle, tinkle, tum;  it’s time.  There she is…

And Baby watched a woman, a woman he would stalk…peering at her through the window.  And she sat there, knowing she was being watched, hoping she was being watched because life for her was a gigantic bore.  She had joked to one of her girlfriends just this afternoon, “I need to be raped.  It would be more exciting than Walter could ever be.”

So there she sat, combing her hair, thinking alluringly about her words, not even reflecting they would come to pass…their vibrations emanating over the unseen wavelengths, attracting someone to perform the act she requested.  Baby felt the vibrations of her wishes, they communicated to him on some ephemeral band…and isn’t it okay to play with them, to rub my fingers in their baby powder, to pull their hair, to chase them?

Would she then be a victim, or would she be the perpetrator of her own crime?  Or would her rapist be the victim of a society sick with the frenzy of judgment, stifled with a clogged misunderstanding of the science of manifestation, limping along in the dust of the past, afraid to run into the future—coughing, choking, sputtering.

There she sat in the window, the baby powder caressing her body, returning her to lost innocence.  There she sat, looking into her mirror, stroking her hair…running her fingers through it, twisting it around her fingers, feeling the cramps of her cycle tear into her tenderness;  feeling her emotions being stormed away from her, sensing the ability to love herself and someone else a long, lost figment of her imagination.

Her cramping tore into the guilt, forcing her to feel herself as an insensitive, non-loving bitchwoman.  She stared into the mirror, not even seeing the imageless beauty of what she was;  just seeing herself as moody, irritable, focusing into the abhorrent image of the mirror…focusing and focusing…and combing and stroking, hypnotically staring into the mirror, looking into self, trying to love what she felt, even though she felt so unloving, burning the image into hate.  Was she still pretty, even pretty enough to attract a rapist?

And the horror in the black shadow, moving into the image of her mirror, was something she could never have imagined.


03:30:09

While looking at myself in the mirror of Jackie’s restroom, I shouted, “Jackie, I’m not sure how much time I spend in reality.”

“At least you’re honest about it, Daniel.”

As I entered her office I asked, “What do you mean?”

“It is normal to disassociate…you’re facing your stuff.  Millions, maybe billions of people out there have no idea about reality, about sub-reality, consciousness and subconsciousness, core personalities and altered personalities.  What do you think living involves for them?”

“I have no idea.”

“They are living to die, Daniel.”

“Living to die?  What does that mean?”

“It means they have nothing to live for;  they are the living dead.  They have created a belief system that’s limited, mortal, and temporal when all of creation awaits a simple thoughtshift.  That’s when God does a healing.  And the healing is always done through people.”

“You’ve mentioned these healing characters before.  I need to know more about them.  Will I receive a healing through the characters I create in my life?”

“That’s correct.  You’re a writer so you can write characters into your life.  You really have a double illusion at work here;  not only are living a reality, you are also creating novel characters who are sharing your reality with you.  Let’s say you want to experience making delicious, passionate love to Natalie;  you’ll create a character in your life who will represent Natalie to you.”

I thought for a few seconds…  “Are you saying Natalie doesn’t exist?”

“I didn’t say it, but you did.”

How could Natalie not exist?  She’s the woman of my dreams, the love of my life.  I’m orgasmic when I think about her, like a fighter pilot who thinks about going ballistic.  How could she not exist?…I feel her, I hold her, I nibble on her earlobe, I kiss her feet in tickling passion;  how could she not exist?

“Daniel…are you with me?”

“Er…yes, I’m here, in all my songwriter self.  Did you ask me how I write these songs, Jackie?”

“Ah…yes, Daniel, tell me how you write your songs.”

“I feel a heavy emotion…and then all of a sudden, I become the person who is having the emotion;  and then words come out of me, well, I hear them two or three at a time;  words that describe the emotion I’m feeling…and I write the down.”

“Does the tune come with them?”

“Yes, sometimes…and then other times I’ll just be humming something, and a thought will say the tune will fit so-and-so lyrics that came yesterday or are coming tomorrow.”

“Who are you talking to?”

“God…I guess.”

“What if it isn’t God…then what?”

“Who else could it be, Jackie?”


03:33:13

In a private suite of a high-rise building in New York, a stylishly dressed gentleman met with a long-haired, slim and sleek photographer.

“Are those proofs ready yet?”  the gentleman asked, “The deadline is tomorrow.”

“Yeah, here they are.”  The photographer handed him a stack of proof sheets filled with one-inch square, black and white photos.  They captured hundreds of moments of fiery intimacy.

He scanned the photos, waiting for the one to jump off the sheet, heating up his senses…something caught his eye.  He slapped the sheet on the light table, pulled a magnifier out of his pocket, and looked into their fantasy world…

After a few moments he commented, “The scene with the doll is sexy as hell.  The symbolism is astounding.  Who shot it?”

“One of my new boys, sir.  He’s as pretty as the devil and sucks the sex right out of them.”

“I’ll bet,” the gentleman nodded to himself.  “Who’s the girl?”  he requested as he adjusted the knot of his tie.

“Some tramp he saw swaying down the street.  He asked her if she wanted to model;  she went for it.  He came up with the set idea.  After a bottle of Tequila, some limes, and a few lines, he burned ten rolls, dripping with sizzling passion.  These proofs are fantastic, aren’t they?”

“Her look is sex,” he agreed.  “Her cover ought to sell a few million copies for me.  What’s her name?”

“Terrise, pronounced Terresay,” the shutterpro replied.

“Naturally.  What’s her real name and where’s she from?”

“Who knows and who cares?”

“I do.  Find out.”  The gentleman smoothed his suit over his chest.

“Gotcha,” the shutterpro smiled.  “Here’s the color neg.”

The gentleman looked deeper into their world, now writhing in vivid hues…  “This scene they captured is very unique.  If this doesn’t turn them on, I don’t know what will.”

“Yeah, for a rape scene, it tops any I’ve ever seen.  That rag doll really adds the feeling of innocence.  Look at how she grips it, attempting to hold onto her youth.  The Chinese-lacquer silk bedsheets and the wine spilled all over the place, locks in the bloody struggle symbolism.  That should give ‘em the hard-on;  remind them of their ancient days of virgin rape and pillage—conquest.”

The gentleman adjusted his pants, “The virgin rape symbol is about as deeply seated as the cross…maybe more so.”

“Her sexuality sometimes borders on rape.  I think she likes it that way,” the slick photographer offered, “she likes to pose real sexy.  She’s one model who digs turning on the photohounds.  Jackson told me it was hard keeping his pants on, but he managed to during most of the session.”

“Indeed.  The lamp next to her bed has a good phallic message in it.  I think I can do some business with this shutterpro.  I’ve a shot in mind that will scandalize the world.  Give him a bonus—tell him it came straight from me.  This girl…make the arrangements, please.”  The gentleman smoothed his hair down, “How old is she?”

“Fifteen…fairly untouched.  A runaway.  She wants to be a star.”

“Don’t they all?  Send Mildred over with a wardrobe for her, and have Emily teach her a little grace, at least for this evening.”

“Entertaining some dignitaries?”

The gentleman gave him a cold stare, “Make the arrangements, please.”


03:37:52

I wanted to relax in Jackie’s office but her words would make my skin creep.

The sinister aspects of the world she would impart to me, made me wonder if these scenes were part of life or just part of someone’s nightmare.  After this session, it would be good to know I have a Savior.

She began the session, “You won’t be able to avoid the issue of evil and good without also showing sexual abuse.”

“Yes…I’m aware of that.  But before we get into that, I want to hear about the hierarchy you alluded to last time.”

“To my knowledge, Daniel, they are much involved in world hierarchical systems if they are not it, themselves.  The push toward the New World Order has been instigated by them.  Essentially, we are all slaves to them.”

“How have they gained control over us?”

“They do not possess a sense of sin;  they have a seared conscience.  To be a Satanist, you have to possess a seared conscience.”

“A Satanist?  Is there such a thing…I mean, of course, outside of the horror movies?”

“After these sessions are complete, Daniel, you can decide for yourself.”

I left her office in absolute turmoil, not knowing what had happened to my wife, and not knowing if there would be a tomorrow.


03:40:28

The pretty and fresh college-girl waitress bowed, “Do you know what you want to eat, sir?”

He looked up from the menu, focusing on the outline of her firm, buoyantly youthful breasts…  “I’ll need to look at the menu just a little longer, miss.”

“I’ll be right back, okay?”

He watched her move away from him.  A synapse jarred him…Baby likes you;  Baby wants to meet you;  baby wants to…she returned, standing before him.  He inhaled the scent of her body, “I’ll take the rack of lamb, miss.”

He undressed her as she moved away from him, stripping her bare, stretching her across a rack of medieval torture.  His face is covered in a midnight mask, his muscles sweating with strength, the flame of the torches flickering off his Herculean physique.  He will be her executioner—Oh, she’s a burning flame to me, mommy.  We’ll blaze the rules of passion…charcoal;  my tongue will be licking flames too her.  She’s got me so excited, mommy, she makes the big toe in my boot shoot up!  Oh, baby, it hurts so good, the pain.  Tee hee, tee hee;  dump de dump, tee hee.  This is going to be fun, tee hee…

“Whistle while you work, you’re really just a jerk…” he heard the tune flying around in his memory.

A voice entered his consciousness from somewhere…  “Not on your life, Baby.  You keep it in your pants.”

Baby looked around and behind him, but there was no one there.  He tried to ignore the voice, wondering where it came from, trying to fight it…but it sounded vaguely familiar, gentle sound, relaxing me.

Mommy!  Is that you?  he pressed to the voice.

“Yes…yes, sweetie, it’s me.  That little girl you were thinking about has a boyfriend, so you just leave her alone, Baby.”

But mommy, she’s so pretty, and I want to feel my hard self inside her hot fleshbox…mommy?  It hurts too much not to put it there.

“Baby, there’s another place you can put it that feels even better.  It’s worth it to wait…for Heaven, it’s worth it to wait.”

Mommy, you’re just foolin’ me, aren’t you?  Like you used to play with me?

“Have I ever fooled you, Baby?  I’ve always kept my word with you.”

Well, why did you leave me…why did you have to die and leave me all alone?

“Baby, because I can love you better from the place I live now.  I’m not dead, Baby.  I’m very much alive and very powerful, as you will see.  I can help you through your life if you want me to.”

Yes…mommy, I do!  Please help me.  I’m scared down here all alone…and I’m scared about what I do to girls.  And I don’t know what I’m supposed to do to girls.  They can’t seem to make up their mind…I don’t know which end is upside down, around and around.  Remember that game you played with me?  Can you help me, mommy?  Please…

“Yes, sweetie.  I’ll show you which end is up, and which side is down, right now.  Sweetie, listen…you need to know the value of life.  Darling child, you need to know the sacrifice that was made in order for you to live.  And you need to know the girls you hurt are just a reflection of you—you are hurting yourself, Baby.”

But, mommy, they make my ballie-bears ache so much, I…I don’t know what else to do?

“Sweetie, there are grown men whose ballie-bears ache, too.  Let me tell you what they do for relief—they tear up little girls bodies and they execute little boys;  they’re not sissies.  They shoot metal projectiles into their sweet faces, faces just like yours.  They shoot bullets into little boy’s eyes.”

Just like me?

“Yes, Baby.  Do you remember when I used to read the newspaper to you?”

Yes, mommy.

“Well, in there are all sorts of stories about what happens in war.  You know what war is, Baby…people destroying other people because they hate them.  But really, sweetie, they’re destroying themselves, they just can’t see that yet.  So you can understand this, these men have very small ballie-bears;  pea-sized ballie-bears.  Even smaller than yours.  And some of them have pea-sized brains.  To make their ballie-bears bigger, Baby, they rape little girls and execute little boys.  Do you know what rape is, Baby?

Is that like to date, mommy?

“Well, a little bit.  Do you know what it is to possess, Baby?”

No, I don’t, mommy.

“You’re not alone there, Baby.  Well, I’ll teach you what rape is…and I’ll teach you what execution is—to kill helpless things to make your ballie-bears bigger.  I’ll take you for wild-time adventures in your dreams.  Then you’ll learn those things are things you don’t want to do to yourself.  It’s no fun to kill, because you’re killing yourself.  And it’s no fun to rape, because you’re raping yourself.  And then you can let all the people live, just like you would let a flower live.  Do you like flowers, Baby?

Yes, mommy?

“Well, little girls and little boys are like flowers, Baby.  And you don’t need to pluck them, to pick them;  let them grow in the image of their Maker.  If you do pick them, they won’t come back to play with you…and you will be alone, again.

“Let me take you on a wild-time adventure right now.  You’re one of those men with big bands of bullets draped around their shoulders.  You’re carrying a big powerful gun because you have pea-sized ballie-bears.  Can you feel how small they are?

“Tonight, you stole away a little boy from his mommy’s side.  And you beat him and kicked him because he had bigger bears than you… and that made you mad.  So you tied his hands behind his back.  And then you said this little boy with big ballies was the chosen one…

“And then you blindfold him.  And he starts crying for his mommy and you kick him in his ballies…and he stops crying, groaning.

“And then you tie him to a stake because he couldn’t stand because he hurt so much.  And then you click, click your big, powerful rifle and aim it at his face…his delicate, baby face.  And then you pull the trigger, feeling your ballie-bears grow a micro-millimeter, firing solid, ugly, hard projectiles that will slam into his delicate face, ripping without mercy.

“And he can’t see them coming because he’s blindfolded.  And he is very scared, so scared he’s peeing in his pants.  And you, one of those big men with the pea-sized ballie-bears, you laugh at him, watching his pants soaking with the urine of his fear, dripping.  Can you smell it, Baby?

“And you watch the bullets in motion that is slow…you watch how they tear through his baby flesh, through his eyes, into his brains—you watch without pity.  A sick hatred churns in your guts, a hatred without regret, a seared conscience.

“And what was once the vibrant, joyous, animated body of a boy, now slumps bloodied and mangled right before your eyes.  And he doesn’t cry anymore, Baby.  And he’s not scared anymore, Baby.  And you men feel your pea-sized balls grow a little larger…a little larger than peas.  And your Master is pleased…”

Mommy, don’t tell me any more, and Baby retched, rushing out of the restaurant.

But the voice followed…  “Baby, can you imagine the anguish, the pain his mommy must feel when she’s been looking for her precious love all night?  In the first morning light she finds his belt…she sees in her mind his ravished body, lying lifeless and alone in a ditch, his face gone.  She knows she will never hear him giggle again, Baby.  And she just collapses, covering his body with tears…the body she nursed for so many months, giving him the protection she couldn’t give him last night from those men living in the raven shadows.

“And she weeps…and she wails.  Have you heard a wailing woman, Baby?  The sound opens your soul.  And she caresses his cold, bloodied, mutilated face, rocking with the face that you rocked to sleep so many nights.  Can you feel her pain, Baby?  Can you?

“And Baby, some of those men with those pea-sized ballie-bears tear little girls apart.  Do you want me to tell you about that, Baby?  Or do you want me to show you what that feels like, to be torn apart?

“Baby, are you listening?  Listen to this, Baby…there is a message in her for you.”


03:49:32

The jetliner on Jackie’s wall seemed different to me today, as if it was closer to a landing.  The seabreeze calmed my spirits;  the salty air invigorating as I thought about my wife, remembering her beauty as my bride.

“Jackie, last time before I had to leave, you mentioned a Bride of Satan.  What’s that all about?”

“I’m not sure I should tell you, Daniel.”

“Why not?”

“Can you handle it?”

“I suppose I can.  After all, I live with her.”

Jackie laughed, “Well, not quite.  It may seem that way, but a Bride of Satan would tear your head off.”

“What do you create when you have intercourse between a demon, or Satan, and a female?  What is created from that, Jackie?”

“A woman is chosen, and Satan comes in the image of that woman’s fantasy, her perfect lover.  They marry in a ceremony.  During sexual intercourse, Satan transforms into his abhorrent, evil form.”

“During intercourse?”

“Yes, at the moment of orgasm, Satan appears in his true form.”

“You mean, this isn’t just a bad lay in the hay, this is Satan, the Roaring Lion, transforming with pitchforks and flaming tongues of fire?”

“Yes, by seducing her with all the loving feelings, Daniel, she now experiences him in the hatred and the awfulness of him, and he inflicts horrendous spiritual pain on her.”

“This is not just a case of morning mouth, correct?”

Jackie laughed, “No, this is definitely morning mouth the rest of her life.  The Bride is now part of his hideous Kingdom, she considers herself his bride.”

“Who does her husband consider he is?”

And the jetliner flew closer to its landing.


03:52:36

“So the Colonel wants you to woo all the little girls,” Mr. Beckham, the Master of Voice sparkled.

“Yeah, he thinks I can, sir.”

Daniel petted Tam gently in the Voice-master’s domain…  “I think I just want to sing, Mr. Beckham;  I don’t know about wooing anyone.  I just want to express what I am, that’s all.  My songs let me do that.”

Mr. Beckham’s quivering hand was struggling to write today’s date on a cassette label, “All you have to do is be yourself, Daniel.”

“Getting down to self is a real battle, sir.  I’ve been thinking about it;  all the things I’ve done just to be accepted.  It goes all the way back to puberty for me.  High school—those dratted pimples and my buckteeth shot the hell out of the little girls for me, then anyway.”

With great effort, Mr. Beckham’s trembling hand slid the blank cassette into the recorder, “We all go through that sometime.  Lonely is a part of life—tragedy is what the Phoenix rises out of.  Do you know the myth, son?  Read it sometime.  What’s important about tragedy is when you’re coming out of it and what you’ve gained from it.”

“Yeah, all the emotion I’ve had cooped up in me is coming out now, to the whole world.”

The tape recorder was ready to capture all of Daniel’s wayward notes, “What are you going to tell them, son?”

“It’s in my music, sir.  It’s all in there.  And maybe as a singer I can put it across…what I’ve felt.  I guess it’s important to me, to share my pain.  I read when Elvis sung his love songs at the state fairs in the early days, he actually sobbed on stage.”

“Yes, he went to any extreme to turn on an audience.  If they didn’t react to him, wake up, he would try any trick in the book.  He was a master at audience manipulation.”

Mr. Beckham smiled.  “Are you ready to open up, Daniel?  Open up your voice, that is?”

“Let’s do it, Mr. B.”

The lesson began, “Every beginning vocal student has one major disadvantage.  They hear their voice from the wrong side.  They hear it through their facial bone structure instead of via the airwaves, like everyone else hears it.  You’re standing behind your voice, and you can’t hear what it sounds like to be in front of it.  To remind yourself, remember this—

I know my face is not a star,

What it is, I know I are.

I’m behind it, I don’t mind it,

It’s the folks out front

who get the jar.

“Who wrote that!”  Daniel laughed loudly.

“Why, I did, who else?”

“Do you have a tune for it?”  he razzed.

“Daniel, here’s why that’s important to know.  The beginning vocal student tries to force their tone to sound good to them.  But they don’t know what sounding good is yet.  They may be able to expertly evaluate another’s tone, but they can’t evaluate their tonal qualities because they’ve never heard their tone.  Subsequently, they choke and manipulate the tone until they think it’s acceptable.  Your vocal coach can hear your tone;  you have to learn how to hear what he hears.  It’s really almost a feel;  you have to feel what your beautiful tone is.  Let’s go.  Do a third scale,” and Beckham plunked a chord.

Daniel tensed up, feeling a vise around his throat, “Yo, ooh, oh, ooh;  ah, ah, ah, ahh, ahh,” up and down he went in quarter-note thirds, then with eighth notes.  It sounded good to him.

Beckham disagreed, “You’re still feeling for it.  You’re not letting your voice have its freedom.  Last time, we heard your Elvis voice connected to your emotional expression.  This time we’re going to find your voice.  Let it go, Daniel.”

“You, oou, oh, ooh;  ah, ah, ah, ah, ah,” Daniel tried again.

“You’re hangin’ on, Daniel.  Let it flow, let your voice out!  You’re not letting me have the full quality of your voice.  How much more voice can you let out without pushing?”  Beckham was insistent.

Boy, is he stubborn today, Daniel groaned.  I think I sound pretty damn good.  He tried again, pushing a little harder, “Yo, oou, oh, ooh;  ah, ah, ah, ahh, ahh.”

“Daniel, you’re still holding back, and don’t push,” Beckham wouldn’t get off of it.  “You’re trying to guide your voice.  Let it get away from you.  If it breaks, I’ll wipe it off the piano;  but for goodness sakes, let go of it!”

Daniel relaxed his throat, relaxed his chest, and a power of voice ripped through him, “Yo, oh, oh, ooh;  ah, ah, ah, ah, ahh.”

“That’s it…you did it!  You broke through.”  Beckham was excited, Tam jumped up on his lap.  “Did you hear the difference, Daniel, how much more freer the voice was?  Did you feel the difference?”  And Mr. Beckham gave Daniel his first big grin.

Daniel was out of breath;  emotion surging through his chest, heaving it in and out, “What was that?”  he wondered.

“That, my dear boy, was your voice!”  Didn’t you hear it?  Wasn’t it beautiful?”  Tam skittered up to Daniel’s leg and gave a sniff, her tail wagging a mile a minute, attracted by the tone.

Daniel heaved with emotion, “I was shocked by it!  It felt so good to express it, to let it out.”

“You’ve been hiding it, boy.  Its been locked up inside you since puberty;  you’ve taken your braces off!”


03:57:27

Daniel relaxed in Samson’s gilt-edged suite, watching shadows move across the wall.  He was speculating about the possibilities of his singing career—will it work, or will I just drill a hole, crash and burn?

Samson entered, breaking him out of his deliberations, “How is it going with Beckham, Daniel?”

“It’s going super!  He’s found my voice.  The man’s a genius.”

“Only the best for Danny boy,” Samson smiled.

“Sure, Colonel.  Don’t make me laugh;  I’m not that dumb,” Daniel’s face contorted to a grimace.  “The music business is a numbers game;  for every one that hits it big, ten thousand don’t make a dent.  If I can do it for you, well, fine.  If I take a fall, so what—I’m just out the door like a few thousand other folks before me.”

“Never, Danny, never…you’ll never take the fall.  You’re there, buddy;  you’re there,” Samson laughed, reassuringly.  “I’m spending big bucks on you.  I have the faith, you keep it burning.”

Daniel shook his head, then bit his lip, “Alright.  I’ve been debating over the song list for my debut single.  I’ve found one;  I think it has all the hit elements.  I wrote it about a wrecked love affair I had with this sweet, young thing…she killed me, she tore me to pieces.  This is my regret song for her.”  Daniel moved over to the concert grand and punched a few chords.  Then he started to sing—

How could I know it was the last time we’d make love?

Did you know, it didn’t show.

If we had realized there was a deeper place to go,

beyond what we’ve heard,

beyond the spoken word.

If I had known it was the last time,

I would have grown beyond those past times,

I’d have tried to love you deeper than I know,

For your eyes were the eyes I knew,

Your lips, a kiss so true,

Your touch, a feeling so new in the night,

I didn’t know.

Well, I know, the next time we make love,

We will have grown, we won’t feel alone.

For there was a place, where nothin’ else was real,

Except your eyes, and how you make me feel…

Samson listened intently.  He tweaked his lower lip, nodding, “It has possibilities—it’ll work.  It needs a lyrical and instrumental bridge, though.  Did it say what you wanted it to say, Danny?”

“Yeah…well, it helped to get the pain out, for sure—this girl laid me to waste.  It took six months to get over her.”

“Did you grow to where you wanted to, or do you know?”

Daniel rubbed his chin, “I don’t know.  I’ll think about it.”

“Write a song about it, Danny.  For now, I want you to sit with Siggie and Harper.  I want them to work with you.  You’ll like Siggie—he’s like you, confused as hell.  Musically he’s a genius.  He’ll pull it out of you.  And when you’re ready, Harper will complete you lyrically.  She’s amazing;  she’s been where you haven’t…”

“But these are my songs, Mr. Samson,” Daniel interrupted.

“Listen, Danny.  Sometimes leading-edge artists need a little grounding;  you know, back to planet earth.  Try to remember, everyone isn’t where you’re at, musically or metacosmically.  There has to be a ladder laid out there to help us climb up to your tree house.  Siggie and Harper will help you lay down the rungs.”

Daniel wished the Colonel would stop calling him Danny.


04:01:38

D’alien Thornton fell deeper and deeper into her dream.

Nighttrips.

Her senses excited her.  An experience she had forbidden herself awaited.  She squirmed again…they wouldn’t let her up, holding her down until she opened her mouth to surround it.  The silver chain was taut, paralyzing her neck.  The others there watched her, knowing what she was about to feel.  The heat from their bodies burned into hers, inflaming her with sensuous, torturous passion.  She was ravenous, and now she was going to let herself go.  She was going to do it.

She felt the fire burning deep in her.  He stood strong, naked to her, like the Statue of David in its muscular innocence of glorified youth.  He was masked.  Who was he?  What was his lovesong?

She kissed him gently, tasting the flesh she had never tasted for fear she couldn’t do it.  It felt firm and strong to her lips as it rose to be admitted into the tenderness of her mouth, to be bathed by her juices of love.  She felt something from behind her, and then it began to move into her.  Slowly, softly, it entered as she opened, sliding him deep inside, licking the length of it, feeling it’s strength in the womb of her mouth of procreation.

It tasted like a lollipop should have tasted;  hard yet smooth, an invasion of the most delightful taboo into her.  But could she make him do it…would he pour into her, filling her up?

He lurched inside of her, she felt a pulse in her mouth.  And from behind her, a groan rose to her ears as he thrust into her, touching her deeply in her womb.  Her tongue knew what to do, naturally.

And then it happened.  The deep breaths surrounded her, the mountainous gasps of ecstasy…the liquid gushed forth inside of her, filling her up, full and torrid.  She lurched back from the pleasure, allowing every nerve to tingle, tasting the nectar of life.  Its flavor was gentle, salty pudding, full of life as it trickled down her throat delicately…she swallowed.

The energy tingled in her body, it gave her life!  In her wildest dreams, she could never imagine it would be like this.  And now it had happened.  To her.


04:05:01

Colonel Samson welcomed Daniel to the rarified atmosphere of the forty-fifth floor.

He was all business, “I’ve heard a basic mix of some of the tracks Siggie and Harper laid down.  They sound hot to me—And I Knew might make the charts, Daniel.  I’ve booked a block of studio time.  A scratch vocal has been laid down for you to match.  Are you ready to sing?”

Daniel had his doubts, “I’m not sure, sir.”

You’re ready, son.  Elvis walked into Sun Records studio when he was nineteen.  He paid four dollars to record, My Happiness, a song by the Ink Spots, a popular black group in those days.  The recording was a gift to his mother.”

“Nineteen?”

“All it takes is courage, man.  When you have courage, people hear it.  Okay, here’s what’s up.  You have two months to make your voice sound like an angel, or a devil, whatever fits.  Two months to the day we’re going to introduce you in Seattle.  The area is a showcase of new music—it’s happening up there.  All the deejays will be at the press party;  I’ve booked the Moore Theater.  I’m gonna fill it with lots of pretty girls, good food and drink, lots of fun.  Bring Natalie as your escort…and protection.  You’re gonna sing And I knew.  All you have to learn is that one song.”

Daniel fidgeted, “Who’s gonna back me up, Mr. Samson?”

“Only the best;  just sing your heart out like you know.  Beckham will see you twice a week, and you’re booked in the studio five days a week, just like Elvis was.  Learn how the tone is formed, feel it from your soul.  Then let it go, release it.  I’ve hired an engineer who’s done this before, so don’t worry about blowin’ it…don’t be a sissy about this.  And don’t worry about the money we’re spending;  you’ll do fine.  When you’re not in the studio, I want you working with my stage director.  We’re setting up dress-rehearsals so you’ll be familiar with the mike, the room sound, and the audience reactions.”

“Audience?”  Daniel gulped.

“Yes, you’ll be rehearsing with live audiences.  Don’t worry, they’ll love you.  They’ve been paid to love you,” Samson chuckled.

“Mr. Samson,” Daniel had to dump it out of his mind, “I need to tell you about a song that’s coming.”  Samson saw the fear in Daniel’s eyes.

“Sit, tell me.”

“Well, I had this experience…I actually saw a video running in my mind.”  Daniel squirmed in his seat.

“Well, what did you see?”  Samson demanded.

“I saw naked people, standing together…singing, hugging and loving each other.”

“You saw what?  What is this, the first pornographic music video?”  Samson grilled.

“No, sir…not at all.  I guess that’s why I’m freaked about it—the nudity.  It was so beautiful to watch in my dream.  It was just people, all kinds of people, naked, not making love to each other, but loving each other.”

“Why were you embarrassed about it?”

Daniel hid his face in his hands, “Well, I just think it couldn’t work.”

“Why not?  Naked people get together all the time.  Sit up and reason this with me.”

“Not these kind of naked people.”  Daniel hesitated.

“Why not?”

“These people were all different colors, all different nations, all different looks—fat, thin, short, tall, beautiful, not so beautiful…a vast sampling of the human race, almost.”

“What were they doing?”

“They were holding babies.”  Daniel wondered if Samson could grasp this one.

“Holding babies?”

“Yes, black babies and white babies…naked babies.  Everyone was swaying to the lyrics, naked…holding babies.”

“Swaying to the lyrics?  What lyrics?”

“It goes like this…

Black babies, white babies, all the same,

Share the same sandbox, play the same game;

Sing the same songs, they share the same rhyme,

Black babies, white babies, all divine.

Samson asked, “Is that it?  It’s so simple.”

“No, there’s more.  Do you think it could work, Colonel?”

“I don’t know…all divine.  It might be too much for people to take;  black and white together like that.”

“Have you ever seen a black baby?”

“No, I can’t say I have…naked.  With naked mothers and fathers, I’ll bet.  Work it up, Danny Boy;  work it up with Siggie and Harper.  Maybe a video could work.  I’ll make some calls.  We could get everybody to strip and bare it to the world;  sports stars, rock stars, businessmen and women.  It’s a good cause—babies.  It’s kinky enough…it might work.  What are you trying to say, Daniel?

“Well…just there are no differences.  We’re all divine and we should all be free.”

“It’s simple, right!  We’re just all divine.  Look, I’ll make a few calls to the talent agencies, see if there’s any interest.  Who’s going to do the song?”

“All of us, all of us naked and singing.”

Samson tweaked his lower lip, “Daniel, it could work.  I’ll check the shooting schedules.  We can probably crank it out quickly—it shouldn’t take much to produce…a half million.  I’ll see what I can do;  don’t get your hopes up.  Give me the lead sheet and a scratch cassette of the tune.  I’ll take it from there.

Start rehearsing And I Knew for your debut, Daniel.  Let’s make it a winner, shall we?”


04:15:19

California Highway Patrol Captain Myron Pederson remembered that day, almost ten years ago…  “Come on, baby.  Time for your bath.”

Sissy yelled at Myron, “I don’t want to take a bath.”

“Come on, sweetie.  Mummy will be home in a little while, and I want you to be real clean for her.  We’re going to the movies tonight!”

“Okay…okay!”  she huffed, throwing the Tri-master Action joystick across the room.  “And I was just about to win!  Okay!  I’ll take my bath,” and she shuffled off to the bathroom.  Blam, the door slammed.

From the den, Myron could hear the bath water starting to run.  And then he heard a scream…  “Myron, will you help me take off my pants?”

“Sure, sweetie.  Be right there.”


04:17:06

The black shadow in her mirror moved.  She froze, petrified.

It stirred again, rushing toward her rapidly.  She turned quickly, then screamed.  He grabbed her around the neck, choking her…she gasped for air, her lungs heaved to taste the sweetness of oxygen again.  She felt herself going unconscious.  But he didn’t want that.  He wanted her conscious, to feel everything he was going to do for her.  He was roughing her up just to show her who was boss.  And it was him, it was Baby who was boss.

He spoke to her gently, with almost a vague sadness, “Do you want to die?”

She said in a whimper, “No…not now.  I want to live.  I have everything to live for.  Please leave me alone.”

“Have you been a good little girl?”  His moronic stare stopped at her freshly painted toenails…his lethargic mind thinking how she had to reach down, spreading her thighs, pulling her toes up to reach them, to paint them.  Opening her thighs…

She tried to talk like a child would, matching his cadence, “Yes, baby, I’ve been a good little girl.”

“Have you been fucking your boyfriend enough?”

She thought she saw saliva drip from a corner of his lips— “Yes…” she hesitated.

“Does he like the way you fuck him…does he?”

“Yes,” she didn’t want to tell him.

“What do you do for him?”  Baby demanded to know.  “Do you fuck him like in the videos…or do you playact?”

“I…I, we…just kiss and hug, and move against each other.”

Baby grabbed her hair, yanking her head back violently.  She felt the gun’s barrel pushing into the small of her back, “Tell me everything you do for him, and you better treat him right.”

“Oh, oh…it hurts.  I…I…”

He yanked again, screaming, “Tell me!”

“I kiss him…and I hold him, and I hug him.  And I move underneath him, and I squeeze him inside of me,” and she broke down heaving in fear, “Please leave, please leave me alone!  I’m a good girl;  I don’t want you to hurt me.”

“If you didn’t want me to hurt you, why did you call me here?”  Baby was serious about the question.

“I didn’t call you here.  You’re cra…you’re, you’ve made a mistake.”

“Oh, I have the wrong address, right?”  Baby was indignant, disturbed.

“Yes, you have the wrong address.”

“And you’ve never called me, you’ve never wanted to be raped.  You’ve never wanted to be scavenged and sucked, and ridden until you couldn’t breathe anymore?  Until every organism was ripped out of you, until every stench of fear was lashed from you?  You’ve never wanted that, bitchwoman?”  He let out a torturous scream— “That’s what they all want in the videos!”

And then his voice became controlled, very methodical, punctuated, “If you don’t want to be raped, why did you wear those pants you wore today, squeezing you in so tight?  And why did you flirt with the guy you think is so cute.”

And then he screamed at the top of his lungs, “Why did you rub your pussy today…rub it raw, until it was a hot, stinking torch, ready to burn someone up?  And what’s this vibrator for?”  And Baby reached under her bed, pulling out an enormous, phallic-shaped vibrator.  “Are you sure you’ve been treating your boyfriend right?  Or maybe you should tell him to fuck off, bitch.  Maybe you do want to be raped…just to feel it once.”

“Get the fuck out of here, you asshole,” she screamed at Baby.

Baby hated girls who screamed at him.  It scared him;  he thought his mother didn’t like him any more.  It hurt deep in him, and he didn’t like to be hurt.

He yanked her viciously by her hair, pulling her off the chair in a flash.  She fell in a thud under him.  Her robe opened…she was bare and helpless.

“I want your cunt,” he screamed.  “This is a video, right?  This is what it’s all about, isn’t it?  I want your cunt.  It smells juicy and delicious…and I want it.”

His gloved hand grabbed her between her thighs, squeezing her terribly hard.  His fingers felt coarse and horrible inside her.  She whipped her left foot around, crushing it against his skull as hard as she could.  He fell backwards for a second…his thick skull recovered quickly.

He grabbed his bludgeon.  She saw it coming, screaming, “Leave me alone.  Fuck me all you want, baby, but don’t kill me!”

He cracked her open with a wicked blast to her temple.  She was done in an instant.

She crumpled to the floor.  He cursed over her, “Fucking bitchwoman.  Stupid fucking bitch.  Don’t hurt Baby, don’t scream at Baby.  Baby doesn’t like to be scared.”

And he pulled her robe aside, unbuckling his belt.


04:23:36

Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray to the Lord my soul to keep.

Death.  Shit, death…dead, I’m dead.  What the hell is going on?  I’m watching this rapist ravishing my body.  I’m just hanging out, floating, watching this pervert screwing this dead body.  You’d think he could find something else to do with his time…dead bodies, how gross.

Well, I suppose I’m a little warm, maybe there’s some scent left to me.  Maybe I’m even squeezing him a little bit, natural muscle action.  Oh, there he goes—orgasm time.  Look at that pimply, fat, butt jerk and rock and lurch.  Oh, man, this jerk really gets off on dead bodies.

Oh, look, there he goes again.  Now he wants me to suck him flat.  Hey, asshole…I’m dead!  Don’t you remember?  You just cracked me with that stupid rod you carry around with you.  How can I suck you if I’m dead?

This turkey breath is operating on inimical brain-power.  Where do they find these people…was there a werewolf left over from Godzilla Eats Tokyo?  Daphne, this jerk’s been raised on MTV and triple X-rated videos, what could we expect from him?

Hey, asshole!  Write a novel;  win the Pulitzer!  This buttface wouldn’t even know what the Pulitzer was!

Jesus, there he goes again.  That’s the fourth time he’s felt the orgasmic fantastic.  He ought to let the sex therapists know about this!  Oh, pretzels, now he’s beating his meat while he’s licking my breasts…well, my bygone breasts.  This peabrain thinks I’m a piece of meat.

Where do they find these people?  He’s not that bad looking…I think I dated a guy in high school who looked like this.  I think—he had so many zitts, who could really tell what he looked like.  All I remember was he really wanted to love me all around the block.  I wasn’t giving out…pre birth-control and act like a lady days.  Sex education was a trip to the drug store to buy a rubber.

Maybe this is that monster breath.  Let me take another look at him…shucks, it could be.  Same pimpled ass;  some things never change.  Maybe I should have screwed him then?

Oh, marbles, there he goes again…come, baby, come!  He’s gonna hang around here until he’s emptied his sacks.  He’s gonna hang around here ‘til his balls go on strike, pruned out.

Damn, I’m pretty funny for being dead.  I wonder what this dead shit is all about?  I’m saved.


04:27:06

Snow-covered, majestic pines flashed by David Thornton.  Lake Arrowhead awaited peacefully this twilight, light shimmering from the majestic pines, reflecting from moonlit, silhouetted hillsides.  There, the white shadows rested in the snows that would provide the liquid sustenance for the life beneath.

He admired his wife, D’alien, as she drove, twisting the wheel confidently back and forth up the mountain to a rendezvous with fate.

…Oh!  Listen, D’alien.  It’s the song everyone’s talking about.”  David reached over and turned up the volume—

…babies, white babies, all the same,

Sing the same songs, share the same rhyme.

Black babies, white babies, all divine.

Black man, white man, all the same,

Share the same sandbox, play the same game.

Sing the same songs, share the same rhyme,

Black man, white man, all divine.

…They sing the same songs,

they share the same rhyme,

Let them be babies,

free all the time.

The deejay chimed in, “That’s Babies, the monster hit video jerking the South African world into chaos.  If you’ve seen it, you know why—black babies are playing with white babies in sandboxes, hugging each other.  “They’re joined by black and white fathers, then mothers, all playing together with their babies.  Then a sandbox of the world is filled with sports teams, workers, politicians, religious leaders, police persons, soldiers, all playing and hugging each other.  All black and white, all naked.

“The video has sparked anti-apartheid riots all over the world, as all nations are reevaluating the word freedom.  The song, written by an unknown songwriter, Daniel Lovesong, has rocketed to the top of the charts, vaulting the surprised songwriter into international fame.  Here’s a lovesong of Daniel’s, And I Knew;  it’s climbing the charts…”

David turned the volume down, “Isn’t that fabulous,” he shouted to D’alien, “just fabulous!  Imagine, some unknown writer can inflame the passions of the entire world.”

How did he do it, I wonder?”

“He probably had agents, and lots of money and power;  and connections and savvy and guts, and more power and…”

“Maybe,” D’alien interrupted, “but he had something else first.”

“What?”

“That songwriter just lived in the only safe emotion.  Living there allowed him to attract what he was—he attracted the players to his drama, and the audience to his stage.”

“Drama?  Stage?  D’alien, you’re losing me…the only safe emotion?”

“There’s a feeling located near your heart, David, in your soul…it feels like a flutter when it talks to you.  The New Ager’s call it unconditional love.  It’s a Godly love for all things…pretty undefinable now.  Near the throat area, you’ll find the emotional energy of love expressed.  This is the emotion everyone’s living for—it feels like freedom yet it isn’t allowed much.  Those who do allow it receive fame.”

“That’s how that songwriter did it.”

“Yes, David, to a degree…but his fate will rest on the hand he has washed.”

“Pardon me?”

“Listen on, David;  you’ll understand it.  The songwriter lived in the feeling of love expressed and let it out unconditionally.  His audience saw his light and their emotions rose to the occasion.  Hence, fame.  Fame is a result, not a cause.”

“A result?”

“His audience was lifted up into the light energy he was broadcasting.  To their vision, he was illuminated.  And, like a white shadow, they could see themselves in him, mirrored back to them in perfect luster.  Nothing was lost in the light imagery, as would be the case if he cast a black shadow;  that would have reversed the light, David.”

“But what about fame?”

“Fame was the result of the light shadow, it didn’t create his light.  In other words, his audience didn’t create the light;  they were attracted to the other dimensions of what he created.”

“Then if I were famous, my fans would be living what I created?”

“Yes, David.”

“That’s a responsibility, isn’t it?”

“Yes, unless you only cast a white shadow in a river of love.”


04:33:43

Floating in a void somewhere, passing in time, a thought made a decision…  “Well, I’ll be saved—that pimply-assed, dink-brain is finally finished with my body.  Look at that, he can barely move he’s so tired.  It’ll take him a year to replenish his sperm count.  I wonder if he’ll find the door or walk into the closet…

Oh, there he goes, he found the doorknob.  He can turn it—at least we know he has a left brain.  Hey, I wonder if I can trip him;  quite a drop down those stairs.  Maybe I can move that rock under his foo…there he goes, head over heels, screaming…tee hee.

Oh, crash, he hit his pretty chinnie, chin, chin.  Did you cut yourself, frog-nose?  Try to remember what you did to me, ass-breath.  Hey, if this is the void, this is gonna be fun!  I shall follow this toadstool around, whistle while I work, see what makes him tick, blast into his monkey-mind.  What else is there to do?  This is gonna be fun, tee hee.”

And inside an earthbound brain these thoughts fluttered around, “Blood…I cut my chin!  I fell and go boom!  Dumm, de dum dumm, said the spider to the fly.  Slip into my net, I’m the devil in disguise, de dumm.  Mommy, why are the girls always so pretty?  Why can’t I play with all of them?  Where’s my jingle, jangle?…

“Look at how pretty they are, and look what they do to men.  Lick on them and take their pollen, then make fun and walk away, sting like bees.  I still want to play.  Mommy, why?  They don’t want to play with me.  That makes me cry, and then that makes me mad.  And that makes me want to kill all the people they play with…de dumm.”


04:35:15

“Grieve, Daniel.  Sit here right now and grieve with me.”

“What are you talking about, Jackie?”

We were sipping wine coolers on a hot California day.  One of my pilot buddy’s owns a cruiser docked in Newport Bay.  The wine made the session go down a lot easier.

“Daniel, even though in your double-illusion, you can create characters, writing them in to help heal yourself, you can’t heal all the way.  God has allowed an outlet to finalize the process;  it’s called grieving and forgiveness.  That’s when His spirit enters in and becomes your comforter.”

“Jackie, I need to backtrack a bit.  Are you saying the friends in my life now are characters I’ve drawn to me to help me heal?”

“You say it better than I do.”

“I may say it better, but I find it hard to believe.  That would mean were all living in a Twilight Zone episode.”

“Perhaps we are.”

“Perhaps we are!  Get real, Jackie.”

I nibbled on an orange slice in my glass.  Jackie surprised me, “I am real, Daniel—touch me.”

“Touch you?  If I did, I couldn’t stop myself.”

“What would you do, Danny?”

“Well, I guess I’d just touch you on your forearm, maybe run my finger down the inside, teasing your flesh…and watch you.”

“Why would you watch me?”

“Just to see what the touch did to you…my fingers running down the inside of your thighs.”

“I thought you were touching my forearm, Daniel?”

I watched her finger circle the rim of her glass, “I would be touching your thighs soon.”

“If I let you.”

“I bet you would.”

“Maybe…maybe not.”

“Jackie…”

“Yes.”

“It would be hard for me to believe that you are an illusion also.”  I swallowed a mouthful of wine cooler.

“Do you think you’re the bird in the cage, Daniel, spending all day staring at yourself in the mirror…all alone with all the characters of your mind?”


04:36:12

Natalie’s mulberry-frost Testarossa swept around the corner of Second and Virginia, near downtown Seattle.  She stopped suddenly, her headlights falling on hundreds of people.  Traffic was blocked, crowds were gathering in the streets.  They heard chanting, a rude awakening—Daniel Lovesong, Daniel Lovesong, Daniel, Daniel!

He looked over at Natalie, his face twisted in shock, “What’s going on, sweetie?”

She shook her head, “I have no idea.”  The crowd was growing;  people were milling around, chanting, yelling.

“I bet the Colonel hired these people to impress the press?”  was Daniel’s guess.

“I wouldn’t put it past him.”

“Maybe it’s some people who liked Babies.  Look at them, aren’t they beautiful…there’s blacks mixed with whites and Orientals!  Wow.  Can we make it to the stage door?”

“I…I don’t know.  Let’s drive around the block.  Danny, is that funny hat you like to wear behind the seat, the flop-eared beagle one?”

“I’ll look…yes, it’s here.”

“Well, put it on and wear your sunglasses.  No one will recognize you from those hyped-up press pictures.”

Natalie pulled into an autopark lot two blocks away.  Daniel grabbed his flop-eared hat and put on a black, London Fog raincoat.  Natalie grabbed a full-length down, henna-beige overcoat, her blond hair flowing over her shoulders.  She flung a car cover over the Ferrari.  They stepped toward the theater.

Daniel had a mischievous look in his eye, “Netty, I want to peek around the corner and see what’s going on.”

“Danny, I…I don’t think that’s a very good idea,” she cautioned him.

“Oh, it can’t hurt.  This is fun—nobody will recognize me,” and he ventured around the corner disguised like a black beagle walking on two legs.  Ten steps around he stopped.  People were waving handmade signs.  One said, Shake it, Elvis!  Another sign read, Lennon Lives Forever.

“Well, I’ll be,” Daniel whispered, and without thinking he took his hat off, running his fingers through his shoulder-length, blond hair.  He heard a shriek and turned around.  Two girls had spotted him.  They were screaming, rushing toward him.  Others in the crowd heard the uproar, then they saw Daniel.  The mob started screaming, running toward him.

Holy shit, how did I get myself into this!  He and Natalie made a mad dash to the backstage entrance.  The security guards swept them in, closing out the others.

Daniel was out of breath, panicked.  The Colonel ushered them into his dressing room, “What the hell were you doing out there, Daniel?”  The Colonel’s tone wasn’t polite.

“I…I thought you hi…hired those people, Mr. Samson,” Daniel stuttered excitement out of his mouth.

“No, son,” Samson advised, “they came on their own.”

“Are they friends of mine, sir?”  Daniel asked innocently.

“Son, you can think of them that way.  Most entertainers call them fans.  You know, they fan your celebrity image when you’re hot…they want to cool you off, I guess.  But, Daniel, if you walk into a crowd like that again, they’ll tear you to shreds.  Don’t you know, boy, they want to own you.  They want to take you home and put you up on their mantle.”

“Why would they want to do that?”

“Because you trigger something in them they can’t touch otherwise.  And they want to feel it all the time.”

Samson directed the others to leave the dressing room.  When they were alone, Natalie reached out to hug him.  The embrace was interrupted by two raps on the door—Ten minutes to showtime, everybody!  the voice called.  Make it the best;  standing room only.  Let’s do it!”

“Daniel, are you ready, boy?”  the Colonel hunted, looking for a weakness.

“I’m scared to death…I feel I need to vomit.”

“Daniel…look at me.  You can do this.”  The Colonel’s strength filled him.

“Yes, sir.  I can do this;  I can do it,” he began to repeat, inhaling deep breaths, trying to vanquish his jangling nerves.

“Sweetie, you’ll be wonderful.  Your voice will sound beautiful…pretzel nose, you’ll wow ‘em.”

Daniel cracked up, bending over with laughter.  He started to settle down, starting to accept what he was.

“Okay…alright,” he took a deep breath, “I can do it…no problem, as long as I don’t have to wear Natalie’s earring.”

She was caught by surprise, then punched him, “You’d better!”

“What if I drop a line, sir?”  He looked puppy-dogish for an instant.

“You won’t.  Just become your song, son.  Love it like you loved the woman you wrote it for.  And love your audience like you loved her.  And love yourself above it all and you won’t drop any lines.”

“That bridge Harper wrote for me…since I didn’t write it, I never can remember the dang thing.”

“Son, if you say you never can remember it, you won’t.  Say, it is and you will sing it out.  And don’t be so hard on yourself;  Elvis dropped lines all over the place.  Remember Beckham…it’s the mind that is music.”

“…Musical.  Okay, sir.  I need to be alone for a few minutes, absolutely alone.  I just want to be with Netty in my dressing room.  Is that okay?”

“Sure, Daniel.  Two minutes, I’ll let you know two minutes before you’re onstage.”

The door closed behind him, shutting them in with each other.  They listened a moment to the hush…then to the faint patter of applause warming to the opening act.

“What are you thinking, sweetie?”  Natalie broke the silence.

“I’m thinking about my st, ta…uttering.  It sneaks up on me when I’m nervous, ho, honey.”

Natalie smiled, “I think it’s cute.”

“Cute!  You do?”

“It makes you hu, human,” she couldn’t help giggling, “flawed.”

“Oh?  Well, then I guess I’m thinking about the first moment, when I was sitting in that wretched hotel room without a fr, friend in the world;  I’m thinking about how deep inside I hurt about that woman, wo, wondering if I would ever get over her.  I didn’t weep, Natalie, but I wept inside for something so lost inside me.  I wondered if I would ever find love again.”

Natalie held him as the emotion poured out of him…  “And now, honey, in just a few minutes, there will be th, thousands of people out there screaming their love to me.  And here you are, loving me.  Man, its been full circle, swe…sweetie…” and this frail human being broke down, weeping.  Natalie rushed to his side, comforting him, fusing him in her love.

“Gee, Natalie.  What the hell is this all about?”  Daniel whispered as he tried to regain some composure.  “Do you know what’s happening here?  Tell me the secret, would you?  Is this ju, just a dream?”

“Danny, darling…sweet Daniel;  I have no idea.  All I know is, I like what you write, and I love what you are.  And, Daniel, it seems the world loves what you write, too.  I guess we’re waiting for you to explain it to us.”

The curtain was poised to rise.


04:45:33

As the sun set on our afternoon in Newport Bay, Jackie and I decided to motor my pilot buddy’s boat over to dinner at the Crabcooker on Restaurant Row.

As the breeze enlivened us, I realized the wine coolers had loosened her up, “Daniel, Black Chamber hierarchies exist in regional districts.  They have a coven that’s overseen by a warlock, high priest, or high priestess.”

I didn’t dare say anything for fear of stopping her, “…above them is another organization that covers another part of the city.  Then that city is overseen by another coven who’s part of the county.  Then you have the state, then the regions—western, southwestern, northeastern, midwestern, the central states, the south, the Great Lakes, the Eastern seaboard.  Then to continental control, then to the world coven.”

I piloted around the other boats in the bay taking it all in nonchalantly, “I suppose a world coven would necessitate a world leader?”

“Precisely, Danny.”

“And he’s the Antichrist, right?”

She was silent…and I didn’t dare look at her, just kept piloting us to the Crabcooker.

“I don’t believe there is one…yet.”

“But when he comes, he will be the Antichrist?”

She was silent…I was positive she heard me.

I was patient until she began more of the revelation, “That’s what everybody thinks, but that may not be the case.  This layout is oversimplified, tremendously.  With everything the police and the FBI know—I should say the legitimate police who are not in the group, who are trying to crack the code—there are layers and layers of webs of intrigue, with strands running everywhere, sticking to everything.  The shock for humankind would be to know how really organized and planned this underworld all is.”

I sipped my drink casually, “The Black Chamber?”

She had to get it out of her, “Yes, the spiritual underworld…it affects everything.  When you talk about Satanism to the average person, they picture some scummy-haired, long-haired freak with tatoos all over his body;  a Charles Manson look-alike.  They don’t consider the CEO of your Fortune 500 company a Satanist.  They assume he made it to the top pursuing the good old American dream—he just got all the breaks…and you can too!”

“Yeah, if you dive headfirst into the occult world,” I added.

“That’s right;  the rewards are many and varied in this world, Daniel.  It’s the next world I’m concerned about.”

We were pulling up to the Crabcooker, “Yeah, the place called eternity.  I don’t want to end up in a crab pot.

She laughed, freeing more grief inside;  “Let’s say you’re counseling a little girl who’s being abused by her parents.  Her parents are Satanists but you don’t know it.  Well, you try to convict those parents in court and you may end up standing before a judge who is a Satanist.”

Jackie slugged down a swallow of wine, “You wonder why it looks so strange that these parents are getting away with everything?”

“They’re protected, that’s all.”

We docked and walked…staggered a little to the entryway.

“How many of them are out there?”  I asked.

“We don’t know.  Perhaps one in four are practicing some form of Black Chamber activity.  In the upper echelons, perhaps ten percent of the population, but they command tremendous influence and power over the entire population.  There are many power groups to be connected with;  Satan’s only concern is that you are connected.”

“Satan, the Evil Commander?”

“That’s right, Daniel.  He’s so shrewd, he’s got everybody convinced he doesn’t exist.”

“What a joke,” I laughed, high on the wine and the revelatory conversation;  truth seems to do that to me.

“How are the warriors enlisted?”  I wondered.

“Whatever you fancy, the Evil Commander will create it for you.”

“Sex, drugs, life on the edge, riches…”

“Anything you fancy, Daniel, he’ll create it for you;  that’s what the New Age religion is all about.  It’s a potpourri of satisfaction looking for an impulse of desire.  The New Agers aren’t into black masks, daggers, caldrons, ancestral curses, and Brotherhood Satanists.”

“Yeah, no medieval stuff with motes and castles for Mr. and Mrs. New Ager.”

“The New Agers were looking for a clean and trimmed-up Satanism, Daniel.  The demonic realm was all too eager to comply.”

We were seated, famished, eyeing the menu, “The hierarchy…how many are out there, Jackie?”

“I think I’ll try the bouillabaisse…I tend to think there are a lot more fish to boil than anyone realizes.  I’ve run into several without realizing who they were.  Beware when you are told, You can’t enter here.”

What’s she talking about, “Beware of what?”

“A cult is a cult, Daniel.”

I ordered the Pacific Northwest salmon, “Are they visible people with invisible powers, Jackie?”

“Yes.”

“Do they have all the power?”

“They have all of Satan’s power, but there is much more power available.”

I munched on carrot sticks, “Where?”

“If we’ve been discussing Antichrist power, Daniel, then the true power lies in Christ power.”

I hoped I wasn’t in for a message;  “How do you activate that power?”

“I’m not sure you do.”

She ordered a bottle of vintage burgundy.


04:57:48

The lights dimmed.  Pitch black.

The Moore Theater in Seattle was poised in anxious exhilaration;  it was Daniel Lovesong’s debut!  The hall was jammed, standing room only.  The energy was electric, high voltage.

The music fell silent.

Daniel waited behind the curtain, fiddling with his earring.  He felt the count…he heard the note inside.  He opened his voice to the microphone and sang three lines a cappella…

If I had known it was the last time,

I would have grown beyond those past times,

I’d have tried to love you deeper than I know…

The audience went berserk, the applause was deafening.  Floods soaked the curtain with brilliant purple and white light…they raced all over in rapid movements.

The curtain began to rise.  The light saturated Daniel’s violet leather vest, bouncing off his lucky silver dollar stuck in his cowboy hat.  His legs are wrapped in tight-fitting faded jeans, striped with leather.

His cowboy boot starts tapping the count.  Then his body moves to it, 2,3,4…the band blasts in.  Light floods the string section, then to the horns and woodwinds.  He’s listening for his cue coming up.  He sees her face in his mind, his lover who opened him up to himself, and then he lets it out…

How could I know, it was the last time we’d make love?

Did you know, it didn’t show.

Could we have known,

there was a deeper place to go,

more than we’ve heard,

beyond the spoken word.

If I had known it was the last time,

I would have grown beyond those past times,

I’d have tried to love you deeper than I know,

For your eyes were the eyes I knew,

Your lips, a kiss so true,

Your touch, it felt so new in the night,

I didn’t know.

A woman near the stage suddenly began sobbing uncontrollably, hysterically.  Ladies began screaming all around her…

Well, I know, the next time we make love,

We will have grown, we won’t feel alone.

For there is a place, where nothing else is real,

Except your eyes, and how you make me feel.

The screaming is blocking me;  he couldn’t hear himself on the monitors.

Daniel started to panic.  Then he saw Beckham’s face in his mind, “You have to be able to feel what you’re singing.  You have to be able to give it your best without being able to hear it.  Find the beautiful tone regardless of what’s going on around you.”

The chorus was coming up;  he knew it like he was singing it to himself…

For your eyes were the eyes I knew,

Your lips, a kiss so true,

Your touch, it felt so new in the night,

And I knew.

Daniel was hit with fear.  Harper’s bridge was next, something he didn’t write, didn’t quite know it.  He saw himself stutter, then falter.  Then he heard, Out of here, fear.  Out of here, devil, and he faced the lines head-on—

There’s a time to see more clearly,

it’s now that we’re apart.

To discover through the joy of life

what will lighten up our ha, har, hearts.

For your eyes were the eyes I knew,

Your lips, a kiss so true,

And in Daniel’s head, he heard his favorite line coming up, and he belted it out to the universe, way past the fear zone…

Our soul, the soul we fused, in the light…

and I knew.

The applause drowned out the band, carrying him into waves of bliss.  He bowed as innocently as a country-boy might, and was flattened by a blow to the side of his body.

He came to…a lady was holding him, frantically screaming at him.  He gazed at her…dizzy, blinking, wondering Do I know you?  Then fear attacked him, he froze.  A security guard rushed over, violently shoving her off the stage.  On the way down, she banged her head on the edge terribly.

The gash began to bloody her boyfriend’s lap.  She was sobbing uncontrollably…he saw her pain and exploded savagely, pumped up from an afternoon on the Nautilus machines.  He leapt on stage, slugging the security guard as hard as he could.  His buddies joined in and the brawl was on.

Security guards stormed the stage from everywhere.  Video cameras were rolling;  ladies were swarming on stage, trying to take a piece of Daniel home.  He is being dragged offstage by four security men;  five ladies are making claim to his left leg.  His boot is gone and now, his pant leg is starting to tear off as they…the ladies are trying to drag him back on stage!

The security guards yank with all their might…yank and strain, ripppp.  They win this tug-a-war;  the ladies win his pant leg.

Daniel yelled above the turmoil, as he limped backstage, “Netty, what’s happening?”

“I don’t know, but let’s get out of here,” she screamed, her face contorted in terror.

They rushed toward the stage door, frantically looking for familiar faces.  Daniel caught the Colonel’s eyes as the din of the riot began to move toward them.

A stranger watched them approach the exit.  As they hurtled past him, he yelled into the Colonel’s ear.  Samson hollered back over the bedlam, “A hundred grand a week?  Let’s be serious!  Daniel is the hottest thing since Elvis.  How much money did those slot machines sing to you when Elvis filled the house?”

The three of them dashed out the door, leaving the stranger stuttering.

The newspapers reported the next morning the crowd went delirious:  hundreds stampeded backstage, hysterically searching, hunting for Daniel.  A riot broke out, pandemonium ruled, as Daniel, Natalie, and the Colonel piled into the waiting limousine.  It sped off into the night as the three watched the flashing red and blue lights of the police reflecting all over the scene.  The wail of the sirens had begun.

Daniel, out of breath and hoarse, whispered, “What’s happening, Colonel?”

Samson gasped for air, “I saw the same…” he took a deep breath, “the same thing happen to Elvis.”

“Elvis?”  Daniel glanced innocently at Natalie.

“History does repeat itself, son.  They’re going to turn you into Christ.”

“Christ?  What are you talking about Mr. Samson?”

“Do you know what an idol is, son?”

“No, sir.”

“It’s something people pray to.  They thank it when things go right in their life, and curse it when things don’t.  Sound familiar?  Sounds like what Jesus is, an idol?  Remember this, son—religions will always come and go;  superstitions last forever.”

“What are you saying, sir?”

“I’m saying, lad, don’t become a superstition to yourself.  Don’t ever forget what you are.  When you’re on stage, and they’re screaming their pants off at you, don’t be their savior.”

“I wasn’t thinking of saving anyone, sir.”

“It sneaks up on you, son.  I saw it happen to Elvis;  the stage was his only mirror.  Lennon handled it well;  he was so crazy anyhow.  Yoko was good for him in that regard;  she kept him only four feet small when he was really eight feet tall.  Son, Elvis and the Beatles were bigger than life.  They were almost mystical in their power.  Elvis even believed he was a prophet destined to lead, designated by God for a special role in life.”

“A special role?  A special soul I can believe…maybe.”  Daniel added.

“Well, here’s the thing.  What is the psychology of a crowd?  Why do entertainers captivate it, even beyond that of a President, maybe even beyond the Pope?  What is the special power entertainers have, especially males over females?”

Natalie reacted, “I know the power he has over me!”

“What is it?”

“He’s just so cute.”

“So are puppy dogs so cute.”  Daniel smirked.

“Okay, there’s more,” she tried to put it into words.  “He sings these songs of innocence, and he’s so vulnerable to love, to what he is.  And he’s willing to express it, to open himself up to ridicule, to face what he is.”

“But what makes them want to tear my clothes off, Netty?”

Samson had the answer, “On stage, Daniel, you may not know it but you’re a writhing mass of sensuality.  Those demure young ladies who have lived their life in the prison of their mind, let the demon out when they see your pants—you let them feel what’s taboo.

“And in that moment, they want to own the feeling forever.  And in the same moment, they want to destroy you because they can’t.  This thing called love is a torturous thing—it wants to feel what it’s never felt before, then it wants to possess, and then it wants to destroy.  Maybe onstage the mirror is too bright for them, they just can’t handle the light.  Didn’t someone say, love is the same emotion as hate?”

“Yes, every philosopher and guru knew that,” Daniel noted.

Natalie’s voice interrupted, “If we could define hate, then we could define love?”

Hate, love’s mirror, Daniel heard the thought, How did that song go?…  “It’s love’s illusion I recall, I really don’t know love at all…don’t know life at all.”

“If love is adulation,” Samson commented, “Elvis showed us it doesn’t work.”

“How?”

“Elvis’s last major performance was a satellite broadcast from the Honolulu International Center, broadcast live at one A.M.  The place was packed with about twenty-five thousand people.  The satellite beam went out to thirty-six countries.  One billion people were watching!”

“A billion people,” Daniel exclaimed.

“Yes,” Samson shook his head, “Elvis had to be the most beloved man in the world and he still couldn’t accept it.  And son, if you’re into irony, here’s one for you.  E’s first big hit was Heartbreak Hotel.  He sold a million of those little forty-five rpm platters right off the starting block.  Elvis took one-hundred, twenty-seven gold records to his grave.  And he died of a broken heart.  If he wasn’t loved, who was?

“Man…died of a broken heart?”

“Irony,” Samson conceded.  “Dave Hebler, one of E’s bodyguards said it well—how do you protect a man from himself?”


05:27:24

Are there Satanists?

I inquisited Jackie, “Does evil really exist or do people just have bad days and decide to shoot up a McDonald’s?”

We were sitting by the pond at Irvine Park.  It was Springtime, a bright, crisp California day.  I watched the man ducks following the lady ducks, waiting for the appropriate moment.

She hesitated…  “I wouldn’t want to go into detail about that on tape, Daniel;  that’s a very sensitive issue.  I have to be real careful about discussing something like that…about specifics because that can raise, ah…that kind of information can raise real scary problems.  Exposing.”

“Scary?  I don’t understand.”

“If I exposed some of the things I’m aware of, you’re bound to have somebody at your door threatening you.”

Being my inquisitive self I asked, “Why?”

“If the information revealed is very specific, they know where it came from.  The Black Chamber has a real tracking network.  Within their network, they pass information around very quickly;  they’re up on things.  So if they get a hint that something’s leaked…Daniel, they are already keeping an eye on your wife’s circle of friends.”

“My wife?  Has something happened to her…something Satanic?”

“Yes, Daniel.”

I remember thinking how strange this adventure had become.  Jackie’s voice continued, “They could be tapping our phones to find out how much she’s telling us.  And when they find out she’s revealing certain information, that’s when they’ll go back to her and start abusing her.”

“What kind of abuse?”

She pursed her lips, “The minute she opens her mouth to the police, Daniel, she’s going to suffer for it…she’s going to suffer tremendously for it.  When they find out, they’ll kidnap her and torture her.

“Why this poor woman, Jackie?”

She paused and looked hard at me, wondering if I could handle it…  “Because your wife, Daniel, is a generational high-priestess.”


05:30:59

A stretch limousine arrived at a dingy apartment building on Forty-Second Street in New York.

She was waiting out front for them, as ravishing and delectable as a freshly powdered pussycat could be.  The chauffeur opened the door for her.  Three females welcomed her to the domain of luxury;  they were older than sixteen.  Two had been through this before.  One, wearing ice-brown hair tonight, said, “They tell us you like to pose real sexy, Dolly.  Is that true?”

Dolly smiled, “Why, it is, darlin’.  That’s what they taught us Southern girls to do—act sexy, tease, and hold it back until you get what you want.”

They all burst into laughter, the ice-brown girl saying, “Well, sweetie, if you hold off on these guys too long, you’re liable to end up like Hoffa did, crushed in one of those salvage yard car-smashing machines.”

“Hoffa…what’s a Hoffa?”  and she fluttered her eyelashes.

“Before your time, sweetie.  Now, listen, this is what’s up.  You’re gonna be treated like a real special lady.  That’s cause you are.  Your Sexy Lady cover shot has caused a stir;  nobody knew how popular rape scenes would be.  It’s not that you’re gonna be raped, but there’s just some fellahs who want to finish off the fantasy with you.  You know what we mean, honey?”

“Well, I guess I do,” she bantered in her Southern drawl.  “What do they want from me, darlin’?”

“Just be the wild thing you are, sweetie.  You’ll be introduced to the right people, and these people can help you in your career.”

“Career?”  and she flapped her eyelashes.

“Well, sweetie…ah, you’re a model, aren’t you?  You pose for pictures, right.  And they’re sellin’ a lot of those, those lamps that was posed with you on that nightstand in the cover shot.  Remember?  You’re a famous salesperson, just like Ed MacMahon.”

“Oh!?  Yes, Mr. MacMahon…but he sells other stuff, doesn’t he?”  And she looked like she was thinkin’ real hard.

“Well, sweetie, there are a…a lot of lamp merchants who want to meet…er, be introduced to you.  Some of these are even diplomats to other countries.  Do you know what a diplomat is, sweetie?”

“Sure, I do, honey.  That’s somebody who flies back and forth between countries carrying money in suitcases, and stuff like that.”

The older ones smiled at each other…  “Yep, that’s what they do, alright.”

She let it out breathlessly, “Will I meet him?  And will he make me a star?”

“You’ll probably meet him, honey.  And you’ll probably end up playing bedroom aerobics with him—his video crew will be grinding away while you’re grinding away.  But don’t count on being a star, sweetie.  You will end up rubbing noses, and other things, with some big shots who can help you along.  But these Johns don’t part with their money too easy.  You’ve got what they want;  learn how to use it…learn how to say, maybe.  Keep that priceless prize between your legs smellin’ as sweet as you can, sweetie.  Make ‘em earn the honey, honey.”

The iced-brunette added, “We went along with it for the same aspirations, Dolly.  Except you just end up a glorified whore—limos to the parties, a new wardrobe every month, some spending money for food, an apartment.  All we have to do is look pretty, act sexy, smell good, and put out when we’re told to.  And maybe someday we’ll meet someone who cares about us just a little, and we’ll live happily ever after like the fairy tale says.”

She clutched her purse, “In the meantime, we stay clean, we’re respected, and we mix and match with high society.”

The silent stranger listened to the sensual innuendo almost in a dream state…  “And is it high!’”

“At least we stay off the streets, Dolly.”  The Arctic blond paused, looking fragile, out of character, “And sweetie, sometimes there ain’t much choice in this fucked-up world.”


05:39:56

At Irvine Pond.

The lady ducks didn’t seen to be interested in the man ducks this spring.  Although as I observed, they didn’t move too far away from the man ducks;  just far enough to be interesting.

“Jackie,” I asked, “Do you think one of these ducks is a Satanist?”

She laughed, “I wonder if ducks can have demons.”

“Have you ever counseled a duck?”

She thought for a second…”  Not that I know of.”

I laughed over that one, then asked, “If my wife is a generational high-priestess, what is that?”

“That’s someone, Daniel, who has a Satanic destiny and calling on her life.”

“Someone called to lead?”

“Precisely.”

“To lead the hierarchies?”

“Yes, precisely…to perpetuate the tragedy.  Here’s one of the other elements to this:  let’s say you’re a high priest in the Black Chamber.  Suppose you’re told that if you want to hold this position in the warpack, if you want to have the money and power offered, there is an exchange due.”

I pondered for a second, then said, “What exchange?”

“By Saturday night you have to locate a blond-haired, blue-eyed female between the ages of ten and twenty-five…and you have to deliver her to us for sacrifice.”

I swallowed hard, “Can’t I refuse to do that?”

“Sure you can…except for the fact that you’re convinced your left arm will cut off and eaten right before your eyes.”

“Jesus…”

“Yes.”

I couldn’t believe it…I didn’t want to believe it;  “Say it’s all a lie, Jackie;  just a lie.”

“I wish I could, Daniel.  Perhaps the reason you don’t want to believe Satanists exist, is because you’d have to believe Satan exists.  And if there were a Satan, you would know there is a Savior.”

It made sense to me…then it didn’t;  “Jackie…all I know is my wife is sick, and I just want to see her well and whole again.”

“She can be healed when she knows of the onslaught against her.”

A lady duck was quacking at a man duck who was clumsily trying to mount her…  “Onslaught?”

“Yes, Daniel…the warfare being fought for your wife’s soul.  Let me explain about the deadly rituals.”


05:41:32

Siggie looked up from his guitar strings.  He prodded Daniel, “What do you want to start the album out with, kid?”

They were rehearsing at Goodwin Recording Studios, set up in a private estate in the Colony at Malibu Beach.

“I don’t know, Sig.  I’m depressed…I don’t feel like workin’, man.”

“Whatta ya mean?  We have to work;  we’ve got bills to pay, kid.”

“Ah, shit, what’s it all for?”  Daniel looked like he wanted to cry, “I visited my Uncle Ralph this weekend.  He busted his ass all his life, saved a huge nest egg…now he pees in wastebaskets.  Damn.”

“What?”  Siggie was trying not to chuckle.

“He’s got this dratted disease, Sig…he’s lost his brains.  And his wife, who lost her’s years ago, won’t send him to the home—the house smells like a Chevron station restroom.”

Daniel watched the waves break in front of the studio.

“That bad…” Siggie held his nose.

“He wakes up in the middle of the night and tears up the place.  It’s so dirty, you could throw rice on the floor and a paddy would grow.  The place is decorated in brown.”

Siggie tried to hold a straight face, “Can’t she do anything, Danny?”

“Yeah…right.  Her mind works like this.  My fondest memory of her was when we were playing Sorry.  We were waiting…and waiting…and waiting for her to play a card.  After what seemed like an eternity, she finally rests her elbows on the table, her chin on her wrists, and she says, “Well, well, well.  What am I going to do, do…do?”

Siggie broke up, bending over with laughter.

“That’s not the worst of it, Sig—he thinks he’s being chased by a bloodsucking elf.”

Siggie collapsed in hysterics.

“I’m serious, Sig.  A psychic came over Saturday and confirmed it;  she saw this elf in his aura.”

Siggie screamed louder and louder.

“While I was there, Sig, she came over for an exorcism.  Uncle Ralph walked out of his bedroom, like he always does at three in the morning, and starts to pee in the wastebasket.  She’s waiting and watching, ready to perform the exorcism.  She sees the elf in his aura and lets out this blood-curdling scream.  He jumps like a kid playing dodgeball, peeing all over the wall.  Then he turns to her and says, ‘We don’t need to do that again!’  She says real majestically, ‘I know—the elf is gone!’”

Siggie is in stitches…  “Well, was it?”

“I don’t know.  I’ll check in on him and let you know.”  Daniel shook his head, “Do you believe this, Sig?  Is this stuff really happening in the minds of our ancestors, or is it being played out in a dream somewhere?  I mean, what are the archaeologists gonna say when they stumble onto our remains in 10,050 A.D.?”

“Man,” he wiped away the tears of laughter.  “Yeah, can you see ‘em goin’ through our garbage trying to piece our civilization back together?  Whew…maybe this is all happening in the theater of the absurd.”

“It is absurd, and we aren’t even looking for another way!  That’s what gets me peeved—everybody seems to be happy with this dream.  Damn, is that what I have to look forward to…age, peein’ in wastebaskets?”

“Maybe you’ll die in a blaze of glory and be martyred.”

“Better than peein’ on walls, Sig.  Whew…I feel better gettin’ it off my chest—thanks.  Okay, here’s some stuff for our theater of the absurd, the album;  I thought I’d go after South Africa.”

“Good man.  Those white bastards need a lickin’, treatin’ them poor black folk like they are.”  Siggie drummed his fingers on his guitar.

“Yeah, it crashes me off to no end.  I saw this video of the men bein’ taken from their families and carted off like slaves to the gold mines of Johannesburg.  It just killed me…I had to write a song about.”

“Oh, come on, Danny boy;  I’m not your publicist.”

“Alright, man.  Well, about three-quarters down a bottle of wine, the first few verses came.  The next morning the tune came, along with a nasty hangover.  I must be gettin’ old;  I can’t drink anymore.  Well, I can drink, I just can’t walk anymore.  Anyhow, this is a real statement song.  It opens with a narration…

There’s a train crammed with young and old African men.  They’re stolen men, taken away from their herds and loved ones.  The feeble and strong are forced to work shoulder to shoulder in the gold mines of Johannesburg, sixteen hours a day for almost no pay.

Deep, deep, down in the earth they dig for the elusive yellow mineral, drilling their holes, feeling the rock dust choke up their lungs, knowing their lifetime is being cut down right before their eyes.  With each breath, it feels like they’re dying from mining for gold.

“Then the lead vocal kicks in…”

I come to you, to work for you, a ridin’ on your gold train,

I come to you, to dig your mines, to live in filth for no pay.

You take me from my family,

you take me from the land I need.

You take me from my dignity,

you take me from the prayers I believe.

I come to you, to work for you, a ridin’ on your gold train,

You can’t know about what I feel, until you’ve felt

the rock-dust pain.

You can’t know about all my tears

until you’ve felt just one of my fears.

Am I the victim of a world in need,

or did I allow this thing to be?

Is this the picture of all man’s greed,

or could I have allowed this hurt to be?

Daniel noticed Siggie listening intently;  “Here’s the bridge, Sig…”

This song I sing, I sing to you,

I sing it to my spirit.

This song I sing, oh, let it ring,

let all the stolen men hear it.

I look to a day when I see the way,

for all men to be brothers.

What you do for me, you do to you.

Ya know, there are no others …

Siggie yelled, “Man, that’s hot—really hot.  Whew…” and he shook his hands, cooling them down.  “That says the stuff that needs to be said.  Okay, alright.  Well done, man.”  He slapped Daniel on the back, “You are hot, Samson was right.  I’ll work it up.”

Daniel knew he was hot…  “It came in G.  What center is that, Sig?”

“G is the throat center, man;  the center of communication—love expressed.”

“Well, how about that!”  Daniel bellowed.

“Cool, man.  You channeled it.”

“Yeah, I know…but from where, Sig?…”

“From Uncle Ralph’s…”

“bloodsucking elf,” they roared in unison.


05:50:16

Cyndee and Captain Myron Pederson sat at their Formica-topped dinner table, passing plastic dishes to each other.

“I just met a real fuckass non-Christian,” Cyndee casually remarked;  “it wasn’t a daydream.”  She took a long drag on her Virginia Slim, waiting for Myron’s reaction.

He looked up from his well-done steak, “Whataya been smokin’, Cyn?”

“Ah, shattup yo face, bub.”  She passed Myron the boiled, skinned potatoes.

“What was on that Bozo’s mind, Cyn?”

“Oh, I watched him come into the office looking for one of the secretaries.  You know the type…penis hanging down his pantleg looking for his next screwee.  Would it be screwee or screwor, Myron?—you know all about the law.”

Myron looked up from his potatoes, “Is this real important to you, Cyn?  I mean…okay, I think the one who gets fucked is the screwee.  The other person, whether he’s a man or a woman, is the screwor.”

“Oh…honestly, praise Jesus,” Cyndee stammered, “I don’t know how they can do it, sleep around and around and around, fucking anything that walks.  How do they keep from the di…di…seases—I don’t even want to say the word.”

Myron swallowed a chunk of meat, “They have good doctors;  they’re all rich, you know—those playboy womanizers.  I heard they make their prospective dates take blood tests.  You know, if you want to screw me, let’s sample your blood first.  How did you know he wasn’t Christian, Cyn?”

“By the way he looked, the way he walked…the way he smelled!”  She French-inhaled the cigarette, milking its nicotine.

“Yeah, you can smell ‘em from a mile away.”  Myron chewed on another chunk of meat, pulling out the gristle, “Was he a cultist?”

“I’m not sure…said he wrote a book about the New Age—had a big smile on his face, like he was up to somethin’.  That’s devilish if you ask me.”

“For sure.  Praise Jesus, full of grace.”  They both bowed in prayer for a few seconds, quoting John 8:32—if you live as I tell you to, the truth will set you free.

Myron stabbed another chunk of meat with his fork, “What book did he write, Cyn?”

“The Wind from…something.  The Wind from Forever—something like that.”  She swallowed a mouthful of black coffee.

“I heard about that book on the news—they ought to burn it.”  Myron was concerned, “Is that the one that says you are what you think;  you can make life into anything you want to, without Jesus?”  He swallowed hard.

“That’s the one,” Cyndee answered without hesitation, crossing herself.

Myron shook his head, “How can you live without Jesus?”  He rubbed the cross dangling around his neck with his greasy fingertips.

“You can’t—you simply can’t!”  She blew three smoke-rings that sailed past Myron’s right ear…  “Pass the potatoes, will you, Myron?”

“Sinister.”  Myron passed Cyndee the potatoes, wiping his fingers on his jeans.

“Jesus…Jesus, I’m so happy I have a savior to save me from all my sins,” Cyndee recited.  “I’m so happy to know I’m going to heaven.  I’m so sorry everybody who doesn’t believe in Jesus is going to hell to have the shit burned out of them.  I’m so happy…pass the carrots will you, Myron.”

She took another deep, long drag on her Virginia Slim, drawing in the fumes, mixing them with the aroma of boiled, canned carrots.

“Yes, I’m so happy, too,” Myron smiled.  “I’m so happy Jesus is taking care of Sissy.”

“Yes—shit, yes!  If it wasn’t for Jesus, she’d be shootin’ up with all those tramps she hangs out with and screwin’ long-dicked writers.  Do you think Jesus ever did drugs, Myron?”

“Ah…haven’t read anything about it in the Bible.”  Myron took a sip from his beer, leaning back in his chair, “Praise Jesus.  How did you know he had a long dick, Cyndee?”

“Who…Jesus?”  she chewed her carrots six times before she swallowed.

“No, Cyn, that writer you saw.”  Myron swallowed a chunk of meat, eyeing her.

“Oh…because you could see it, Myron—you could see it!”  And the smoke curled out of her nostrils, rising past her yellow-brown eyes, played in her dyed-blond hair, and floated up to stain the ceiling.

Myron took a long pull from his beer, his elbows resting on the edge of the table, the can dangling in his fingers, wondering if he would have seen it like Cyndee did.


06:06:03

“When you know the truth about yourself, and know the truth about God, you’ll be free, Daniel.”

Jackie toasted me…a toast to my freedom.

We were watching the sunset on the bluff, overlooking the beachgoers and the surfers while sampling imported cheese, organic apple slices, and domestic wine.

“Freedom sounds good, Jackie;  I receive it.”

After I had swallowed my glass down, I realized Jackie had just sipped hers;  somehow alcohol made it all feel better.

“You’ll never completely overcome what was intended to be, Daniel;  you can never go back and get your parents back.  You can never go back to infancy completely but you can receive a secondary childhood.”

I tried a slice of gouda from France with a rye cracker from Norway, “You can?”

“Yes.  The road to recovery is acknowledging, bringing up the stuff frozen in the brain;  bringing it up, looking at it, feeling it.”

“So I might be able to say, very bluntly and with no affection, ‘Oh, yeah, I saw my dad killed with a shotgun blast to the face when I was seven;  the maid did it…’ and I will sound as arbitrary as Murder She Wrote.”

“Yes, Daniel.  However there were feelings your brain experienced at that time.  You may not experience those emotions every time you talk about it, or anytime you talk about it, until one day you hear a backfire that sounds like a shotgun blast.  The next thing you know, you’re on the floor, curled up in a little ball sucking your thumb.”

That sentence captivated my writing nature.  I slugged down another wine-glass full, a Bordeaux from the hill country of Italy, “Jesus…what a great scene;  me just curled up into a fetal position, adult reality sucked away into some dimension of time.”

“Except for one item, Daniel—you’ll have no realization of what happened in that moment;  you’ll split into your little child and stay glued to the floor.  Maybe you’ll hallucinate, maybe you’ll fragment into other scenes.”

I watched a Fat Albert flying overhead;  a Boeing 737 jetliner— “It would be real interesting if I was flying my plane and the engine backfired, triggering the episode, turning me into a pile of insanity…real interesting.”

“That’s why passenger jets have two pilots.  The FAA medical examiner will convince you the redundancy is for medical possibilities, for instance an unexpected heart attack.  Emotional episodic possibilities are not discussed, Daniel.  But I counsel pilots who are afraid of heights and who experience panic attacks.”

“What would a panic attack sound like, Jackie?”

“Let’s say you’re approaching a bridge.  You’d stop, knowing you couldn’t drive over it.  Your palms become sweaty, you start breathing heavily.  The next thing you know, you’re having chest pains;  you can’t see, you’re hyperventilating and your can’t function, you’re paralyzed.”

“I’m envisioning an airline captain having an overpowering panic attack, Jackie, one complete with an epileptic seizure.  The flight controls are frozen in a down configuration.”

Jackie sipped from my glass, tasting the rouge, remarking, “I wonder how many passengers have died because of that?”

“It would be difficult for the copilot to overpower the Captain in time…especially close to a landing.”

“Extremely difficult.”

My pilot instincts surfaced this comment;  “Or how about this scenario, Jackie—the copilot is female, the Captain, male.  They’ve been seeing each other secretly.  He’s in mid-life crisis, codependent, and borderline manic-depressive;  she’s young, beautiful, and free as a bird.  One of his dark alters decides he can’t live without her—if he can’t have her, no one will.”

“Sounds like a lethal combination,” Jackie commented.

“On the landing approach, this suicidal alter emerges at two-hundred feet above touchdown.  It forces the jetliner into a sixty-degree bank and kicks right rudder hard;  the jetliner goes inverted, the passengers are screaming to high heaven, and the female copilot is helpless in her attempt to overpower his demonic alter.  The FAA investigators listen over and over to her screaming voice on the cockpit voice recorder, ‘Oh, my God…Oh, my God!’”

Jackie fell silent.

I munched on celery sticks to satisfy my rabbit instincts, “What’s the association with the bridge and panic attacks, Jackie?”

She came out of her thoughts, “In a panic attack, the symbol is the key to overcoming the anxiety.  The anxiety could be something as covert as the message hiding behind the bridge, maybe not specifically the bridge itself.”

“For instance…”

Jackie sipped on her Merlot, “Suppose a friend of yours reminded you of your mother who was driving in San Francisco.  It just so happened she was on a bridge when the modern-day San Francisco earthquake hit.  Your mom ended up buried in the Bay by the City.  Not only did she leave her heart in San Francisco, she also left her body in the Bay.”

I laughed about that, “The song says, ‘In the city by the bay.”

“Well, this bod’s in the bay.  And for the rest of your life, you have a bridge phobia.”

I didn’t know why I was laughing;  it just sounded funny.

“Daniel, whatever the event, it touched a deeper issue in you.  Perhaps not necessarily the loss of a friend, but the loss of what the friend represents;  an earlier, deeper loss that goes further back, eventually revealing an abandonment issue you had with your mother.”

“Jesus, there are all these little, subtle connections…”

“Representing your behaviors…and your needs, Daniel.  But it’s been my understanding also, that these events oftentimes don’t surface until your late-thirties or early-forties, sometimes as late as your fifties.  Unusual cases you hear about catch us in our late-twenties and early-thirties.

“It sounds like emotional crisis disguises itself as mid-life crisis.”

“Yes.  When episodes start piling up in your life and your mind can’t take any more, your defense mechanisms start making many associations.  Then all the pain starts spilling out like a waterfall through depression, anxiety, alcohol and drug abuse, sexual addictions or perversions, or through underworld rituals.”

I watched the sailboats sailing by;  “So these…these Satanists are really just wounded children experiencing their rage?”

“Partly, but they’re also hooking into the power of Satan;  he will eventually devour them alive.  It’s a no-win situation.”

I twisted the head off a loaf of French bread, dipping a chunk in my wine;  my version of communion…  “Jackie, about choices.  Is there a choice available on the road from emotional devastation to Satanic ritual abuse?”

She tasted a brie from Scandinavia on a seven-grain, sesame seed cracker from Budapest— “Yes, you finally reach a place in your life,” she mumbled between her nibbles, “where your mind says, Okay, I can handle this now.  Then, little by little within God’s grace, your stuff starts coming up.”

I poured another glass, this time the Merlot.  I sipped, my lips nibbling on the rim.  Then I finally remembered the words to the Fun-zone calliope tune— “Old MacDonald had a farm, ee eye, ee eye oh.  And on this farm he had some pigs…ee eye, ee eye oh.”

Jackie joined me, “With an oink, oink here, and a oink, oink there;  here an oink, there a oink, everywhere an oink, oink…Old MacDonald had a farm;  ee eye, ee eye, oh.”

We started laughing uproariously;  passersby were staring at us, then were caught up in the laughter…  “Old MacDonald had a farm, ee eye, ee eye oh.  And on this farm he had some ducks…ee eye, ee eye oh.  With a quack, quack here, and a oink, oink there;  here a quack, there a oink, everywhere a oink, oink…

We joined hands, walking and singing along the bluff, “Oh, old MacDonald had a farm…ee eye, ee eye oh.”


06:15:52

To some, the movement of time was an illusion.

To others, the seconds ticked

one after the other.

To Natalie, time was a grotesque phantom

moving in a heartbeat.

The whine of the behemoth horsepowered Formula race cars permeated their senses.

They walked hand in hand into the pit area.  For Natalie, the cries of the engines were like men to be tamed.  For Daniel, they were his nemesis—they took her away from him.  And perhaps one day, she would never return.

She had become the poem of Daniel’s life.  It was nice, at last, to find someone who fit like that, into his rhyme, on his meter, between his lines.  I was destined, he intimated, to an eternity of bed-hopping;  trying out the latest model was becoming very trying.

Yes, certainly, it was the lust for a woman that attracted him.  And who was the wise one who had defined lust?  Was it the movement of the body, the glance of the eye, the lilt of the voice, the composition of the face?  Or was it some secret energy that electrified two souls, putting blinders on for everyone else?  Could it be sensuous passion driven to the madness of bliss?

Whatever it was, after the lust, all Daniel wanted was the one that carried his heart away, whatever that meant.  Definitions…the movement of time creates definitions.  Maybe that’s what it’s all about…trying to define a feeling within, then hunting down someone who can share it with you.  Maybe lust is when you tackle somebody from the rear, dragging them down, forcing them to share your feeling.  And maybe love is facing them head-on, asking them to share your feeling.

Natalie needed to be tackled.  The game birthed excitement to Daniel—energy sparked.  And like all women, when she appeared on Daniel’s scene she didn’t appear alone.  She carried with her remnants of what she had been—all of her past had ventured to define what she was today.  When she slipped into the cockpit of a rumbling engineering marvel, she slipped into the now…the past was forgotten in a heartbeat.

Yet, it was these infernal speed machines that were carrying her away from him.  He didn’t like it, yet he did—he felt her quake when she talked of her lust for speed.  She breathed in the supercharged air like he breathed the mountain poetry of Squaw Valley;  she took the curves as he carved his turns.  Yet, there were vast differences in flying down the mountain and flying down the straight—if Daniel fell on the ski slope, perhaps he might break a bone.  If Natalie fell…he would rather not think about it.

That reporter’s questions about her death-run down the straight?  Perhaps they should have been directed at Daniel instead of Natalie.  The cold sweat of fear was making itself known in him.  And it was not fear for himself;  it was the fear of losing what he loved—Natalie.  The net had been spun, the weave of a spider.

He brought himself out of his trance…looking into her affectionately, deciding every moment together would be their last moment together.  He stumbled into the net.

Natalie saw his look, but didn’t comprehend the depths of vulnerability it uncovered.  She only saw the good looks of his countenance and the life that issued forth from him.  And maybe the light she saw in Daniel’s eyes was the light she had been avoiding in her…

In a heartbeat Natalie broke out of her reverie, “How does she sound, Ron?”

Her chief mechanic wiped grime from his hands, “She scopes very nicely, sounds as fine.  We worked over the steering linkage.  Couldn’t find any problems, so we replaced the entire structure just to be safe.  Everything should be fine, but ease it up to top anyhow.  Test as you go just to be safe.”

“Roger,” Natalie’s blood surged through her system.  “Anything else I should know?”

“No, you know everything else.  It’s all in your mind—drive it like you would Monte.  Record every creak and groan so we can be ready.”

“Got it, Ron!”  she shouted.  “Come and help me suit up, Daniel.”

“Roger,” Daniel backed away from her energy.  They practically ran to the van—she was supercharged, ready to tear up the course.  Mitzi followed them in, slinking around corners, hiding in shadows.

As the door slammed behind them, Daniel cried out at her, “How is this ever going to end?”

“What?  What are you talking about?”  she tore into him.  “How is what going to end?”

“This racing business, Natalie.  How can it only end?”

“By retirement.”  She ignored his foreboding, slipping fresh, flame-retardant undergarments over her curves.  “Sooner or later, when you can’t find the groove anymore, they put you out to pasture…the old gray mare, remember that song, Danny?  That’s all.”

“Sure they do,” Daniel mocked her.  “Look at A. J., he’s public property now.  They come to see him drive the loops, not to race.  They don’t care if he can handle it anymore;  they just come to see him run in circles.  He won’t know when he doesn’t have it…only when he ends up in the hay bales or the meat wagon.”

“Oh, shit, Daniel,” she jumped on him, “stop with that bullshit.  I don’t need to hear it.  I’m not planning to become part of a wall and, for God’s sakes, I’m not going to leave you…so just find your red badge of courage and button up your mouth.”

“But Natalie…” Daniel reached for her.

She pushed him away, grabbing for the Ferrari racing suit, striped red, white, and green against yellow…  “Daniel, don’t be that way around me;  especially now.  When I need a puppy dog, I’ll pick one up at the pet shop.  I need a man right now and men don’t whimper.”  She glared at him.

“I didn’t think I was whimpering, sweetie.”

He’s into this ‘sweetie’ shit, again…  “Oh, I’m sorry, Danny.  I was too harsh with you.  Yes, I appreciate your love, very much.  It’s just that, right now, my mind is on the triple.  And, please understand that I can’t deal with anything else but the triple.  That’s all it was, Danny…just me, thinking about the triple.  Okay?”

“Yeah, you’re right, I was being puppy-dogish,” he tried to find some composure.  “But, hell, that’s the way I felt—now I feel differently.”

She caught him, “Funny, isn’t it…how you can change your insides just like that.  Or did you change your insides based on how I reacted to your insides showing on the outside?”

“Well, maybe…”

“You got caught with your love showing, Danny.  Take it, that’s a good song title.”

Daniel broke up, “Yeah, that’s right.  When all else fails, a poet always ends up with a good song title.  In my winner’s circle are a lot of broken loves and a pile of songs to warm the fire at night.”

She began slipping into her racing suit, “See, Danny, I really know you.  When you’re a love-dove, it’s your poetic self speaking out.  But I’m not so sure your poetic self is your true self;  I think maybe you use it to get laid.”  She watched his reaction.

“Well, that certainly isn’t my intention.”  He looked away from her stare.

“But it works, doesn’t it?”

Daniel nervously handed her the rosso corsa helmet, edged with giallo fly, the bucking stallion emblem rearing, ready to race—  “Maybe…but it’s not my intention.”

“But it works.”

“Yeah…”

They exchanged glances.

Daniel tried to defend himself, “But that’s what my public loves about me.  It’s just something different from the ordinary guy—it’s my claim to fame.  I can’t drive a truck, or ride an assembly line, or tightrope on high steel.  All I can do is paint my feelings…that’s my claim to fame.”

“Hey, Danny boy, it’s okay—I just don’t know if that’s your true self.  Do you?”

He was upset…  “Does anybody know what their true self is—do you?  And why is it always the poets and the writers who have to uncover their true self?  Why does everyone call upon us to explain it to them?”

“That’s what writers are for, dude.  To write about life, to tell us what it is.  Life is the visible experience of the true self emerging into the light of dawn, to show the person what his thoughts created.  That’s all it is, so go for it.”

How does she know this stuff…  “Can I quote you?”

“Do, Daniel, do quote me.  And do know I’m not one of your groupies, badgering you for autographs and other parts of your anatomy.  I want you because of your true, true self.  And maybe I can feel that self with more intensity than you can right now.”

“Perhaps you do.”

“And maybe I feel the perfect ending, too.”  She began lacing her boots.

He watched her finish the preparation for her onslaught of the course.  It was too nice to be with her—Daniel had the words for the world but Natalie had the words for him.  And her words activated his senses, exciting him.  He wanted to unzip all of her zippers right now, reading her a few lines…passion, the stuff life was made of.  If passion was allowed to exist, there would be no question, the human race would continue to perpetuate itself.  Making babies, passion—the thrill of conquest, the scent of the hunted.

Natalie was ready.

They walked through the door, over the threshold.  Her nostrils flared at the scent of the fumes.  His stomach churned uneasily.  The screams of skidding tires entered his consciousness…the odor of rubber, superheated and flaming.  And the odor of charred flesh.


06:25:29

The jetliner was on short final, although it hadn’t moved.  The picture on Jackie’s office wall was becoming clearer and clearer as the days in session passed.

“Who are the enforcers?”  I needed to know.

“Who enforces the Black Chamber;  who has their black hand overseeing it all?”

“Yes.”

“They stage meetings just like Amway, using the little guy to make the big guy bigger, except they’re not selling drain cleaner, but they will blow your brains out.”

“How do they keep score, Jackie?”

“They have a point system.  At meetings and gathering, certain activities are offered up to score points.  If you go out and commit these evil deeds, you build up points.  It’s almost like a treasure hunt…except you come back with a blue-eyed virgin for sacrifice.”

I thought about the feeling, of landing Fat Albert on a non-controlled, dirt strip in Alaska.  Then I wondered to Jackie, “Chances are the world we’re familiar with is an operation of the Black Chamber?”

She looked me square in the eyes, “The chances are, Daniel.”

Then I ventured, “If it’s an operation, where is the control center, the underworld pentagon?”

Her answer shocked me, “It’s all strategized in the Spiritual realms.  In the zoo, Daniel, nobody knows who is who…except the ones running the zoo.”


06:29:07

Resting on the deck of his Malibu beach house, the strains of a Mozart concerto soothed Daniel into working on some lyrics,

…tell them I made the earth to share,

tell them they’re all in my care,

Tell them they all must be fair,

and share the joys of my world.

Tell them the poor will always live,

Instead of taking, they’ve learned how to give.

Blessed are the meek for they’re not sheep,

They teach you all how to live.

Daniel, my Daniel, you are my special boy,

Daniel, my Daniel, show them how to share joy.

Tell them those who seek to make peace

Will find within such a sweet release.

Tell them all to be pure in heart,

For that’s when life really starts.

Blessed are the merciful seeking their light,

They’ve learned how to live without their might…

The calm of the concerto was suddenly broken by chatter, “We regret to interrupt this program…”  Daniel focused into it,

Federal investigators are sifting through the remains of Flight Four-eight-three.  Three hundred fifty-one passengers and eight crew members were killed when the plane plunged into a remote area of Mexico.  Cause of the accident is not known, but investigators now state the plane was considerably off course, suggesting the possibility of a structural failure.

The FAA is considering issuing an Airworthiness Directive until the jumbo-jet’s structural integrity can be assured.  The jetliner’s flight plan called for a stop in London before proceeding to Rome, Italy.  Among the passengers was Colonel Samson, the prominent agent of Daniel Lovesong, the recording star.

Daniel blanked— “My God, did I hear that right?”  He cranked the volume…

Colonel Samson left an…estate estimated at over one billion dollars.  Investigators from the Attorney General’s office were also on the scene, as was a team of investigators from the FBI.  According to spokespersons, the possibility exists the plane was sabotaged for unknown reasons.

The peaceful strains of Mozart returned…Daniel mumbled in disbelief, “Sabotage?  Samson’s dead?”

In sheer panic, he punched Natalie’s button, screaming into her ear, “Natalie!  The Colonel’s dead!”

She was stunned, “Danny, wha…what do you mean?”

“A plane crash!  I…I just heard it on the radio.”  Daniel broke down and wept.

“Danny, it’s…it’s okay.  Everything will be alright,” and then the terrible memory was vivid again, Do men weep?  I didn’t weep when my sister died.  That fucking drunk crossed the doubleline on Pacific Coast Highway way back when.  Life was crushed out of her;  she was just a kid.  I didn’t cry then, so what’s he cryin’ about?

“Daniel, listen…” she tried to find the words, “Everything will be alright.  These things happen all the time.  Nothing’s over.  You’ll recover.”

He sobbed into the phone hysterically, “I’m…I’m going to ff, fly to Mexico, to the crash site.”  He wiped the tears from his cheeks.

“You are?  What for?”

The teardrops fogged his vision…he saw the Colonel’s face again at his singing debut—Daniel, look at me!  You can do this, the Colonel’s words flew aimlessly through his memory.  Samson’s strength now filled him with coursing pain, “Natalie, I need to be there, to say good-bye to his spirit.”

Is this for real…  “Well, Daniel, that’s nice.  But don’t you think you’re going a little too far?”

“Natalie, you don’t feel the things I feel—nobody does!  Nobody understands life like I do.”

“Nobody, Daniel—come on!”  Her fingers began twitching wildly;  she tried to control it.

“Natalie!”  Daniel’s tone shifted into anger, “I need some s, sympathy here and you’re no help, dammit.”

Natalie flashed back at him, “Daddy…uh, Danny, it’s just that you’re a man.  You can handle it on your own.”  She paused, not sure how that would sound…  “Oh, I’m sorry, Danny.  Ever since we couldn’t run those test loops at the Springs, I’ve been on edge.”  And then the heat rose in her, “Can you have some s, sympathy for me?  Can’t you understand this is my life?”

“And this is my life,” he snapped at her—  “over, destroyed.”  He felt his guts starting to churn up inside…  “Sure, Natalie, I can be sympathetic.  Yeah, I guess it’s time for me to grow up, become a man, right?  Okay, listen!  I’m flying down to San Diego, then into Mexico.  It’s what I need to do.  I’m s, sorry you don’t think it’s man enough.”

“Danny, please listen!”

And then, blind rage racked Daniel, steam coursing through his veins, “Maybe that’s what’s wrong with this damn world.  When a man is s, sensitive, he’s called a woman, or gay.  If he shows his feminine side, everybody thinks he’s been castrated.  Oh, except you can put it in a song;  then everybody flips over it.  But put it on your face and in your ha, heart, and you walk alone.”

“…Daniel!”

And then the drama of this lovesong turned vicious, “And so I will walk alone…good-bye, Natalie,” and Daniel slammed down the receiver.  A few seconds later, it started to ring.  And it rang, and rang…and rang, while he stared at it, seething, the wicked fires burning.


06:37:18

Jackie and I decided to catch the afternoon Amtrak and ride south to San Diego.  We planned to visit the zoo.

My appetite was whetted In the observation car;  “Let me explain about the deadly rituals, Daniel.  With a seared conscious they can commit the deadly rituals, for if they don’t, they will be the sacrifice…or their child, or their husband, or their mother.”

I listened on and on into the night, the tape recorder capturing every torturous scream.  And then I wrote them down as if it was the last day of my life…would you listen?


06:38:28

A young woman sat on her bed in a nightie, trying to blink away the hangover of another wild, Saturday night.

She glanced over at the body next to hers, laid out in a drunken stupor, exhaling an uncomfortable odor of stale cigarettes and cheap booze.  She wanted to take a long, hot bath.

A Rocker Magazine, on the floor next to his banged-up guitar, grabbed her curiosity…Daniel’s face caught her eye.  She reached over her “beau” and picked up the magazine, flipping through the pages carrying it to the bathroom.  Her toes tested the water;  the article by William Ransom began…

I spent an afternoon with Daniel Lovesong recently.  His music has hit the world like a ton of marshmallows…mellow with love.  His instant celebrity is based on his humor, his insatiable wit, and his wicked temptations of sexuality.  No person or institution is exempt from his outlandish look at life.  The editors at Rocker Magazine wanted to know how he would run the world.  Here is Daniel’s Manifesto…

Platform of the

NEW AGE WORKER’S PARTY

of INTERNATIONAL STRATEGY

and STRENGTH

[NAWPISS]

We demand the union of all in a great world, naturally on the basis of self-determination.  All people can determine what they wish, outside of religion, institution, government, and industry.

And so shall it be my command, all citizens must possess equal rights, even those who rule over them.

My party wages war against the corrupt parliamentary administration whereby men are appointed to posts by favor without regard to character and fitness.  Therefore, all posts shall be replaced by my appointments.

The World shall, above all, undertake to ensure that every World Citizen is gifted with the possibility of living decently and earning a livelihood, insofar as it doesn’t alter the standard of extravagance of the elite.

If it is not possible to feed the whole population, then whoever is eating all the food must be expelled from the world!

The first duty of every citizen must be to work mentally or physically.  If they can’t work mentally or physically, they must work spiritually.  They will be watched by spirit guards to ensure they are contributing their fair-share to the Worker/Breeder class of the world’s economy.

Since every war imposes on the people fearful sacrifices in blood and treasure, all personal profits arising from war must be regarded as treason to the people.  I therefore demand the total confiscation of all war profits.  This includes all profits from any defense related industries.  Therefore, all F-14 Tomcats will be returned to their maker for recycling into ice cream jingle-jangle trucks, so little kids can get their licks in the summer, instead of big kids getting their licks all year ‘round.  Wars shall be replaced by continuous diplomatic receptions.

I demand a generous increase in old-age pensions.  I declare old age defined as anyone over twenty-six years of age, or anyone over sixteen who is pregnant, whether man or woman (you can never second-guess science!) If you are pregnant and under sixteen, you are still a minor, except if you were impregnated by a major.

I demand the creation and maintenance of a sound middle-class through public education.  Required subjects shall include continuous weekend beer drinking and TV sports watching.  How else will we learn how to win and to drown the sorrow of defeat?

I demand pardon for one-third of those currently in prison.  They shall trade places with one-third of those currently employed in high government positions.  (…maybe more than one-third;  I’ll think about it.)

I demand the abolition of all income tax.  World Citizens will be taxed based on time.  The Spacerent Tax will be calculated by the minute of occupancy, eventually seconds, then milliseconds, then nanoseconds.  Each sector of the globe would be divided according to its tax district.  If you spend your time in the high Spacerent Tax district, you would be taxed accordingly.  If you hung out in the low Spacerent Tax district, you wouldn’t be taxed so much.  There would be no loopholes to my tax plan, except if you live in the Loop.

As long as we’re at it, I proclaim prostitution legalized.  All red lights can be turned on again;  the Mafia will be out of business in no time.  Prostitution Activation [PROACT] will be effective in three years, to give all wives the opportunity to rediscover sexuality, with their husbands.

Sure, let’s make gambling legal, too.  But wasn’t it legal all along?

I declare Reverse Interest to be instigated immediately.  From now on, the lender will be charged interest instead of the borrower.  After all, they can afford it!

I decree that my funeral be attended by at least four thousand naked girls, [beautiful, of course] each waving a flag radiantly displaying the golden silhouette of my loins.  Any eunuchs present and displayed will receive a special lifetime pension from the Money Tree, where we print money when we need it.  (Money does grow on trees, doesn’t it?)

I nominate John Lennon as the first inductee to the World Peace Hall of Fame.  Imagine, all you need is love to give peace a chance.  Come together, right now!

In order to carry out this platform, I demand the creation of a strong authority in the world.  I don’t ask for much just unconditional dictatorial authority over the whole world.  And I demand the power of the people, for the people, by the people, with the people, beside the people, behind the people.  For it is the people we do this for, right?

Signed and Sealed, for the People by,

Daniel Lovesong

She dropped the magazine, giggling uncontrollable like a little girl.  The steaming water cleansed her, bathing her, soothing the bruises of life.  A lost sensation of merriment arose from deep within, like she was playing house, carefree with dollies and doilies.

Reaching for the handheld, the water gurgled around her supple body—she punched Washington, D.C.

Her call was answered on the first ring, “Senator Franchesco’s office.”

“Mrs. Wright, it’s Landie.  May I talk with my father, please?”


06:52:47

Jackie and I decided to turn our next few sessions into an adventure—we rode Amtrak to the San Diego Zoo.  After all, in order to ascertain who was who in my zoo, I need to see how a zoo was organized.

In the zoo there are hippos and rhinos, lions and tigers, elephants and giraffes, reptilian lizards of all sorts, snakes and serpents;  birds fill the aviary with music;  and the insects, the beetles, and the spiders spinning webs.

Jackie told me about a friend of hers…  “I had a friend who wasn’t a Black Chamber Warrior but was practicing tactics and strategy on his own.  He discovered if you wanted to put a curse on somebody to be in a car accident, they would be in a car accident.  All he had to do was speak to them and say, “You’re going to be in a car accident today and that person found themselves wrapped around a telephone pole.”

“Jesus…”

“Yes, how do you protect yourself from something like that?”

“Jesus Christ, Jackie;  I’m at a loss.”

“You don’t have to put a gun to a person’s head in order for that person to be shot in the head.”

“All these tactics are used against us?”

“Yes, that’s just one of the tactics the Black Chamber uses.  Remember, the war is all spiritual.  God’s troopers use the spiritual realm, but the chamber uses it that much more because that realm appeals to the flesh.  It’s the lust of the flesh that drags us into the chamber.”

“How?”

“Satan’s troopers want to see direct results immediately.  They don’t want to think demons exist;  they want to know demons exist.  They demand to see them so they’re always showing up, physically.”

“Wait a second…you’re saying demons exist?”

“Yes, remember the movie Ghostbusters?”

“Yes.”

“That’s the way it is…demons are real, they affect your world everyday.”

We walked toward the gorilla cage.  I wondered if what I was hearing was just a figment of my imagination, or just a dream.  Jackie’s voice said, “Satan’s troopers talk to demons, they walk with them, they employ them for their ritual purposes.  Demons are very present in a lot of manifestations, keeping the troopers aware they are real.”

“If we’re in this spiritual war battlezone, why don’t the Christians know about this?”

“It’s almost comical, Daniel.  Whereas the Christian says, ‘God did a prophetic move through me…I think that was God,’ they don’t always know.  And yet with the chamber, the troopers know because the demonic manifestations draws them in from the very beginning.

It seemed like the pink and white flamingos, while they were spreading their wings, nodded to us as we entered the zoo.


06:58:44

A black limousine pulled up to the Ritz-Carlton.  The views of the Pacific ocean were stunning from this bluff-dwelling, super-luxury hotel.

His chauffeur opened the door for him.  He was dressed like Daniel—beagle-eared hat, denims, Pendleton shirt, cowboy boots, studded belt.  He was traveling to Mexico to investigate the plane crash site…Is Samson really dead?  was the thought pounding his mind.  For diversion he slipped his mind in and out of the romance novel he was writing—Jessica and Trevor, his main characters, were in trouble.

He stepped quickly to reception, not even thinking about being noticed;  he noticed her right off.  Early twenties, stunning, gorgeous, cameo complexion;  probably married out of high school to an electrician who’s working his butt off, trying to keep her happy.

She knew who Daniel was.  She displaced about five feet, six inches of air, outlined with a sleek, firm figure.  There was a tip off—her tastefully dressed style, her elegantly maintained appointments…cascading chestnut hair, luscious red lips highlighting fingernails manicured in a flaming red gloss.  Daniel’s memory jogged for an instant, remembering a college buddy who told him, if they cared tenderly for their fingernails, they were also powered and perfumed in preparation for secret moments.  Well, his college buddy didn’t quite say it like that.

She smiled coquettishly, “Good afternoon, Mr. Lovesong.  We’ve been expecting you.”  She picked up the phone while her eyes walked up and down his body.

A few seconds later, another young lady rushed up to the front desk shrieking, “Daniel, I love your music!”

“Wh…why, thank you,” Daniel stuttered, still not quite used to being stargazed.

“Would you sign my…my,” and the young lady fumbled around in her purse for something to write on.  She thrust it into his hands.

“What’s your name?”  he asked, looking sheepishly.

“Terry,” she smiled, while her eyelashes fluttered.

Daniel signed the back of her maxipad, For Terry, with Love.

She read her maxipad, her hands jittering with excitement.  She screamed, then hugged him, swooning, slipping her phone number into his pants.  Being cordial, Daniel half-smiled.

“Mr Lovesong, please come with me,” the receptionist interrupted their banter.

They entered the elevator.  She pulled out a cardkey that activated the VIP Floor security lock.  They rode together, alone.  Daniel followed her chestnut hair to his suite, almost dragged along in its perfume.  She unlocked the door for him stepping back, motioning him in.  He entered, gazing around the suite.

She whispered, “I want to show you something, Daniel.”

She locked the door behind them.  “Come, sit in this chair,” she motioned.

Daniel walked over to a lounge-type chair.

“What did you want to show me?”  he was uneasy.

She moved over to him, gently lowering herself onto his lap.  She felt like a feather lowered by a wisp of the breeze.  She snuggled next to his cheek, catching his surprise with her eyes…  “Daddy, I want to show you a little thing that’s growing inside of me…a little thing that when I touch it, it makes me feel so good and I really don’t know what to do with it.  Could you help me?

Daniel was shocked as she took his hand, guiding it down…down between the warmth of her thighs, touching his fingers to the heat of her bare flesh as it panted for his touch.

She moved his finger against his will…what was happening to him?  Was he being raped?  Does this really happen to people or is this a mirage?

He felt her press his finger into her, heard her moan as he felt the wet, as his nostrils inhaled deeply the fresh scent of a woman in heat.  He felt the fluff of her secret desire as his fingers became lost in it.  It felt differently than the others…shaped, etched into the contours of a heart.

She pulled his head down to her, opening up for her lover.  His college buddy was right…her essence tasted like none he had known;  the sweetness, the freshness, the purity, as he slid the entire length of his tongue back and forth, up and in and over her now glistening lips.

And the back of his tongue tasted it, and the sides of his tongue tasted it.  And then it just laid there…and then he fluttered his tongue along its breach, patting and sucking as the whim moved him.  And she spread herself wide against him, wrapping her calf around his head, pulling his mouth deep into her as his teeth bit that little thing.  She groaned against him, pushed against him as he sucked her, licked her into spasms of ecstasy.

And then she turned on him to swallow him up, almost to choke her.  The totality of his manhood throbbed in her mouth, her luscious red lipstick smeared all over him as she cupped his gems.  She tickled them with her painted nails, whispering, “Remember me as your best, Daniel.”

Her mouth opened wide, breathing on it, hot cold, hot cold, her saliva dripping along its borders, heightening the sensation, the tease.

A drip drops down the side of his pulsating shaft.  She follows it down with the tip of her tongue, slowly, softly following the drop, then lifting it back up into her mouth, placing it on the tip, the very tip of his straining force.  Then she flicked her tongue ever so gently in his most sensitive place.

As he jerked to pull away, she pulled him back to her web of delight.  Daniel began to spurt into her as she held him back, finger and thumb surrounding him like a taught rubber band, holding in his pleasure, releasing it slowly as a gentle rush rather than a waterfall of insanity.

Holding him there, the chimera was heard, “Daniel…Daniel Lovesong.  I love you so much.  Sing me a lovesong.”

Daniel opened his mouth, moving his lips away from her toes, finding something sing…

Beautiful woman, th…the light of my dreams

Beautiful moment, in life as it seems,

Beautiful woman, share your tears

Hold me completely, break down my…

What the hell rhymes with tears?…fears.

Beautiful woman, love of my life

Share with me, the gentle…the gentle night!

Beautiful woman, live for you,

and carry me sweetly into you,

or into me, whatever.

Beautiful soul, I desire to grow

Give to me all that you’ll know.

Beautiful woman li, living with me,

Share in my dreams of reality.

Beautiful woman, I love you so.

Beautiful woman, ah…kiss my…my toe.”

They roughhoused together, pushing and playing, laughing and hiding, like brother and sister.

Beautiful woman, don’t you know

That I, I, I am love, oh…let me into…”

…and she opened up to him, taking his gentle presence, sliding it into her precious touch.  It was all too much, too much for both of them.

She felt him filling her up…full, long, torrid.  She jerked underneath him, pushing him deep into her, squeezing her thighs together, milking every drop out of him.  Then she lay back, relaxed, his sensations pulsing inside her—she felt the surge waves of heat…hot, hot, red hot.

It was minutes before his nerves stopped jumping.

And then she asked him as he lay there spent, “What are you going to call that song?”

He answered feebly, “Oh…the song.  Um, what’s your name?”

“Marilyn.”

“Oh…” his voice sounded weak, drained.  “We’ll call it Inside Merryland,” he joked.

“I’m immortalized.  Oh, thank you, Daniel,” she almost fainted with delight.

And in that moment, Rod Serling walked out of the closet, holding his cigarette, smiling, this is the twilight zone, buddy.

Daniel was flushed…is there a reality here I’m missing?  He tried, “Merry, you wouldn’t need a song written about you to immortalize you;  you are love.”

Yet, it seemed those words and his flush skipped right off her brain, bouncing out into another dimension, to be lost in the ethers.  She grabbed some tissues, wiped off her little hushpuppy, pulled up her panties, and shuffled back into her bra and skirt.  And, almost as quickly, she gave Danny boy a peck on the cheek, swishing out the door, wondering who she was going to tell first.

And in a few moments, Daniel walked down the corridor alone, knowing what he was—a performer, an entertainer, to be used and abused.  He mumbled to himself, Was I just raped?  Mentally, not physically.  Can you be raped mentally or is that too crazy?  Who was it that said you can’t rape a man?

Daniel opened his laptop Powerbook—The transcript of the torturous interrogation read,

“All right, you traitor.  Tell us everything about the top secret documents you gave the Russians, or we’ll bring in Ursula—she’ll lick you into submission.”

“Oh no, anything but Ursula!  I can take any torture except Ursula—she’s the gateway to Hell.  She’s too beautiful, too seductive, she knows what I like, and when she says, ‘I love you,’ I can’t take it!  I’ll tell you everything about the bomber plans.  Boeing is building it;  it can deliver a seventy-five megaton load anywhere on the planet.  Just name your flavor—chunky rocky-road, lemon raspberry swirl, strawberries and cream, or vanilla—splat!  They’re working on mocha-almond fudge but it’s so gooey, the bomb bay doors stick shut.”

He giggled, reflecting about Merryland.  So that’s what it’s like to be fucked over!  What if she has some disease?  And here I am, singin’ her a fuckin’ tune—she’s a maninizer!  She must be chortling all the way to her secret agent.  It’s a plot…she’s trying to kill me.  She really hates lovesongs.  She was sent to assassinate me with her hushpuppy!

Damn, a concealed weapon…

And then, at the speed of light, a thought crashed into his brain matter—Intelligence is the critical mass of relationship, the explosion into light, for love is blind, deaf, and dumb!


07:20:21

It was a cloudy day in San Diego, yet comfortably warm at the zoo.  I suggested we visit the gorilla cage, perhaps we’d learn something about human nature.

I watched the gorillas looking at us, supposedly our ancestors dressed in black, hairy suits.  I couldn’t help but think of evil.  I asked Jackie, “Tell me what you know about the Evil Commander.”

“The nature of the Evil Commander, is that what you’re asking, Daniel?”

“Yes, Jackie.  Why do you always ask me twice?”

“I want to be sure you’re prepared to hear…these are not pleasant things to discuss;  this is not Christmas and Santa Claus and toys.  This is Hell.”

“Yes, I want to know.”  I said want so loud, the gorillas looked our way.

“Satan is crafty, he’s created, he didn’t want to be what he was.  The magical entrée into his kingdom is simple that recognize you are God.  The minute you try to be God, you are defying your own nature;  you have to be in denial, and in that you’re blinded.  In blindness you are easily deceived, and in deception you’re open to all kinds of potentially dangerous, harmful, and evil practices toward others and especially yourself.”

“How am I affect by my evil deeds?”

Jackie thought for while…then mumbled what I thought was the word hero.

“Did you say hero, Jackie?”

“No, I said Herod.”

“What’s he got to do with it?”

“His death will answer your question about how you are affected by your evil deeds.  Do you remember when you asked, How evil does evil get?  Prepare yourself, Daniel.”

Even though the sign said not to, I threw some peanuts at the gorillas.  They tried to catch them.

“Evil towards ones self is difficult to fathom.  These next words, Daniel will shock you into an understanding.  They relate a moment of truth in recorded history.  Are you familiar with the name Herod?”

My memory flashed back two thousand years, “Wasn’t he the Jewish king who ordered all the first-born slaughtered?”

“Yes, he was hunting for the Messiah, to destroy Him.  Herod gave orders to kill all the boys in Bethlehem and its vicinity who were two years old and under.”

“I was always curious, Jackie, how did he die?”

“A horrid death.  The premier Jewish historian of the day, Flavius Josephus, relates an account that will turn your stomach.”

“I’m not sure I want to hear it…”

“I won’t blame you if you turn the page past this scene.”

I respected Jackie’s word-choice;  I knew I was in for a view of Hell.

“In Herod the Great’s final days he fell terribly ill.  The stench surrounding him was bewildering, even to his attending physicians;  they could stay near him no more than a few minutes, the stench was that terrible.

“Then one day a horrible shout went out—worms!  His physicians had no basis to understand, for these worms emerged from his genitalia in a stream of black ooze.”

My stomach began to turn…turn over;  it still does today when I think about this.

“Daniel, listen…Herod died soon thereafter in horrendous pain, the palace still rings from his screams;  he was being eaten alive by maggots!”

“God…tell me no more, Jackie…I need to vomit!”  I excused myself and rushed to the restroom.

After about fifteen minute I had recovered some composure, then made another mistake…  “How did he come by the worms?”

“Daniel, this is sick;  this is really sick.  Again, do you want to hear this?”

I didn’t think anything could be worse than I just heard.  It was.

“Alright, if you insist.  Herod had attempted to embalm his wife in honey…the effect wasn’t complete.”

“How did that give him worms?”  The gorillas were staring at us, as if they wanted to know, too.

“Daniel…” Jackie swallowed hard, “Herod practiced necrophilia with his dead wife for years.”

Oh, shit…my stomach was in a loop.  I rushed back to the restroom;  the ugliest, dirtiest, darkest images I’ve ever conceived were chasing me.

It was an hour before I came out, muttering, “Evil…evil.”

“How bad does evil get towards others, Daniel?”

“Yes, Jackie…tell me now so I won’t ever have to ask again.”

“Excellent decision, Daniel.  I want you to think about someone you love so intently you couldn’t live without them.”

“Yes…I’m holding Natalie’s image in my mind.”

“Daniel, your dark alter, Because of jealousy, could emerge and slice your beloved’s heart out, eating it with a blood toast to the Evil Commander.”

What an utterly horrible, grisly image…it triggered many scenes flashing before my eyes, buried almost as fast.

That day I remember jotting down, Jackie’s words were impossible for me to believe…I asked her, “Why do you use terms of warfare to describe this evil?”

“Because it is a war, Daniel…a war for your soul.”

Jackie and I walked slowly away from the gorilla cage…I remembered being stunned by these revelations.  Then I heard the gorillas snorting at us;  they started jumping up and down…then they started throwing their turds at us.


07:24:41

Daniel entered his hotel suite alone.

He walked into the bathroom, looking.  Then he searched in the dressing rooms, the closets…no one was waiting for him.

He walked over to the phone and punched in Natalie’s number.  It rang and rang.  Finally, the message machine answered.  It was good to hear her voice—I’m at Willow Springs for the next few days, testing for Monte.  Call me in the pits.  Daniel jotted down the number and tried it.  There was no answer.

He paced around the suite.  He was in the pits…I don’t understand women and I never will, he mumbled to himself.  What is it they want?

He punched room service, “Would you bring up a bottle of your best wine—red, no sulfites, please.  And please have a man deliver it.”

There was a pause…  “Er, yes sir!  We’ll bring it right up.  Room seven-two-six.  And how many glasses, sir?”

“One.”

“Yes, sir.  And your name, sir?”

Daniel almost shuttered as he began to say, “Daniel Lov…er, Daniel L.  Smith.”

“Thank you, Mr. Smith!”

Celebrity!  he sputtered while he hung up the phone.

Colonel Samson’s face flashed before his eyes—was there any news?  He rang up his message phone, pushed his code, and the machine talked to him like a robot…  “Hell, o, you, have, six, teen, mes, sa, ges, please, hold.”

Sixteen messages?  What’s going on?  He listened to the machine rewind to the first message…

“Daniel Lovesong?  Is this your number?  You wrote that lovesong to me!  It’s our lovesong.  Those eyes that you know, they were my eyes.  And those lips you kissed that were so true, they were my lips.  And the soul we fused in the light…that was my soul.  I’m coming to make love to you tonight, Daniel.  You won’t ever have to worry about being alone.  You don’t know me, but you’ll learn to love me.  I’m just a little overweight, but you won’t notice.  And you can put your little ding-dong into any orifice you like.”  Beep…

“Mr. Lovesong.  This is First Security calling.  The automatic deposits to your account have pushed your checking account balance over two hundred thousand dollars.  Would you like me to transfer those low-interest bearing funds to savings, or a CD, or something?”  Beep…

“Daniel, this is Jim from Grayson Financial.  The IRS wants to talk to us.  And Daniel, for the twentieth time, stop throwing out all those receipts!  I write it off and you throw it away.  Come on, man!  Either let us manage your money, or let’s forget it.”  Beep…

“Daniel…pant, I want to suck your cock.  Would that be okay?  Will you let me suck your cock?  I’m very pretty, and I’m young.  And I’m in heat, and I’m coming right now…ah, ooh, ooooooo.  Jesus, just thinking about you makes me come;  I listen to your music all night long.  And Danny, I need to suck your cock…how long can I talk?  Let’s see…what else did I want to say;  I’ll lick your balls, too.  Danny!  Anything you want just let me…”  Beep…

“Mr. Lovesong.  This is Fred Trundle.  I’m with Bodyguards, Inc.  I’m wondering if you’ve considered a bodyguard service?  Stars of your stature in the music business sometimes find a need for protections.  We protect a lot of names you know.  I’d like to speak with you about this.  I’ll drop by tomorrow afternoon.”  Beep…

“Mr. Lovesong.  This is William Kephart from American Yacht Brokers in Newport Beach.  We’ve worked up this marvelous acquisition profile for you.  We can put you in a sixty-five foot Kingsport Yacht for only one-million four-hundred fifty thousand.  That’s a saving of two-hundred thousand dollars over last month’s price!  And the season is approaching—you’ll be wanting to entertain your friends.  If you act now, we’ll arrange a special lease-back plan especially tailored for you.  That will save you three-hundred thousand on your taxes, just this year.  The bottomline is, invest a million-two now, save three-hundred thousand today.  Such a deal!  Call me.”  Beep…

“Mr. Lovesong, thank you for writing about the love of Jesus.  I see His love in your words.  As His messenger you have moved me to a place I didn’t think existed.  Life is becoming something very different than it ever was for me.  All through my life I came close to finding the paths that could lead me to truth, and now I find myself embracing one path leading me home.  Jesus has made my life worth living and I will always treasure that.  The truth has set me free!  Thank you.”  Beep…

“Hey, man, is this fucking Lovesong’s number?  That’s what it said in Ransom’s newspaper column.  He hates you, too!  Well, if this is your number, you better watch out.  My chick digs the shit out of your songs.  Al fuckin’ day it’s Daniel, this and Daniel that…Why can’t you be more like Daniel?  Why can’t you love like Daniel loves?  Well, I’ll tell you, asshole, you better stop writin’ thems fuckin’ lovesongs or I’m gonna come and tear your fuckin’ head off.  I’ll bring it home with me so she can talk to it all fuckin’ day!  Ever hear of them Talking Heads?—that’s what happened to them.  It’s hard enough keepin’ my pickups runnin’.  Now I got this fuckin’ bitch who’s bangin’ me on three cylinders.  Got it?”  Beep…

“Lovesong.  Look, man.  This song you wrote about them black folks and the white folks?  You know the one, them’s naked on the Tee and Vee together, and singin’ about love and all that shit…that just ain’t right!  If’en God had a wanted us to be singin’ naked tosgether, he would a made us all the same color…don’t you think?  Tha’s what He says so read the fuckin’ Bible, will ya, Mr. Lovesong?  It’s all in there.  Me and Bertha, we’ll be prayin’ for you.  And about those black babies and them white babies…you keep your dirty hands off’en them.  You’re perverted!  I wan’ you to know, we’ve formed a four man committee to ban your songs from the jukeboxes around here.  We don’t like no perverse fools singin’ this vulgar, pinko, animalistic, niggro, commie, bebop to our youngin’s.”  Beep…

“Daniel, please call immediately!  This is Ron.  Something horrible has happened to Natalie.  Page me immediately!  Beep…

He hung up, feverishly punching Ron’s number humming, Where have all the flowers gone;  long time passing.  Where have all the young men gone, a long time ago.  When did all the creepballs show;  a short time passing.  When will they ever learn…

The room service steward swished to his door.


07:35:13

Jackie and I were walking through the aviary at the San Diego Zoo.  Amongst the fauna and the foliage, and the harmony of the bird’s voices, I asked her, “Is there anybody out there who’s healthy?”

“No…I don’t believe so, Daniel.  I believe there are levels of health, but look at David, the one in the Bible God called a man after His own heart.  David was very unhealthy, murdering Bathsheba’s husband so he could have her.  Yet, the whole point is, you don’t have to be healthy;  just accept God’s grace, that’s the healthiest place.”

I mocked her, “Assuming you believe in God.”

“God is worthy to believe in, Daniel;  it says He came to save us, not to judge us.  Besides, who else is there to believe in?”

“Try the Devil…he pays better.”

She laughed, “He pays off well in this world, but have you considered an eternity in Hell?”

“Why, yes I have.”

“Describe it, Daniel.”

“I am…I’m writing this book, aren’t I?”  I looked up, scanning the aviary for Poor Bird…nope, just colorful species chirping happily, flying with their buddies.

“And what are you showing your readers, Daniel?”

I thought for a second, “I’m showing them how much text you can create on fresh-squeezed orange juice and champagne.”

She laughed as a flock of exotic birds buzzed over our heads, “No, sissy, you’re showing them a vision of Hell.”

I ducked, hoping they all had gone to the bathroom;  “Are you saying that Hell is a state of mind, Jackie?”

“No…Hell is Hell!”

“There really is a place called Hell?”

“Yes, Daniel.”

“Can you prove this?”

“Never.”

Poor Bird was nowhere to be found…  “That’s why I write fiction, Jackie.  If we can’t prove any of this, what the hell are we doing here?”

Her answer stunned me— “Avoiding Hell.”


07:38:36

And she is draped, and the clothes are removed from her curves inch by inch.  The scalpel is eased millimeter by millimeter into her flesh.  A thin line of red liquid appears.

Is it blood or food color?  Is this a fantasy or a reality, a dream of a nightmare?

And something else is moving into her, spreading her thighs deliciously.  Moving up deep inside of her, squeezing every last ounce of pleasure from her in a heated, frenzied rush of passion.  And then it gushed forth from her…

Her mind blanked—it wouldn’t leave her alone.  The phantom was chasing her, a walking nightmare.  The hideous side of her was tracking her down, forcing her into submission.  She was sin—sin was born in her.  She was Eve.  It was she who created all the hatred, the wars.  They were the battles for her beauty, her sensuality.  To possess her was the battle cry of the centuries.  She was original sin.

D’alien Thornton was startled from her daydream.  The limousine door was held open for her.  They were standing here, ready to take her into the mansion.  She was escorted to a private hall, off-limits to those uninvited.

She entered and covered her eyes, blinded by the light.  There was movement behind the cameras.  Naked bodies played in front of them;  beautiful, magnificent, ultra-bodies undulating in passion.  The cameras hummed with excitement.

A man walked up to her…  “Hello, Dolly;  hello, D’alien.  Do you want to pose for us?”

She hesitated, knowing every secret desire in her world would haunt her forever if she didn’t.

She was silent.  The chamber awaited.

A masked man dressed in ebony appeared next to her…  “Would you like a drink, D’alien?”

He held the clear, amber liquid up to her.

She said thank you and swallowed hard.  It tasted sweet, yet sharp as its fire swept through her body like a mainline rush from speed.

She wondered what it would be like.  In a few moments she would know.  The aphrodisiac began to tantalize her to her forbidden pleasures;  every cell would feel her spasms.

The cameras hummed…D’alien was in front of them.  She could only see the light, blinding her to those silhouettes standing in the background watching, directing, filming.

He reached for her.  He was exquisitely stunning;  instant love.  He was delivered to her fresh, dripping with sensuality from his covershoot for Playgirl magazine.  She melted.  He was the man of her dreams.  He was her Prince Charming;  he would show her the way.

She struck her most seductive pose for him.  he didn’t need to see it;  his moves were in the script.

Her undulating offer sent a shockwave of excruciating pleasure deep into her womb.  And all who watched him hike up her dress while he ripped open her blouse, holding her down, felt the inferno inside them.

As he bit into her breasts, one then the other, she screamed in pain, then moaned in quivering satiation, then tensed in expectation.  Those who watched him move down, eating through her panties millimeter by millimeter, licking her length into ecstasy while she flailed her legs wildly, madly being held down, they were seized with her sensuality.

The intense magnetism of her glistening, hidden petals, now revealed amongst shredded clothing, swept the frenzy through the chamber.  The scent of a woman in heat, the sight of a man about to ravage, the blazing ardor sent them into deliriums.

The masked men torn into their lovers, pretending to be the one who would ravish her.  The women slithered against the closest body in envy, fervently trying to learn the secrets of her seduction.  Everyone would be mesmerized by her beauty, and the scent of seditious seduction.

As the masked men led Dolly and D’alien into the horrors of the Black Chamber, the Roman Emperor Nero watched defiantly from the wings.  He knew the secret—they would be sacrificial lambs.

The camera’s whirred as the masked man slit them both down the middle…from neck through chest to womb.  And the word, decadence, would be redefined.


07:45:58

“Daniel, in some case of multiple personality disorder, the core personality has to construct a scene in answer to an altered personality’s need to experience a tragedy.”

A crocodile was eyeing me from his shallow pond.  His bug eye just stared at me.  I felt like a lobster resting in an aquarium in a restaurant, diners selecting me for my shape, size, clarity, and tenderness.

“You lost me, Jackie.”

“Typically in life, a time sequence of events exists;  something happens and you react to it.  For example, your friend is riding in a car;  it crashes and you rush to the hospital to see who’s alive.  In the minds of alters, the need to rush to a hospital necessitates the accident.”

I thought over that for a minute…  “Good grief!  In other words, because of some deprivation, an alter decides they need to experience the fear, grief, excitement, and adventure of rushing to the hospital to see who’s alive.  Therefore, the alter will create an accident to experience the rush?”

“Precisely.”

“Precisely weird, Jackie.”


07:47:43

If the dimensions of the mind weren’t real,

where could you experience the thrill?

Natalie shoe-horned herself into her seat of conquest.

Ron harnessed her in, fitting her rossa corsa good luck helmet over the flame-retardant headpiece.  He tapped her on top.  He was ready;  she was ready…she held thumbs up.  Mitzi watched, pacing uneasily.

Natalie sat alone in the eternity she had made for herself.  These brief moments before the roar of the engine were lived in a dimension of eerie silence…all she could hear was her breath, that fragile component delivering oxygen to her respiratory system every few seconds, sustaining her body in existence.  It’s only in this moment she thinks of her breath—the fragility of it, the miracle of it;  how it operates so automatically without the help of man, without man’s interference.  It is only in these brief moments she senses God…listening, hearing.

And she waits, her fingers twitching, drumming on the steering wheel…and the moment has come—the flicker of dials, the light-signals of warning systems flashing;  the frantic, pulsing digital readouts…and then, the deafening roar from the pent-up ferocity of the seven-hundred horsepower monster two feet behind her…the wild digital readouts, then the even vibrations of calculated thrust ready to explode into a crescendo of power.

And then into the perfect rhythm of the machine as she warms to the touch.  It was underneath her—she would ride it yet totally control it.  And she would ride it to the heights of sensation, the heights of thrill for her and for those who watched.

It sounded fine to her, it sounded perfect.  She was part of it, she was one with it—when she felt it, she knew it.

She glanced over to Ron in this last moment, before she departed for the challenge of the course.  Mitzi cowered behind a tool box, fur teased by fear.

To be the best, you have to be the most harmonic with all the elements;  you have to be at one in your little universe…or you can tune into God’s will.  Natalie’s universe now was the two-point zero-five mile loop of asphalt and hay bales of the Willow Springs testing circuit, the fastest road in the West.

The tachometer display leapt to six grand, just an idle for this beast as oil surged through the parts, lubricating and cooling.  She listened intently to the song of the V-12;  the four camshafts, the forty-eight valves, the twelve pistons, the rocker arms, the lifters…monitoring their rhythm.

She sensed all perfection, not a glimpse of a moment of imperfection.

Ron gave her thumbs up and she slid it into first.

She blasted away from her anxieties in a flurry of dust, exhaust fumes, and throbbing power, anxious to burn a new groove in the speedway.  Speed…

She whined through the pit area cautiously, holding eight thousand rpm, reigning back the bucking power, yet burning with desire to let it all out;  to disprove that insane reporter and his scardicat trip, and to prove to Daniel what a man really was.

The instant she was out of the pits she stood on it—the tires broke loose at eleven grand, the rear-end shuddering in a serpentine dance of power under the force of the acceleration.

“To hell with them,” she yelled, barely audible to herself above the all-consuming roar of the horses stampeding behind her, “to hell with all of them.  If I’m to die, I die in a blaze of glory.”

The machine under her accelerated insanely, pinning her into the contour of her seat, locking her in, stretching her flesh against her lofty cheekbones.  The asphalt rushed under her, spinning past the pages of her mind.  She thought of the times she cared about men, starting with her father, and how she had been burned by them…fucked over.  Too bad Daniel couldn’t have come along earlier, before she learned how to be a bitch, before she learned how to love the pain.

…third gear to ninety, fourth to one-ten, fifth to one-thirty, sixth to one-fifty, seventh to one sixty…watch the redline display…

Fuck it, she thought, look at the bitch I’ve turned into…miserable bitch, she told herself.  Perhaps she listened.

Gearing down, seven, six, five, four, three at ninety for turn one…she slid into Ste Devote, an easy ninety-degree turn with a kink out the exit that warmed her rubber up for turn two, Virage Massenet, at the end of the back straight.  She’ll peak her speed at one hundred sixty within three-eights of a mile, as fast as it takes to read a sentence.

…fourth gear to one-ten, fifth to one-thirty—the acceleration’s hot—six to one-fifty, seven to one-sixty, she counted to herself, watch the redline…

Back down, gear six, gear five, one-twenty-five, she flung herself through Virage Massenet, a sweeping one-hundred degree turn with Casino Square waiting, an eighty-degree whip that hurls you toward Mirabeau, turn four.  And then you’re in it, the Devil’s Triple, Mirabeau, Loews Hairpin, and Virage Du Portier.  From the air, the turns look like a Z, with a hook out the end that slings you into the tunnel at Monte Carlo.  From out of the dark, you’re blasting down the one hundred-sixty mile-per-hour front straight.

Gearing down, five, four, three, two at fifty-five…she flicked the wheel through the devil, right, left, right, right, without thinking, without effort—the steel and aluminum slinked through the Z hook like it was on a string.

Coming out of Virage Du Portier into the mock tunnel, she let it rip for the love of it.  She took it to twelve grand, approaching redline, shifting through the gears three, four, five, six, seven as quick as her thought would allow…sure to impress all the red-necked hot-rodders out there.

One fifty-five…she listened intently to the whine;  her eyes flashed across the display—it was all green, not a flutter of doubt.  She was hot;  she handled well, flowing across the asphalt as if she wasn’t on it, like she was floating above it unconcerned with its little imperfections.

Gear seven, six, five, four, three, two…from one hundred-sixty back down to sixty in an eighth of a mile, quick as a flash—brakes, don’t grab;  wing, keep my ass on the pavement…

Through the chicane at the end of the straight, the turns kept speeding past her mind, like an endless-loop video, lap one, two, three, four, five, six…the moments became a blur…one thirty, one forty, checkpoints coming up, entering La Rascasse, turn nine, setting up for turn ten, Virage A Noghes.

Touch the discs lightly, into third, find the groove, got it, fine.  Super fine, super thrill.  Back onto the power, hard and hot past the pits…lap seven, my lucky one…whip it through turn one, feel the snap!

Linkage feels fine—perfect response, perfect touch, accelerating, standing on the power…137, 152, 164…shit, what a thrill!  Two coming up, Virage…look for it, feel it, got it…oops, off the apex.  Back into the groove, enter it easy, don’t overcorrect, exit…pushing for more, power, looking for more, churning, found it…zip, zip, zip through the triple.

Balls-to-the-wall Tunnel, here we come.  Yahoo, the one hundred-seventy mph straight I want at one eighty…

A miss?  Oil pressure fluttered, what’s the deal?  Acceleration’s hot, the revs are winding up, ten thousand, eleven thousand;  I’m going for it…fifth gear, sixth, seven, 167, 172, standing on it…I can hit one eighty, I know it!  Twelve thousand rpm.

This is one hell of a machine—blurs, the stands are just one long blur, the straight disappears under my ass.  You’ve got to have balls to do this.  I do…redline warning flashing at me, back it off…it’s wrong, something’s wrong!  It doesn’t feel right…the front end, wild, out of control, shuddering, bouncing, planing, breaking away…wing doesn’t do anything, brakes!

The Chicane is on top of me, find the groove, shit!  Missed it, royally.  Too late, oh God, here I come, through the bales…in mid-air, locked, one ninety-five.  Twisting.  Sideways.  Upside down.  Quiet, soft…totally lost it, so quick.  I’m dead.


07:57:25

August Something, A.D.

Dear Jackie,

As you’ve probably gathered, the scenes in my book are composite scenes—parts are fiction, other parts are reality;  either I’ve experienced them or someone else has and told me.  Is it fun to the reader to determine which scenes are real and which are fabricated?  I suppose so, for it’s fun for the writer to confuse the issue;  then the purpose becomes a cornerstone of knowledge.

Not only are my scenes an intriguing challenge in readership, so are my characters.  I bet you’re wondering who I really am…Natalie, Myron or Cyndee, Daniel, D’alien, or David, the Colonel;  perhaps I’m Elvis!

Something happened to me recently.  Rather than camouflage the encounter in a scene disguised as one of my characters, I believe I should write you this letter.  You’ll be reading about this in a flat dimension rather than a layered dimension where I write scenes.

When I was growing up, learning how to be a human, I read novels—they showed me how other people lived and loved, laughed and died.  From their stories I formulated belief systems about how life was.

If this book called Heaven was the only book you had ever read, what would it teach you of my life?  And what would it teach me about my life?

Decadence is an interesting word.  My literary agent would tell you it’s root word is decay.  Decay is what’s happening to America, once the greatest nation in the world, filled with people who were proud they were Americans;  people who fought and won wars for peace, and gave the children they loved to bullets and bombs.

It hurts me inside when I think about what we could have done.  Instead, we decayed.  So I have written a book about decadence.  I hope you will read between the lines.

[continued on page two]


08:04:57

Mitzi hid behind the tool box, her tail jerking wildly in fear.  She heard rescue crews’ sirens…

Daniel wasn’t sure if he was dreaming, the wine enhancing his creative senses…and then they saw the fuel explode.  The flash caught them, first reflecting in their eyes, then the blast concussioned in their souls, tossing them about.

Daniel and Ron raced to the pickup, driving flat-out to the scene.  The rescue crews were already there;  the fire was cut down…but that blast, could anyone survive that blast?

Natalie’s car was shredded aluminum, draped like tinsel over the steel framework.  The remains rested peacefully, hubs in the air, rubber blown away by the blast.

Smoldering rubber…

The aid-team was easing Natalie’s limp body out of the charcoaled shell of her racing machine.  Daniel watched in horror as he and Ron approached…he was still too far away to be near her, to know.

And in that instant, he blanked out of this scene, freezing in horror.  There was a strength of power and ego surging through him, one that he hadn’t known in this lifetime.

Emblazoned on his brown shirt sleeve was the red and black swastika of Hitler’s Germany.  In his hand he held an instrument of torture, papers he had signed that were to make charcoal out of living, breathing innocents who had once loved as he had loved, who had once cried as he had cried, who had once laughed as he had laughed…and would never more.

The anger within him surged;  he would show no mercy;  he could show no mercy.  They were doomed simply because they were substandard humans according to the doctrines and dogmas of the Third Reich.  He was grander than they!  He was doing them a favor by murdering them, tearing children away from mothers, beating grandmother’s ruthlessly, destroying fathers who tried to stop his vengeance upon their daughter’s.  But his actions were perfectly acceptable;  after all, his government said it was.

And Daniel, in that moment, smelled the burning flesh he had burned, heard the screams of those who he had tortured, and saw the anguish of those without hope.  Daniel felt the emotion of every moment he had lived as a devil to humanity instead of its lover and protector.

And in that moment, he retched all over himself as Ron looked on…he screamed, pounding his head with both fists wildly, flailing out in anger and then in grief for those who would not know the perfume of just washed baby sleepers;  those who would not know the simple joy of a walk in the woods, nor the sound of a sparrow excited with the elation of its first flight from the nest;  of those who would not know the mad power of the ego immersed in pretentious prominence to the exclusion of everything else.

Daniel’s body convulsed as scene after scene of horror played back before his eyes, as he saw all of the consequences of all of his actions against love instead of for love.

Ron slowed the pickup, stopping it next to the charcoaled shell of Natalie’s racing machine.

Daniel stared at the burned-out coffin, seeing vividly the rows of ovens, their unquenchable mouths gaping wide for the next innocent body of flesh and bones, face and lips;  the fingers and toes waiting to be fed to the searing appetite of the Black Chamber.


08:10:34

[Letter to Jackie re:  decadence, page two]

I had known her before;  we had been in love.  She was fourteen years younger than I.  She was brunette and beautiful to me, tall and thin, nicely shaped.  I didn’t know she would taste so good…and that she would taste me.  It’s not that I’m good-looking;  it’s just that some women are attracted to certain men.  Who knows the reason?

My problem has always been I was attracted to the women who weren’t attracted to me.  I would always make a fool out of myself chasing them;  you know, the Playboy lifestyle.  Some of them liked to be chased and conquered, a grandstand play.  While I was young that was fun;  chasing and playing the game.  As I’ve grown taller and wiser, it’s good to know you don’t have to play the game.  Suddenly, the quality of your life raises a hundredfold.

I hadn’t been dating for over two years.  I knew I needed to heal;  something deep in me was very wounded.  I knew if I dated, I would ruin it somehow because I would transfer all my perpetrators to her and destroy whatever God had planned in that relationship.

During this season I had met many woman, seeing in them a new beauty I hadn’t known before.  I didn’t seem to need to put my hand down their pants, a need that raged in me for so many years.  It fascinated me to watch what happens when you do that, how unglued even the most sophisticated woman becomes as you press in on her.

In the years before this season of healing, it seemed anyone I wanted to touch, I could.  The challenge wasn’t there for me, although I love to watch a woman come to her pleasure, over and over again.

[continued on page three]


08:13:29

Daniel thought he saw the aid-team examine Natalie’s devastated body briefly on the seared, coarse asphalt.  They immediately placed her lifeless body on a gurney, lifting it gently into the ambulance.  She was rushed away from him.

Daniel was shaking in grief;  Ron didn’t say a word.  They followed the ambulance in silence.

Daniel’s nostrils began filling with the sickening odor of burning flesh, like smoldering rubber.  Now it was the flesh of his dear Natalie that burned before him, not the flesh of the thousands who couldn’t tempt him to a moment of compassion, a moment of mercy in those years ago.

Daniel wondered if his moment of mercy would come;  would his beloved be spared as he could spare no one?  Would his precious child be spared as he could spare no child?

This was it for Daniel, this was the end of the rest of his life.  It was that simple.  In this lifetime his life was love, and his love was just destroyed before his eyes.  How could he justify his existence any more?  It was over.  She was just perfect, just fine enough;  it would take an eon to find another, why bother?

Natalie is dead, Samson is dead…what is alive?

“Is she dead?”  Daniel almost couldn’t ask Ron.

“She looked unconscious to me.  But they don’t usually rush them off like that if they’re too busted up.  It’s a bad one, though…the impact and the fire, bad.”

“What the fuck went wrong,” Daniel shouted.

“You never know.  Could have been a myriad of things.  Speculation comes later.  Right now, we got to see that our baby is made right.  Do you want her dead or alive?”

“Are you nuts, what kind of a question is that?”  Daniel was angry.

“If you want her alive, pray for her.”

Daniel stared at Ron, “I don’t pray.”

“Well, do whatever you do in times like this.”

In times like this?

“I get so angry I create my own little universe that I can control, and I put my characters in it, alive.”  Daniel retorted.

“Well, that’s different.  So, do it.”

“I am, right now.”

And they settled into their own little universes, making whatever they thought they could make.  In the process, they tried to make this moment right, the moment in this universe.

The ride to the hospital was an eternity.


08:16:14

“How does our brain cope with all this, Jackie?”

I was watching a rhinoceros…it looked like he was planning to mate with Mrs. Rhinoceros.  I wondered about the horns…

“Your brain, Daniel, takes in rudimentary kinds of things—raw data—and converts it into survival issues in their simplest forms.  Two key feelings, pain and comfort, are the ruling kings in this kingdom of survival.”

“How is the data recorded, Jackie?”

“Our subconscious mind records all the data, forming a database.  In our formative years, we’re non-verbal;  we can’t express anything verbally.  Therefore, all the data stays stuffed inside us.”

“Good data or bad data, right…like dates?”

“Right.  We’re recording everything;  the warmth, the tenderness;  we’re looking at our mom’s face;  we’re getting a sense of who we are in what we see in her face.  If we’re rejected in even the slightest way—a wry comment, and smug look—that’s imprinted on our soul.”

Making baby rhinoceroses was on Mr. Rhinoceroses mind…  “As an infant, Jackie, we have absolutely no clue what we are, or even that we’re separate from mom?”

“Yes, we can’t even conceive we’re separate because we don’t know what we are.  But we’re establishing a sense of separation through the interaction between the mother and the child.  If the baby is just left in the crib night after night, day after day, just changed and fed, you’ll have a very damaged and hurt individual all throughout their life.”

“In other words, if I wasn’t held a lot during those times, if I didn’t receive the touch affection…”

“Yes, you’ll have what is commonly known as touch deprivation.  In the adult it looks like an adult who is generally very sexually oriented or very sensually oriented, or very needy physically;  wanting to be touched and held and cuddled and all these things.  That’s the little child inside wanting affection.”

“Boy, that really fits me well.”

“Yes, and because you’ve been deprived of affection, leaving a hole in your self-worth, you’ll develop a narcissistic propensity because you have to;  you have to get the needs met.  It’s pretty common knowledge across the board psychologically that we develop in stages.”

Mr. Rhino was making his move…but those horns!

“Is that why memories resurface, Jackie?”

“Yes, the information we take in is correct or incorrect.  If it’s correct, it needs to stay;  if it’s incorrect, it needs to be altered and changed.  That’s the renewing of the mind revealed in the scriptures.  He wants us to be whole.”

“Who is he?”

“God.”

“You talk about Him as if you can talk to Him.”

“You can in prayer, Daniel.”

Mr. Rhino cornered his mate…

“I don’t believe it…and never will believe it.”

“He will make His Voice known in you, just ask Him.”

“He has made His evil Voice known in me.  My life is too ruined for even Him to save it;  it’s simply too late.”

“Don’t be a sissy, Daniel.  Why do you say that?”

“Because it’s so.”

“Don’t you believe in miracles?”

Apparently Mr. and Mrs. Rhino believed in miracles;  baby on the way…

“Miracles?  No I don’t, Jackie…well, I believe in miracles for everybody else, but I don’t believe in them for me.  When God made me, he threw away the plans and forgot all about me—that’s how I feel.  I’m sorry I feel that way.”

“Daniel, God will heal you, He knows your heart;  He knows the love there.  In spite of all the anger, hatred, bitterness, and rage in your mind, He will rescue you.”

“When, Jackie?  When?”


08:22:26

At the hospital, it was quiet and peaceful inside the entity called Natalie.

Her body was analyzing its injuries via its internal systems of repair;  her mind sending signals to nerve endings and they, in turn, returned in comfort or pain.  In areas of pain, specific chemicals were created or delivered to ease the conflicts, to begin the repair process.

Her mind was aware of the activity around and in her body, yet it let it continue.  Her mind was not conscious to register complaints as the surgeons cut and poked and probed into her flesh, searching for trauma and creating trauma in the process.

The visual systems of her mind were sending pictures of peace and contentment—pastoral settings, English country scenes amid the animals of a time in a past, of dairy cows grazing on lush, green grass;  and hens and geese frolicking around ponds;  a scene of immense peace and satisfaction, living amongst nature triggering full well feelings of peace and contentment.

Her subconscious mind painted these scenes for her, viewing them in peaceful splendor.  These were scenes telling of the simplicity of life, how it was back when, before personalities discovered possessions.  A time when personalities lived just to live, not to collect, not to possess.  A time when happiness and joy were the bottom-line statements of true net worth, where each day was welcomed as the brilliance that it was, and each personality drank in the splendor of every ounce of beauty that existed.

Then, no one went wanting where everything was provided.  Then, they all existed in fairness, trust, care, and honesty.  Those who lived then knew what they were.  They walked, planting the seeds of life in all paths that they crossed.

There were not governments for they governed themselves.  They survived well in the foreverness of bliss, smiling at the newborns, respecting the wise, and teaching the young in the art of life.

The scenes were pleasant to Natalie’s core personality;  at times even amusing, certainly different from her ideas of life.  Her altered personality had been ingrained, scarred, told she not special until she made herself special, through money, sexuality, looks, or deeds of recognition.  It was her altered personality who drove her body, her mind and her soul to the place that it thought was it.

Yet it wasn’t it—it was far from it!

Scenes flew in and out of her mind’s video screen, carrying her into all the realms of her imagination, and into realms she couldn’t perceive;  to places where everything was an allness and nothing was not;  where destiny was living, and peace was Being;  where happiness and sadness as opposites didn’t exist—they were one in the same, a moment of bliss…where all were equal, no matter their color or style;  all everyone shared was the beauty of a smile.

Those around her, those surrounding her in the emergency room, knew nothing of this parade of scenery;  they only lived in a charade playing around the edges of life, doing what they thought was right.  Yet, their right was only might.  Natalie was one of the blessed ones—busted and broken up her body was, she was given an opportunity to see.  She opened her eyes to the light.

“She’s out of it,” one surgeon murmured to another.

Daniel screamed, “What do you mean, she’s out of it?”

“The silver cord has snapped.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”  Daniel was livid.

“You know, man, she’s gone!”

“Gone where?”

“Gone home.”

“What do you mean?”  Daniel began a childish wailing, “Well, bring her back to me…I want her back now!  I want her to come home with me and be with me!”


08:27:18

[Letter to Jackie re:  decadence, page three]

Alcohol really did something to this woman…it was as if there was a sexual tiger inside of her and alcohol let it out.  She could drink more wine than six people, and was always convinced she could drive home.  Before we had the first glass, I would take away her car keys because I knew she would end up naked sprawled in my bed at four in the morning.

This woman needed alcohol to give her permission to have sex.  If I tried to keep up with her drinking, I would become ill, so I had to pace myself.  Honestly, the whole thing was a timed experiment to figure out when she was ready and not too drunk to throw up all over me.  Such is love?

I began to wonder, what in the hell had happened to this woman?  How did sex become so ugly to her that she had to be plastered before she could be orgasmic?

Our lovemaking sessions became torturous to me.  I became impatient, not wanting to live through the bull sessions again and again until I could strip down her pants and lick her thighs until she screamed.  There were times when I wanted to throw her into the shower first.

We hadn’t been together for probably ten years.  I was visiting the area, and now she was a high-paid professional wearing sleek business suits.  Me…I was still the same crazy man, or am I a woman?  [For those of you who think Trumpet James is a man, be advised that women are some of our best novelists, very adroit at character reversals.]

I called her…she was excited to hear from me.  She had just returned from a weekend in Rio and was spending Sunday home alone.  I invited myself over and she said she would hop in the shower.  Shades of yesterday.

I arrived and she greeted me in shorts, those legs as shapely as ever.  I felt my loins rising to the occasion.  She was happy to see me and I to see her.  We chatted on the couch;  I noticed her eyeing my equipment zone, looking for the bulge.  In reality, she hadn’t changed much nor had I.

She began to tell me she didn’t think having sex was a sin.  It didn’t take much for me to agree with her.  I told her God must have intended something with marriage, but somehow it got lost in the translation from the Aramaic.

I suggested we go to the Mexican restaurant on the hill and sip wine.  She said she shouldn’t…she didn’t drink anymore.  I told her I didn’t either, but forty-three glasses wouldn’t hurt a thing.  She agreed and we drove in her car to the restaurant on the hill.  I confiscated her car keys.

[continued on page four, Jackie!]


08:32:56

“Daniel, I believe the information I’ve been imparting to you is triggering some personal stuff in you that’s been buried.  I believe it’s having a profound effect on you.”

Hippopotamuses were splashing around in the hippo pond.  What an unusual design, slipping around in the mud!

“Yeah…I thought you were going to say that, Jackie.”

“If you’re going to write about it, I wouldn’t think it’s a bad thing you’re experiencing.  It’s like an actor who wants to experience being in character, so they learn everything about the character;  they become the character so they better act it out.”

I watched a family of hippos, big ones and little ones, splashing around, playing, “Are we all playing parts in our own dramas, Jackie?”

She didn’t hesitate, “Yes.  And the feelings you’re having now will dictate what you write.”

“I’ve been journaling all our conversations.”

“Journaling is productive, Daniel.  Sometimes those blank pages are the only ears who will listen to the shock, the horror, the pain, and the tears, the reopening of the wounds of the past.  You want to capture those feelings if you’re going to write a book about it.  You have to bring your characters alive so your readers will feel the emotions of all the players.”

The hippos were splashing, spewing mud everywhere.  I felt they were happy inside.

“And in the process or reopening my wounds, will I be healed, Jackie?”

“Conclusively yes, for eventually the traumas and pain become old hat to you like it has for me.  It took me over a year to process some of my stuff.  I’m just throwing it all at you in a few sessions;  it will take time to process it.  But the feelings you’re having, grab those right now and put them down, put them on paper.”

“Yes, those are the feelings I want my readers to have, the feelings that reopen their wounds so they can be healed like me.”

“Remember, Daniel, these wounds are like a deep wound that’s healed over but is still infected.  It has to be lanced and the infection squeezed out of it until it bleeds.  Then the wound is cleaned, dressed, and watched for any reappearance of infection.  Emotional wounds are just like physical wounds;  they hurt just as much, perhaps more so but they are unseen.  The wounding takes place in the invisible world, the world of spirit.”

“It will be tricky writing this book.”  My mind was churning, I could write a novel adventure story, a story of twisted intrigue—only the cleverest readers could decode the plot.  I would leave clues in the table of contents.

“Daniel, you’re so quiet;  what are you thinking?”

“Oh, nothing, Jackie…”  The adventure could be filled with many characters, but only three characters would be real;  the others would just be a quirk of my mind.

“Yes, Daniel, in your book you must communicate the reality of the Black Chamber, yet you don’t want your readers so down because of the horror, they don’t want to read the rest of your book.  And you also don’t want to seduce them into evil;  that’s a potential.  You’re going to have to make Heaven look like something they really want.”

“Or Hell something they really don’t want.”


08:37:29

[A few days later I continued my letter to Jackie regarding decadence.  This was page four…]

Jackie, before I tell you what happened after we licked the guacamole dip off our fingers at the restaurant on the hill, I want to take you flying.  Did I tell you I’m learning how to fly, in airplanes, that is?  I’ve logged about one-hundred fifty hours in the air.  There seems to be so many analogies in life to flight—reality becomes an airspeed indicator.

My instructor is an airline Captain, Jeffrey Hill.  Have you ever thought about this—every time you step aboard one of those passenger jets, you give your life to the Captain.

On this day my lesson was going to be in clouds.  In clouds you can’t see anything;  you’re flying along at 110 knots (about two nautical miles per minute) and you’re flying in a fog bank.  You trust your life to your instruments, your learned skills, and the air traffic controller.  If you trust your life to your instincts, you might be in trouble.

In the fog, you can only trust yourself…er, I suppose you could trust in God.  Some pilots say their co-pilot is Jesus, but I don’t know about that.  Controllers have vectored pilots into mountain tops, therefore you always must know where you are and where the mountains are, a little like life.

I was in the Captain’s seat, Jeff instructing from the right seat.  I took off and we entered the clouds;  fog all around us, white-gray stuff…we couldn’t see a foot, we were in it.  I focused in on the instruments while Jeff handled the radio communications.  I began a climbing, right turn to heading and altitude as instructed…and suddenly we were out of it!  Popped right out of the clouds;  it was as if we were skiing on the clouds surrounded by blue sky everywhere and the sun glaring in our faces.  What a sight!

We had been cleared to an altitude that skimmed across the top of the clouds, the layer puffy-white and soft and wispy as cotton.

I smiled, “My God, we’re out of it—how beautiful it is to be on top.”

Jeff laughed and our spirits were flying high.

Then he told me, “Dan, just a couple thousand feet below us are millions of people caught in this stuff.  It’s like a veil, a covering;  they can’t see out of it.”

Now back to the guacamole and licking things.

[Continued on page five, Jackie!]


08:40:34

“And then you can come into the Kingdom of Evil through force, Daniel.”

I was watching a tiger asleep, recalling watching them stalk their prey on a nature show;  “Through force, Jackie?”

“Let’s say you tell a child who’s five years old it must kill a puppy.  The child is horrified…but eventually discovers it’s okay.  By the time the child’s ten years old, he’s mutilating dogs on a regular basis, no big deal.  Killing becomes a part of him because he’s chosen the way he wants to go.”

I thought about the tiger stalking, “Did he have a chance to choose?”

“Not much of one…as a five year old, there’s not much that is volitionally yours.  But in a child who hates killing dogs and yet has no choice, the conscience is not yet seared.  By all kinds of coercion and no way out, they are forced to kill the dog.  If they don’t will to kill the dog but they are forced to, what the result?”

“They split the omelet into two halves, Jackie…one vegetarian, one with ham.”

“That’s right;  one part of themselves eats the flesh and drinks the blood.  The other part of the omelet says, That’s not me;  I’m not a carnivore, but because I have to do it, I split off part of myself to do the dastardly deed.”

“You are right, Jackie, the Strongman is a Master of Evil.”

As we finished off our day at the zoo, I saw the tiger stalking his prey.


08:43:35

[Letter to Jackie re:  decadence, page five]

The guacamole tasted good, licked off my fingers.  I was feeling sensuous life in me again;  my God, I wasn’t dead!  Whether it was me or the wine or the sleek, female body connected to a mouth, I didn’t really know.  It could have been all three or a mixture.  Or maybe it was Satan, his veil of lust thrown over my eyes.  He was standing just behind her, invisible to me.  He was sucking on his tail, his pitchfork poised to pierce my soul and claim it for all eternity.  All I had to do was sin with this woman.

“Christ, it ain’t easy,” John Lennon was right.  Jesus could do it;  He could take this young lady home and put her to bed, and leave, poor bird.  Jackie, I wasn’t so sure I could.  I found out in a few hours I wasn’t a sissy.

Men have options in these moments:  they can risk forever kicking themselves saying, “Why didn’t I?”  Or they can believe they helped another soul make it to Heaven.  If there is a Heaven, if there is a Hell.

Are you confused?  Not half as much as me.  If you’re a woman reading this, you know the looks you give a man when you want a little more attention, when you are ready to receive.  If you’re a man reading this, you know those looks.  It’s as if a time bomb goes off inside you exploding reason and sense.  This other spirit inside you takes over;  this demon of lust.  You feel yourself turning into a stallion;  all your appendages are growing.

She pulled out her corporate American Express card saying, “Let’s go to my place, now!”

Usually I was the one in the lead;  now she was taking control.  She was drunk, I had the car keys.  She couldn’t hold the pen to sign the bill;  I signed it for her…  “Captain Midnight.”  She’ll get a laugh about that.

I drove home five miles below the speed limit.  Night had fallen on this Sunday;  we should have been at church but we were standing outside her place, and standing…and standing.  She couldn’t find her fucking keys!

A million or so comments entered my brains but I decided to just stand there in silence.  And stand…and stand.  When you keep your mouth shut, people don’t know how stupid you are.

After about five minutes it sounded like she was close to the keys, she thought she was in the right quadrant of her purse.  Yes, here they are, at last!

I opened the door for her and she staggered in, me following her.  She dropped her purse on the floor and grabbed me around the neck and pulled me over to her.  I crushed her against the kitchen cabinet.  I’m sure the handle was digging into her back…she didn’t care.

My hand fell to the inside of her thighs.  They were so warm, the ardor swept over me.  I threw everything I was trying to be out the window.  She opened her thighs and pulled me against her.  I smashed her against the cabinets.  She was hunting for my tongue with her lips, sucking me like a vacuum cleaner.

And she was making all those sounds that drive a man crazy…the moans, the rapid breaths, the heart pounding.  Shit!  How do you walk away from that?

I couldn’t;  I didn’t.  My hand remembered what it was supposed to do, rushing up, under her shorts quickly locating that wet, warm thing that makes all who are masculine stupid little boys or cocky he-men, or a little bit of both.

What would you do?  Read Scripture?

I stripped them off, her panties and her shorts, pulled them down those long shapely legs as she opened up to me.  She moved up on the counter and I attacked her as if she was Eve and this was going to be the original sin.

She unzipped me and I was standing at attention, feeling like a virgin again, being swept away in this frenzied sea of sensuality.  Before I knew it I was moving inside her, flesh inside flesh, the scent of life filling my nostrils.  My body was moving instinctually, my mind out of control.

Then a wee-small voice said, “What the hell are you doing?”

I answered, “I’m risking everything here, right now;  that’s what I’m doing, God.”

Here I was, inside this long-time friend of mine, with no protection, no HIV discussion, no birth control discussion, just inside.  All it took was a few glasses of wine to blow all sense and reason away.

Shit…well, reason took all the passion away;  major guilt was moving in like storm waves, washing over me trying to drown me.

“What’s wrong, sweetie,” she asked.

“Oh…nothing.  I’m just not into it.”

“What do you mean, sweetie…you are into it, up to the hilt.”

“Ah, yes…well, I think I’ll just pull out of here and choo-choo over to the next station and have a cup of coffee.”

“Choo-choo?”

“Yes, that’s a pilot term;  it means…ah, it means Air Traffic Control has just called and aborted this mission.  We’re heading straight for a mountain top;  we have to correct our heading or we’ll crash and burn.  I know you’ll understand.”

She lit a cigarette and scowled at me, naked and a little out of breath, “I don’t think I do.”

Jackie, I’ve tried to explain it all to her in this book.  I hope I’ve done a good job.

My best,

Daniel


08:51:18

We decided to spend the day at Disneyland.

It’s been a while for both of us;  maybe we could gather some clues here.  As a kid, one of my favorite rides was Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride.  Do you remember?

While Jackie and I were waiting in line, I asked her about something she had said in one of our sessions;  “Jackie, you mentioned the fact that we’re here, on this planet, means we’re avoiding Hell?”

“Yes.”

We moved a few feet closer to Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride.

“Jackie, that would mean we’re in a limbo state—we’re between Heaven and Hell earning our stripes for either Kingdom?  Wouldn’t that mean we’re living in Purgatory?”

“It makes sense to me, Daniel.”

“But will it make sense to my readers?”

“God’s grace is the only thing that will ever make sense, and that’s living in the healthiest place.  We can mature here, we can grow up, but it’s a lifelong process, maturing.”

I looked at the people waiting in line with us, “Are some people healthier than others?”

“Yes, comparatively, and yet, even the healthiest therapist is going to discover counter-transference with their clients.”

“What’s that?”

“Something triggers things inside the counselor that can be so subtle they don’t even recognize some of their own, deep patterns.”

“This could be discouraging, Jackie.”

“Remember that song, Where seldom is heard, a discouraging word?”

I quickly recalled the tune, “Yes, Home, Home on the Range.”

“That’s the way it’s supposed to be at home, Daniel…never a discouraging world.  Unfortunately, even if you have the most loving, wonderful parents, there are going to be times when the needs of the child are not met.  Neglect is prevalent because of the kind of society we live in, because mothers have to work, because daughter’s left alone to fend for herself;  Dad’s at work, too, so male bonding never takes place between father and son.”

“And when you get sick…”

“Yes, there’s neglect for infants sometimes because they’re ill, and for some reason, they’re not allowed to be with the parent.  Or the parent’s ill.  Let’s say a child is born with a physical problem, and they have to stay in the hospital away from their parent, they are going to be traumatized.”

“Even if they have the most loving parents?”

“Yes.  Let’s say a child was adopted when it was a baby or when they were four or five years old, no matter how loving the family is, there will be issues the child will sense and feel.  The child will have to overcome that abandonment;  it was designed that way.”

We were nearing the entrance to Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride.

“What do you mean, Jackie?”

“God designed the system that way so you would need Him.  Life is impossible without Him;  look at Adam and Eve.  They had two sons;  one killed the other.”

“Yeah, the world’s first family is also the world’s first dysfunctional family—  ‘Dad always loved you more,’ so I’ll just kill you so I can get my strokes.’”

“Somebody just recognized his evil side and acted on it.”

“Which brings up an interesting subject, Jackie…how can people be married?”

We laughed over that one…  “It’s because people don’t know how not to be married.  The only way to be healed is in relationship.  And the most ideal relationship is in marriage.”

My poetic alter came out, “And as we watch the pulsing of the illusion, we learn love.”

Jackie and I boarded the cars, taking us into the darkness of Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride.


08:57:45

Daniel’s mind was occupied;  he couldn’t contemplate the reality of what had happened to his beloved Natalie.

When the bottle of wine was halfway down, he decided he should develop a character equal in stature to Doonesbury.  He feverishly began to roughout an appointment book for his publisher, filled with quips on Proverbs—

Monday the 21st—

The Demon says, “The process of life is the sucking and passing of gas.”

Tuesday the 22nd—

The Demon says, “The road to Nirvana is that-away;  turn left when you see the sign, Hellward bound.”

Wednesday the 23rd—

The Demon says, “A half a million dollars for your thoughts.”

Thursday the 24th—

The Demon says, “Lonely people wake up with strange bedfellows.”

Saturday the 25th—

The Demon says, “Trespassers on Planet Earth will be Persecuted.”

Sunday the 25th—

The Demon says, “Which character was really Walt Disney himself?  Donald Duck, Minnie Mouse, or Goofy?”

Monday the 4th—

The Demon says, “If you look both ways before you cross the street, lightning will strike you.”

Tuesday the 5th—

The Demon says, “Mortimer Snerd should have run for President.”

Wednesday the 6th—

The Demon says, “The New Age should be immortalized;  four rolls of toilet paper will suffice.”

Thursday the 7th—

The Demon says, “If frogs can swim, you can croak.”

Frodau the 8th—

The Demon says, “Nightmares are not as injurious as Daymares.”

Saturday the 21st—

The Demon says, “Tofu is now being raised in Texas.  The largest herd I know of numbers over 400,000 head!”

Monday the 9th—

The Demon says, “If man and woman were meant to live together, PMS would mean Precious Man Syndrome.”

Tuesdya the 6thst—

The demon says, “Give ‘em an inch, and they’ll take a millennium.”


08:59:37

The Peter Pan ride was next for Jackie and I at Disneyland.

Do you remember?  You climb into a basket that hangs under a make-believe balloon, and you fly over the city at night.  Everything looks so small and clean and neat, so orderly, the little lights flickering happily.

“The split personality represents an individual who has made their own choice and yet can be controlled, Daniel.”

“Controlled?”

“The only truth a broken person knows is what they were forced to do.  Somehow they had to make sense of it.  That’s what the splitting process does for that victim.”

“Is a victim stronger or weaker?”

“A survivor?  If you can look at victim after seven thousand bits and fragments and splits, and see they are still able to love, able to understand love, to give love and to receive love, then no matter what the Black Chamber has done, they have not been able to control that person’s will, to break them.”

“A broken person…a broken child?”

“Yes, the goal of the chamber is to break the will of Love.  As a human being, faith, hope, and love is what separates us from the animals.  But the greatest of these is love.”

“What does it mean to me, Jackie?”

“If you are a victim but you still love, you can be used to perform their rituals, but they don’t possess your soul.”

I remembered, “It is a battle for my soul.”

“Yes, Daniel, and if you know love, you are safe.”

We boarded our balloons for the ride of the night city, “In other words, Jackie, they would rather pursue a person’s soul than kill them?”

We were swinging free and breezy over the city, “Yes, Daniel, because there is more power in soul possession.  There are some targets they won’t have anything to do with, but the Black Chamber troopers like to play;  they consider torture, chasing somebody, making them crazy just a game.  For the cat, it’s more fun to play the cat and mouse game than to actually eat the mouse.  So they’ll prolong the game as long as they can.”

The night city looked so innocent, so kind, “They purposely keep their victims alive, Jackie?”

“They keep you…her alive for a lot of different reasons.  They keep their victims alive because they have to, or because that person is now going to give them an in into the world they want to be in.”

“Strategies?”

“Yes, if she goes to the police;  the next thing you know she becomes a place for them to track the individuals that are their enemies.”

“What?”

“The Black Chamber has strategized way ahead of any strategy you can think of.  If their victim’s been talking to so-and-so FBI agent and they’ve been wanting to get to that FBI agent, now they know how to get to him.”

“How?”

“The victim becomes a double agent;  one alter works her way into confidence, the other spills the beans back to the chamber.  Simple…she becomes valuable because we know how to get information about him because we know how to get to her, and get her to tell us.  Victims are programmed to be double-agents.”

“This sounds like were living in a modern-day holocaust?”

Jackie and I were soaring above the night city, contemplating it’s sins, “Could it be the holocaust was Black Chamber inspired, Daniel, directly connected with the dark underworlds?”

“You’re suggesting it was a spiritual event, not a power-struggle event lead by a group of sick people by a sick man with a sick outlook for a segment of society.  Are you suggesting It was inspired by the Evil Commander as a hint of events to come?”

“Sounds reasonable to me.  The chamber takes advantage of our naiveté;  most people don’t even believe they exist.  And when we first learn about their existence, they start to plug in all sorts of wrong information for the investigators to discover.”

We were turning at the far end of the night city, turning back to fly over once again, “A smokescreen so we’ll sniff down the wrong road, so we’ll run down the wrong trail.”

“Yep…the key is, Daniel, don’t believe anything you hear, but believe everything you hear.  There will always be a potential twist to the story.”


09:09:17

A beautiful, young woman named Landie was reading from a Daniel Lovesong songbook—

Laying beside her, he gently touched her cheek,

“In everyday that passes by me, I discover more of your beauty.  In every moment that passes by me, I see more of what love could be.”

Opening up to him, she gently touched his soul, “The beautiful face you see, is you beginning to realize yourself within me.  To understand simply, my love, it’s you showing you you, and me showing me me.”

Senator Franchesco walked into his daughter’s room at their Georgetown townhouse.  He looked chipper.

Landie remarked, “Daddy, you’re in good spirits!”

“Yes, Pumpkin.  Considering the state of the world, I feel reasonably happy, free, a gentle kind of peaceful feeling.”

She thought it might be a good time to bring it up, “Daddy, do you know who Daniel is?”

“No…”

“Daddy…Daniel Lovesong, the troubadour of the age!”

“Oh…troubadour?  What do you mean, pumpkin?”

“Well, daddy.  He’s this songwriter who’s captured a spirit of life missing for a while;  a life that gets back to love and charity for everyone…you know, a sacredness for all things, so all people can live together in peace once and for all, like we did when this place started out.”

“Now slow down, pumpkin.  I’m not sure we’ve ever lived in peace here.  We’ve always had to battle for survival, either from wild animal attacks or from wild people attacks.  You see, if our civilization existed in peace for a time, another civilization would come along and conquer it.  I don’t think a songwriter could change any of that.”

“But, daddy, don’t you think if the conquers knew they were just conquering themselves, killing themselves, wouldn’t they stop?”

“I’m not sure I understand that concept, pumpkin, and I don’t think our enemies do either.  If it is true what we do to others we do to ourselves, that needs to be shown to us in such a way that is unmistakable and infallible.”  “How do you mean, daddy.”

“Something needs to happen that is so impossible to ignore, the understanding of what it was would transcend all understanding that exists today.”

“Pardon me?”

“Ah…a new belief system becomes part of life, and everyone believes it.  You see, religions have tried to present the good and evil premise with threat;  it hasn’t worked too well because all nations believe something different, backed up by their own religious thinking.  Really, pumpkin, the world is controlled by religious thoughts, by belief systems—the world is at odds with itself.”

“But, daddy, if love could be understood and implemented, and if all people could see they are reflected in everyone else, wouldn’t that preciousness of understanding prevail?”

“I suppose it would, pumpkin, but how do you alter thousands of years of tradition?  How do you change in grained superstitious beliefs?  How do you break people out of fear?”

“I don’t know, daddy.”

“Look at the media, it thrives on fear.  Look at the economy, the business cycles ebb and flow based on fear.

And then when you consider third-world countries who are at the subservience economic levels, not able to feed their populations nor educate them, they are left with no alternatives;  conquer now or die.

“Daddy, are we at the crossroads?”

“Certainly we’re at the crossroads, pumpkin;  certainly severe change is called for soon.  We can’t continue a bordered world.  The masses will eventually revolt;  they have to for they will have no choice.”

“Speak out about that in Congress, Daddy.”

“It’s been said, pumpkin.  Those words have rung in congress halls for centuries.  But today, pumpkin, the problems are insurmountable… economically, environmentally, defense related, and resource depletive.

“The world is essentially dead, pumpkin.  Tomorrow has been canceled.”


09:12:56

Castles in our heads.

I began to wonder if it was me Jackie was talking about.  I began to wonder if I was the one committing the travesties Jackie was telling me about.  I knew there were sides of me…and I knew that there were times it felt like demons were in me, stirring me up to such anger that I cursed God Almighty, the Holy Spirit, and even Jesus Christ Himself.

I believed Jesus is Lord;  I also believed he didn’t believe in me.  If He did, how could He let my life turn into such a tragedy, such pity?  If He loved me, how could He let me suffer the pain of the chamber?

So I began to wonder if I was the one making castles in my head, creating kingdoms to live in, stories and sagas that always ended the way I needed them to end.  Perhaps all these characters I’m writing about are me.  Maybe I’m Baby;  maybe there is a side in me that wants to rape and mutilate women.  There is a side in me that wants to love women, but somehow it never works.

Maybe I’m Natalie, the famous, beautiful perfect blond who has the world at her feet, who has everyone chasing after her.  Maybe there is a woman inside of me who wants to screw all the guys…who is the callous bitch who never lets them win.

Maybe I’m Daniel, the songwriter who changes the world with his music.  Maybe because I’ve never known true love in me, maybe I can find it in Daniel’s songs.

There is a creepy side to all of this.  I wonder if I am these characters, even the writer of these words…with a mind that has fragmented itself into all these divergent dramas.

And even now as I look at these words, I realize I am the reader.


09:15:27

A dead world, dying more.

“The planet is dying from pollution, daddy;  the cause is mind pollution and spirit pollution…”  Senator Franchesco contemplated his daughter’s words, ringing through their Georgetown townhouse.

Spirit pollution?  What a radical thought…I wish I knew what she was referring to.

In his mind he considered the prognosis—the populations of the poorer nations will increase, their masses literally overrunning the world.  Eventually they will riot and destroy;  it won’t be pretty.  Nothing will stop an army of two-hundred million when it marches.

“Maybe a new continent will appear, daddy, birthed out of a volcano in the ocean…some crazy thing like that.”

“Yes, pumpkin, maybe Paradise will invade the hearts and souls of those in charge.  Maybe new understandings of love will counteract the institutionalization of thought.  Maybe your troubadour, Daniel, will make a difference, I don’t know.  Even though I am a Senator, I’m lost in the system.  And some days it just becomes too much…some days, just too much.”

“You sound tired, daddy?”

“I am, pumpkin.  I’ve worked on the Hill for almost thirty years.  I’ve welcomed men and women bristling with conviction for change.  I’ve watched them leave town with their tail between their legs.  I’ve lived the American dream;  I’ve seen it turned into a nightmare.  I’m caught in the system, like everyone else.  And I guess I don’t bristle as much as I used to.”

“What if he ran for office, dad?”

“Who?”

“Daniel.”

“Oh, sweetie…he would probably win a post and then be devoured into the system or assassinated.  For the people is a voice in the past;  by the elite is the way the world is run.  Everyone accepts it because it seems to be working.  No, pumpkin, don’t count on your songwriter to save the world—just save yourself.”

“Daddy, can you put me in touch with him?”

“Sure, pumpkin…Daniel Lovesong, is that his name?  We’ll track him down and tell him you’ll be calling.  And if you want, bring him to the Capitol.  Maybe he’ll give me his autograph.”

“Daddy…you’re the sweetest.”

There was a pause between them after her kiss…  “Daddy, do you think a songwriter could change the world?”

“Well, the Beatles surely changed something…so did Elvis.  Singers and songwriters seem to reflect what’s happening at the grassroots level.  If their audiences are immense enough, and if they can sustain long enough, I suppose it could happen.  But behind that songwriter has to be a conviction that is unending.  That songwriter has to know what he is and what we are, as a world.  And then he has to live it…and I suppose in that example people will be changed.  Then whatever he is could affect the entire world.”

Landie held her father’s hand, “Tell me the truth, daddy.”

“The truth is, pumpkin, those who are in power don’t want things changed:  peaceful coexistence is against their best interest, so is equality…and so is love.  Your lovesong singer is triggering all of those emotions in the people.  Those who don’t want to feel love will fight him to the death.  His name is Daniel?”

“Yes, daddy.”

“Daniel in the Lion’s Den, that’s what it would be.”


09:20:46

We wandered over to the Lion’s den at the San Diego Zoo.  Roaring lions always intrigued me.  What the hell were they roaring about?

“Daniel, you’re aware the name Roaring Lion is one of the names for Satan?”

“No…no I wasn’t.  How’d he pick up that handle?”

“Evidenced by his nature, scholars have searched for descriptions of him.  He’s called the Raging Deceiver, the Deadly Destroyer, the Father of Lies, the Evil Commander, the Merciless Murderer, the Master of Deception, the Fiend of Agony, the Mentor of Rape, the Peacock of Arrogance, and the…”

“…Roaring Lion.”

“Yes.  The Evil Commander refuses to believe his days are numbered, even though he knows they are.  In a sense, he’s split over this issue, even though he is the Master of Psychology.”

I had to laugh…  “Even the Evil Commander is split!?”

“Yes, but he knows himself well, Daniel.  He knows what being created feels like;  he knows what created beings are all about.  Satan knows how to be an Angel of Light;  he knows how to make himself appear in the image of Light.  But he doesn’t like staying in Light because it’s too much fun for him to watch what happens when he turns and digs his claws into your back.  Satan loves that, so he doesn’t lead you astray for long.”

“This is not your average, Mr. Nice Guy.”

“He’ll be nice to you just to screw your wife…he’s dastardly, Daniel.  Let’s say you’re in New Age, right?  You’re a progressive thinker, moving into all sorts of dimensions of adventure.  You think you’re really onto something;  and yet, all along, little by little, you’re recognizing something is hurting inside.  You’re like the proverbial frog in the pot—the pot is heating up but you don’t know your boiling point.”

“I’d say I’m in trouble.”

“Yes, you’re finally burned…if you don’t die.  You know all along something’s cooking, but you don’t have a clue it’s you!”

In the Lion’s Den…

“Satan likes to blind your eyes, Daniel, yet at the same time you’re aware of evil in its components;  the seductiveness, the pride of lies, the lust of the eyes, the lure of the flesh, the eroticism of knowledge.”

“What’s the keynote lie here, Jackie?”

“That’s easy to discern—absolute separation from the true and living God, and submission to the Evil Commander by convincing you to believe you are God.”

“That’s the battle cry of the New Agers, Jackie.”

“Yes, and perhaps by not even recognizing a supreme Master like Satan, but by recognizing a covert spirit realm, you’ll eventually become a Black Chamber warrior.”

“That’s a twist;  entry by default.”

The lion stalked…

“To hide is to control, Daniel.  To be obvious yet deny is the creed of the chamber.”

“That’s over my head, Jackie.”

“Think about this…when anything hidden is revealed, denial returns the horror back to the hidden, underworld caverns.”

“I see…the chamber uses our denial mechanism against us!”

“Quite correct, Daniel.  The mockery is, they were here, they were in plain sight, but we didn’t see them.”

“What does that make me?”

“For one, Daniel, a fool!  For another, an accomplice…a vicarious accomplice because the evil was obvious.  And if it was obvious, why didn’t you break out of your foolishness?”

I paused her thinking, “Put this all together for me, Jackie.”

“This is the secret intelligence, Daniel.  If that much energy is going towards that much hate, awfulness, and deception, then there has to be a God they’re fighting against.  And if there is a God, there has to be a Heaven, a place for us to live in eternal peace.”

“Why?”

“Because they are fighting so much against us to keep us away from Heaven.”

I heard a lion’s roar…

It made sense to me, “Are you suggesting, Jackie, that the Spiritual world is a real world, one we must contend with every day?”

She didn’t hesitate, “Every moment of every day, Daniel.  And you can always hear more of the gory details…do you want to hear more?”


09:27:33

I awoke in darkness, pitch black.

I was laying face down on something.  I couldn’t move very much.  I was very scared.  I started crying but nobody heard me.

It stayed black in here for many hours.  I could barely breath…I was petrified with fear.  The smell in here after a few days was horrible.  I couldn’t stand it;  I wanted to die.  I split the scene.

When I returned a few hours…a few days later I was still here, laying face down on something rotting that stunk like death.  Maggots creeped across my face looking for a meal.  I couldn’t move at all…I was very hungry.  I was frozen with fear in this black chamber, riveted to its horrors.  I remember being told if I ate in this black chamber, Bone Cracker would break my bones.

I was very hungry, famished…but the food in here was rotting.  I couldn’t stand it anymore—I split the scene and went to the mountains, summiting Mount Rainier on a two-day hike.  I was the third man to the top;  it was an easy climb.  When I returned to this black chamber, I was chewing flesh in my mouth like a mad dog…human flesh, dead flesh.

I swallowed hard but I couldn’t move, lying face down on what I was eating.

I couldn’t stand it any more;  I split and went to the seashore—I was a pelican diving for my flesh.  When I returned I was still in the pitch blackness of the coffin…waiting for Bone Cracker to break my bones.

How does Bone Cracker know I eat what’s in here?  When they open the lid, he pinches my wrist.  If there any fat under my skin, Bone Cracker know I eat what’s in here.

Bone Cracker break my bones…Bone Cracker.


09:31:36

“Will the Antichrist be one who will raise from the dead?”

I thought this was an odd place to have an Antichrist discussion.  Jackie and I were waiting in line for the It’s a Small World, After All ride at Disneyland.

We boarded the flowered boat, planning ten rides, one after the other.  Torture…

Jackie opened the discussion, “If Christ raised from the dead, then Antichrist surely will;  he will be given the powers of Satan.”

It’s a small world, after all…

“But haven’t the White Chamber operatives been given the power of Christ?”

It’s a small world, after all…

“Yes, but they don’t know how to use the power at the movies.  The one main feature in this movie is the Evil Commander is not omnipresent;  he’s not present everywhere, all the time like God is.  He can only be at one place at a time.”

“Wait a minute, Jackie—are you saying there is this evil creature who lives in a spirit world who has power over us.”

It’s a small world, after all…

“Absolutely…the evidence is overwhelming.”

“What evidence?”  I wondered.

“The disaster of peoples lives, including yours.”

I was silent, listening to the double-feature in my head…It’s a small world, after all…

“Satan sends his delegates…he delegates his power to his operatives, these other creatures.  And they are a whole organization in themselves;  his demonic brotherhood.  You know all about that, Daniel.”

It’s a small world, after all…

“I’m listening and learning.”

“They exist…and they have the potential to embed themselves in a targeted victim;  that says something about their power.  But at the same time, they cannot takeover the victims soul the way…It’s a small world, after all…the White Spirit can.  Satan can go into a person’s body and possess them;  but you cannot say Satan dwells within my heart.”

“You know, Jackie, we could all be possessed to a certain degree.”

It’s a small world, after all…

“You mean, void of our true nature?”

“Voided, I would say, by something much stronger than we care to admit.”

“Perhaps, Daniel.  Let’s say demons can climb in and out of us.”

It’s a small world, after all…

“Are we spirit breeders then, Jackie?  And who are they?”

“This book might turn you inside out, Daniel.  It has me.”

I paused…  “Did you say I could have you?”

It’s a small world, after all…


09:36:24

The Ritz-Carlton

Then in time, Daniel was reviewing galley pages from his publisher by the pool.  Was Samson dead?…Was Natalie dead?…Was I over?…these were his thoughts.

The pages from Daniel’s first romance novel lifted his mind from the black of today to the laughter of yesterday—

JESSICA

A Frolic Through The Ins

& Outs of Love

by

Daniel Lovesong

Jessica’s Voice

I was a virgin until I was fourteen.  There was a boy…he promised me it wouldn’t hurt.  It didn’t, he was right;  I could barely feel it.  From then on it was just a mad search for body satiation.  Then I met Trevor.

Trevor’s voice

I was a virgin until I was seventeen, or was it eighteen?  I think I was a junior in high school and everyone I knew didn’t think I was still a virgin.

I didn’t think I was attractive.  I was tall and dark.  I learned how to kiss pretty good.  I had a lot of dates with pretty girls.  I earned decent grades and was an okay athlete.  My parents bought me a car when I was a sophomore, so at least I had something to go parking in.  Compared to some, I suppose my folks had some money.

I grew up in Southern California.  I was in high school in the early sixties.  Those were the days of no birth control.  Well, we had rubbers and diaphragms, and the rhythm method, but all of those methods required the premeditated consent of your girlfriend.  And any girl in those days who actually premeditated the act was called a whore and usually was the most popular girl in the school.  Maybe you can remember those days?

The pill would be invented in my junior year, around 1963, and would become widespread when I was in college, a few years later.  So, I have a real good excuse for still being a virgin at seventeen—the girls just didn’t put out…I know you’ll remember that.  And the one’s that did either required a engagement ring with all the proper references, or were the class whore who anybody with any sense didn’t sleep with, or at least didn’t tell anyone they were sleeping with.

Without the pill, we had to rely on Trojans.  That was the code name—we didn’t call them rubbers, or condos, like they call them now.  They were Trojans.  I practiced putting them on—to quickly and sneakily slip on a Trojan was a real critical art.  If you took too long, your girl friend would figure out what you were up to…and it would be all over.

Why would it be all over?  I’ve often questioned myself about that.  Basically, no self respecting, good girl would allow herself to be whomped [that’s what we called it] unless it came on, sort of, unexpected.  So if you had to fiddle around looking for your Trojan in your wallet, and then tear the wrapper open in the dark usually after seven or eight beers, and then keeping yourself erected long enough so that tight, slippery, little thing fit on you deal just right, that took some doing.

Most of the time, in such a hurry, I would put my Trojan on inside out;  the stupid thing would never unroll!  [Did it ever happen to you?] I would be sitting there trying to unroll it while my date would be passing from her panting stage to her watching stage, and then to her wondering stage.  I can still see her almost tapping her fingers.  Of course, all of the foreplay was gone, swirling right down the drain;  Good God, the act had become premeditated!

This is why all of us men in our forties really make love quickly now.  We still have that deep-seated fear that if we take our time, it’s all over.

And just so you Yuppies will know how really bad we had it, if I managed to fit it on right, if she managed to remain passionate enough during those minutes of putting it on and taking it off and turning it right-side out and putting it back on;  and if she wasn’t too drunk, and if the cops didn’t show up, and if I wasn’t too drunk so my Tom was all flopped over [that’s what I called it, my Tom], then finally I would be able to try one of the positions I had practiced so many times in my dreams.  [Have you seen those books, designed by those acrobats?]

And then after all of that banging of bodies back and forth, and cries of ecstasy, and the tears that meant this was really the most important event in every woman’s life, something that wasn’t given freely…after it was all over, I would look down and there’s Tom, glistening in the moonlight…

But Tom shouldn’t be glistening in the moonlight;  the Trojan should be glistening?

I looked down and all that was left is this little rubber was a ring like a rubber band around the base of my Tom.

“Oh, shit!”  I mumbled to myself.

Then I tried to change the subject;  I asked her to give me a blow job but she said she was a vegetarian.

Then she said, “I’m so glad you use a Trojan.”

And I would say, “Yes, they sure take the worry out of it, don’t they?”

And she would smile at me and would rest her head against my shoulder…and I would be wondering, “What in the hell happened to the Trojan?  Is it on the floor of Dad’s car, or is it crammed down the back of the seat, or is it crammed inside of her!  Jesus, if this gets all over the school, I’m ruined.  Nobody will sleep with me, much less, a pretty girl.”

That’s what Trojans were like.  And I tried Ramses, and I tried Fourex.  So now I’m over forty and I use two at a time, sometimes three.  What the hell, the rubber manufactures need the money, right?  If one breaks, you’ve got a backup.  Sometimes they pinch a little bit, though.

Why didn’t we use diaphragms, you ask?  You’ve got to be serious!  That really required the premeditated consent of your girl friend, her doctor, probably her parents, and you, for the guy had to know what the girl was up to.

Can you just see it now—you’ve just come off really delving into the deep psychological meaning of Leave it to Beaver, and your girl calls you, “Sweetie, which contraceptive jelly should we use tonight?  Last time you told me you didn’t like the taste.  This one’s cherry flavored.”

“Do they use any artificial ingredients…or is it all natural?”

“Let me read the ingredients…as I remember, my last lover enjoyed the taste, mostly during nooners;  tastes great, not greasy, doesn’t burn, and kills the hell out of all those little spermers you’ve been making all day long.”

So you tell her you don’t mind if she gushes poison up her sweet, little squeezer to kill all of your little spermers who are going to swim faster than Mark Spitz trying to chase down her Lone Ranger little egg whose playing hard to get.  [They’re always playing hard to get!]

Well, what’s creation all about?  Here you are, spending your valuable time and energy making out of thin air a couple, hundred million spermers a day.  And then both of you plan to kill all of those little suckers off that very night!

Something’s not right, you say?

When did licking and sucking come along, you ask?  Obviously, when I was out of high school!  That’s a sore subject with me.  Sore?  Maybe that’s not the right word.  Anyway, back to the loss of my maidenhead—do boys lose their maidenhead or just never get head?  I knew what the girl’s lost;  we called it their cherry.  I suppose it was the fruit of their womb, or some such concept, although nobody knew much about licking and sucking in those days—it was taboo.  Anybody who licked and sucked was a werewolf.

I knew about the maidenhead because I had studied sexuality intensely for a number of years.  That’s all I could do, study it.  I figured if I knew a lot about it, I might get some someday.

My dad subscribed to Playboy.  To this day I don’t think I’ve ever finished an article in Playboy, although I’ve heard they are very incisive.  The Playboy of my day didn’t look like the post-Penthouse Playboy of your day.  The Playboy of my day was absolutely illegal, disgusting, blasphemous, degrading, flagrant, and exceedingly harmful to young men’s minds.  After all, it almost showed them the pink, luscious secrets of a gorgeous girl.  I mean to tell you, you had to look long and hard to find a picture of what it really looked like.

I remember one time I saw an ad that said for only $19.95 they would send you a plastic it which included everything;  a rubber squeezer, pubic hair, everything.  I never ordered it.  I became very familiar with my right hand;  I didn’t have any choice.

I think I saw my first it in Tijuana.  A gang of us Key Club members drove our VW’s down for the weekend.  After one too many marguerites, I really wasn’t too sure what it really looked like.  If you wanted to see a naked body, you had to do business with the Mafia—I mean it.  Nudity and luscious bodies banging against each other was more underground than cocaine smuggling is nowadays.  They were called dirty books, dirty magazines, and dirty movies, and you were dirty if you watched them, read them, looked at them, or thought about them.  Well, I really didn’t have much choice.  It was either read dirty books or die of a spermatic embolism.

I would lay in bed wondering if I was the only young man on the planet who wasn’t inside the body of a beautiful woman, or even a semi-beautiful woman.

I would look in the mirror, “I’m not that ugly, do I smell?  What’s the story here, why can’t I get lucky?  Why can’t I attract a sex-crazed bombshell to light my fire, as the term would have it.”

Well, eventually I did, in droves, just because I grew up…and out!  And along with the droves, other things manifested that required penicillin.

So here we go with my first, and wouldn’t you know it, I didn’t even know her name…well, I must have, because she called me up and invited me over—her mother was out for the evening.  Here’s how it started.

One day there was a new girl who showed up in class.  She wasn’t the best-looking thing you could ever see, but she had a face, two arms and two legs, and a surprise for me in between.

She wasn’t the cheerleader type, and that was okay because I wasn’t the captain of the football team—I never could stand the smell of the locker room.

She invited me over and we ended up on the couch.  I was laying on top, crushing her, and I ventured, “Let’s go into the bedroom.”

She scared the shit out of me when she said, “Let’s.”

We took off our clothes and I tried to remember all those dirty books I had read.  I told her this was my first time.  She said I must be kidding.  I said, “No, I’m a virgin.”

She said I sure don’t act like that, and squeezed me inside her.  I must have come thirty or forty times that night.

It was early in the morning as I drove home to my parent’s house.  I saw a strange car out front…shit, it was a cop car!  My folks thought I had died in a car accident or something.

Hell, I had to walk in there with the smell of sex all over me.  Mom and dad and the cop just laughed as I fell into bed.  What romantic memories!

She called again the next day.  Then I began to think about pleasing woman with a big dick.

Jessica’s Voice

The first time?  How did it feel?

I lived near a lake.  My boy friend and I liked to kiss under the bridge.  We didn’t think anyone could see us, but I bet they did.

My boyfriend wasn’t too at ease about the heavy-duty stuff;  you know, inside.  So I would lie there kissing him and he would rub me until it drove me crazy.  I would have one organism after the other…that’s what we called them.  My sexual scent must have been flowing all over the lake;  the fishing that summer was the best.

Anyhow, he had a big one;  I could feel it through his jeans.  But he was too scared to take it out, as if it would break or something.

I wasn’t sure he would be my first;  somehow he had to get the courage to take it out and put it in.  I had no idea he possessed a doublewide!

Trevor’s Voice

When Jessica meet her doublewide man?  How did I react?  Do you know what it’s like to feel two-feet small?

I always thought mine was the biggest.  After all, the prostitutes always said, “Grande,” when they caught a glance.  And all the guys in the locker room weren’t very friendly to me, so I guess I had a pretty big one.

Then one day I saw this bumpersticker, Men come in three sizes—small, medium, and Oh, my God!  I was thinking about waving to the gal driving, but I figured she probably had an oh, my God!  in her possession.

And then a wave of fear swept over me—maybe I’m not an Oh, my God!

I tried to ignore the thought.

The months passed.

And then one day I was in a locker-room after a golf game…and I saw one.  My God, those girls were right.  It looked like it should be attached to a stallion.  The view was devastating to me;  I had to turn away, the inner-child pain was so great.

Who could I blame for this travesty?  God, who makes all things, must also make cocks.  How could I rationalize this one?  It became my big secret…or should I say, my little secret.

The fellow who was wearing the Oh, my God was very unassuming and friendly…confident and do I dare say, cocky.  He knew he had what they wanted, and what I wanted.  It was twice as wide as mine, but I still think mine was longer than his.  [At least I hope so.]

Well, you can imagine what that did to my ego.

There’s always somebody quicker on the draw, someone who has a bigger gun.  I was devastated.  I had no idea how much I had relied on being a cocksman.  I mean, even in my everyday life and attitudes as a businessman, I thought I was a cocksman;  not that I was chasing everything in a skirt, but I knew I could make it to the luscious prize if I wanted to.

Now I saw in this revelatory vision, perhaps for the first time, I really was a male chauvinistic pig.  How did I become that way?

Rationalization.

I always had to rationalize why I wasn’t driving a Ferrari, why I wasn’t sleeping with this month’s centerfold, why I wasn’t taking down the biggest deal.  Rationalization to me was survival.  If I couldn’t rationalize, I couldn’t exist—I was simply a failure.  That’s why I had to grow the biggest dick, at least in my mind.

Jessica’s Voice

Whether or not Trevor has the biggest really doesn’t matter to me.  What matters is what Trevor is.  Sure, I’d like to come fifty or sixty times a day…who wouldn’t¿ But isn’t there something else to life?

Trevor’s Voice

It’s funny how, as the time has past, his is getting shorter and mine is getting wider.  I’m also very grateful to all the women out there who have said, “It doesn’t matter how big it is, Trevor, all that matters is how you use it.”

Of course, nobody really believes that, but it gives us little suckers a chance, right!?

This was a wondrously fulfilling experience, realizing I wasn’t the biggest and the best.  Now it really doesn’t matter to me who is the Top Dick in town;  it doesn’t matter one bit!

I do know now if a guy owns a double-wide.  You can tell by the way he walks;  he saunters along, kinda ambling, while their girlfriend hangs on their arm.  Sometimes they have to walk bowlegged.  You can tell how big a dick is by their girlfriends, too;  they look a little glassy-eyed, as if they’re in a daze, a dreamy smile on their face constantly.

You know, biggest dickdom is really a tough place to be.  Top Dick is like being top gun in town;  everybody’s waiting at high-noon to watch you filled full of holes.  And there’s always somebody faster to the zipper, and there’s always somebody who’s makin’ more money than you, and there’s always somebody who has a bigger dick.  Sometimes life is just plain shit!

Jessica’s Voice

The story that really destroyed Trevor was when I was playing with him.  Trevor had such a giant ego, it needed cutting down to size every once in a while.

Well, I told him about a carpenter I dated.  We just started off slow and easy.  In fact, when I left Texas, as a going-away present, he gave me a feather comforter that Trevor and I use in the winters.

After a few dates, Tex and I slept together…just laying together naked, feeling the love between us;  gentle and peaceful and sharing and all of that.  We both were very tired from an evening of two-stepping, and we fell asleep.

A few nights later we went out to dinner a little earlier, and went to his house earlier, also.  After a few glasses of wine we ended up in bed…and this time, we didn’t sleep.

It was quite a passionate experience for me.  He was a stocky man with thick limbs, and his member (what do you call it!) was, well, I’ll explain.

He was very unassuming about it.  I would suppose all he needed to do was carry a Polaroid around with him, and the girls would just drop to the floor, ripping off their panties.

We were kissing a lot, and then I felt it…this giant thing pressing against me.  Honestly, it felt as large as an oversized cucumber, poking at me down there.

Well, he was a little embarrassed about it because there was no way it was going in, not without a lot of work.

So, he slid down my panties and started working at it with his fingers, beginning to lubricate my opening, rubbing my lips, making it warm and then hot to his touch…it worked me up into a frenzy, the anticipation, the expectation.

Then he started licking around the edges of it, wetting my stomach, sucked and licked my hair down there, pushing my thighs apart as far as they would go, dipping his tongue into my custard pie every once in a while.

I was wild with desire…I lunged for his it, grappled it as it filled up my hand.  I couldn’t put my fingers around it.  I pulled him up on me, starting work on making my opening bigger…the head wouldn’t even fit in, so I tried to stretch myself open with my fingers;  and then he put his fingers in, and the wine and the drenching odors of sex were driving us both to passionate madness…

I began rubbing his member widely, up and down, back and forth, along my opening, like you would if you were masturbating…wildly, and it grew harder and stronger.

My opening was stretching, and his head slipped in just a bit.  I pushed against him with all my strength, but he knew better so he just held still while I pushed against him, working against it, in waves of rhythm, as I felt it moving into me.

What a feeling!

And millimeter by millimeter I opened for him and pushed against him, as he licked and sucked my breasts and nipples, and kneaded my doughy cheeks with his rough, workingman’s hands, wiggling his butt every now and then, slipping it in bit by bit.

It was wildly exotic because it took so long.  I’m sure he didn’t feel a thing until about an hour when it was halfway in.  I had come and come and come all over him, and he just smiled, waiting to take his turn.

My juices had drenched the bed, the scent made us both wild.  I knew there was no way that thing was going to go all the way in;  he knew it too.

He put a pillow under my hips, which gave him a very sensitive angle into me, and went to work, pulsing into me rhythmically, spasmodically, giving me what I could take but not hurting me because he really could.

At around midnight, he finally came, after I had come about twelve times…seriously.  And every orgasm was better than the last.

The feeling was exquisite, the moment was heaven, the love was frantic yet peaceful…

Trevor’s Voice

Was I jealous about Jessica’s big-dick man?

Nah…

Up until that time I had thought I had a pretty big dick.  And I never really thought about how much I had relied on that thing to define me.  Apparently I had used my member for a lot of rationalization;  you know, if I didn’t score with a beauty, I would rationalize by thinking what she had missed, not to sit on my big dick!

My big dick became a defensive system for me…no matter what I didn’t have, I would always have my big dick!

Well, Jessica and her carpenter story took that right away from me.  I believe her story…do you?  She tells it pretty convincingly and it hasn’t varied any time she tells it, although I don’t like to hear about it…so I’ve had to learn to live with it.

For a good long time there, about a year, that guy and his dick really bugged me.  Maybe someday I’ll meet him and he’ll be really ugly and grungy, you know the type.

I’m sure glad I don’t need to rationalize any more about this.  I was actually telling my dick to grow larger.  Well, it did!  To my surprise and Jessica’s surprise, my dick grew, it did!

Jessica started complaining that mine was too long for her.  I was smug about it for a little while, then I realized it was interfering with our intimacy.

I realized I had manifested my own reality…words do manifest, you know.

Jessica asked me one day to stop telling my dick to grow.  So I did stop, in front of her anyway.  Now when I talk to my dick, I tell it, “Wider, not longer!”

I wonder how many men talk to their dicks?


10:10:35

It’s a small world, after all…I think that song will be forever with me, what about you?

Jackie and I were waiting to enter the domain of Captain EO at Disneyland, as the web of deception thickened.

“Bloodlines for royalty,” was Jackie’s answer.

I had asked her, “What is a Black Chamber high priestess?

“It’s just like Kings and Queens, Daniel;  their ruling powers go back generations upon generations, except they’re kings and queens in the supernatural underworld.”

“Would that mean they breed for certain purposes?

“Yes, to generate a hierarchy.”

“For whom, Jackie?”

“For Satan, who else?”

“Just curious.  Breeding?”

“Let’s suppose a particular woman’s generational tree is attached to a male she’s going to breed with.  She will create a generational child and the Evil Commander will determine, in accordance with the particular coven, what that child’s function and purpose will be.”

“They are one of the chosen ones?”

“Correct.  They will be branded, trained, and raised up.  The parents will do everything in their power to bring the chosen one’s life to fruition, according to the coven.  If the child balks, daddy or mommie won’t receive what they need.”

We moved toward the entrance of Captain EO— “This is bizarre, Jackie.  Every day with you is more bizarre than the last.”

“The spiritual underworld is bizarre—period.  The connections, the networking is so very powerful, if the chosen one does not become by her own will what her parents need her to become, then her parents, her breeders, won’t achieve what they’ve been working for all their life.”

“And the downside of that is…”

“You’ll be tortured, punished, ridiculed, and abused for that failure, your failure.  The thought of personal torture motivates you with every talent you have to force your child to be what she’s chosen to be.  And you will never let her go, because if you let her go, you lose.”

“Man…”

The line was moving up to the entrance of Captain EO.

“The hierarchical system is very logical, Daniel.  It’s entire reason for existence is to lift Black Chamber troopers to the top of their potential.  The question is, who’s going to be in the international organization;  who is going to be the supreme master?  Who’s going to be up there, number one.”

“Is that what this is about—pride and power, stepping out to execute the most ghastly thing you can possibly attain to prove that you’ve been able to make it, to sear your conscience?”

“That’s what it’s about, Daniel.  You have to work your way up the ranks with heinous deeds.”

“What are the ranks?”

“The ranks are worldwide powers.  They are territorial principalities, fiefdoms;  kingdoms claimed for the Master of Evil, the Strongman himself.”

“Jesus…” I exclaimed in exasperation.

“No…I’m afraid these kingdoms are not claimed for Jesus;  these territories are claimed for Satan.”

“So there really is an evil Master in charge of a vast, fragmented Kingdom, Jackie?”

“Precisely.”

“If it’s fragmented, what holds the Kingdom together?”

She thought for a second, “Power and pride, uplifted and exalted by the seared conscience, enforced by the spiritual underworld.”

That was pretty clear to me, “How extensive are the parcel divisions, Jackie?”

We entered Captain EO’s domain, “Extreme;  different sects, groups, cults, fiefdoms, and covens.  Many covens who don’t know they are connected to other covens;  they are independents not associated with the groups you’ve heard about, the secret Brotherhoods.”

“Are these just independent Strongman worshipers?”

We sat in Captain EO’s domain, prepared for the excitement.

“Yes, Daniel, these groups can breakup fairly easily without too much repercussion to the members.  But if you’re part of the generational plan, forget it.  You don’t have a chance.  You’re in…forever.”


10:13:25

I left the radio on all night;  I couldn’t sleep.  I thought I remembered hearing this X-rated radio drama…

A young women is being lead impassionately into a private chamber.  I am aware other women are being lead to similar chambers.  The operator grabs at her snaps to pull down her pantsuit flap.  She struggles, the operator slaps her and tears her pantsuit open at the flap.

He points to the chair;  ugly feelings flow through her.  She sits down in the chair and places her feet in the stirrup.  The operator straps her feet at the ankles.  The chair is angled as a normal chair, yet with bottom support for her cheeks only.  Her target area has been shaved, is opened and exposed.  She can hear the movement of other chairs against rails, and the movement of chains that convey the chairs to their destination.  The operator straps her arms down, reaches to a jar of lubricant, and wipes her’s, inserting just enough finger for a thrill.

The chair begins its journey, as it moves backwards through rubber strips.  She is now in a large room and she hears and sees many chairs and their movement, almost like bumper cars.  She occasionally sees the horrified and impassioned looks of other girls her age.

She is falling backwards…

As she approaches the landing zone, she begins to smell dirty sweat.  This is her first time, she’s a virgin.  It will hurt a lot more.  She will never know the passion of making love;  she will never see her lover;  she will never touch him…nor kiss him, nor talk to him…


10:15:37

Marriage?

If I were ever to be married, what song would I like to be married to?

Daniel rested comfortably on the daybed in their twelve-million-dollar, beach-front mansion neighboring the Ritz-Carlton.  While adoring a life-size portrait of Natalie, he picked up his pen, roughing out some lyrics…

What was the song the little girl sang

to all the little boys?

What was the song the little girl sang

that brought them comfort and joy?

In her land of make believe, every day was her dream.

In her land of make believe, livin’ was the scene,

life was the only dream.

The song that the little girl sang

was a song to all little boys,

Its tune sang so simple

its lyrics so free,

“Share love, share joy, and be.

Share love, share joy, and be.”

Not bad, he thought.  Catchy tune.  Let me listen to more…

In her land of make believe, a sad face never shown

In her land of make believe, happy was her home,

Home…home.  What rhymes with “home?”  Own…own…

Her life, it was her own,

Her life, it was her own.

The song that the little girl sang

rang to all hearts and all minds,

Its truth sang so simple

its lyrics so free,

“Share love, share joy, and be,

Share love, share joy, and be.”

If I’m ever married…if I ever could know what marriage really was, the thought racked Daniel’s brain as he looked on Natalie’s beautiful form.

Beauty, what is beauty?  Joy, what is joy?  Love, what is love?  In our illusion, we learn love.


10:17:57

I tuned into the radio drama…

“To whom does this embryo pass to?”

“It is from agent Z-26, scheduled for implantation in Starcluster 83, Minion Birth;  Section head, Zantow.  The sperm comes from a very high intellect on Planet Earth;  a songwriter, one of brilliant creativity and intuition who is intruding into the unseen realms of infinity with his mindpower.  The egg emanates from one beauteous in form, as the humanoids would term it, yet also compassionate in nature, who is aware that she is more than a body and mouth.  The child should be of exceptional nature, fitting the new race handily.”

“Is the race well prepared for their journey?”

“Yes.  In only a few moments of time, the operation will commence.”

“So it shall be—I command the launch of the new race that will infiltrate Planet Earth.  Began your journey, to end as a light ship tuning into earth’s vibrational zone.


10:19:32

At Disneyland, Captain EO was amazing!  The special effects invigorating, seductive.

Jackie and I decided to challenge the Pirates of the Caribbean for our next adventure.  The line moved rapidly and we boarded our boat…Yo, Ho, Ho and a bottle of rum!

“Jackie, why does God allow it to happen to us?”

“What?”

“The utter desecration of our body, mind, and eventually our soul by evil forces.”

“The only answer we have that indicates the powerfulness of our own free will, is just that God gave us our own free will and He will not cross that.”

“You mean the God of the Universe is so gracious that He will not invade our space, even if we will eventually destroy ourself?”

“Precisely…until you hit absolute bottom and call out in utter humility.”

“Then He comes to save?”

“Yes, Daniel;  then He comes to save.”

Yo, Ho, Ho…

“But, Jackie, what about someone who is born to the family of the Strongman…”

“The Evil Commander, yes?”

“Yes, the minute they’re born, somebody is sticking paperclips in their ears;  I mean what kind of freewill does a baby have?”

“They stick much more than paperclips in their ears.  A case in point…the victim herself.  In this case study, we don’t know precisely the adolescent incubation period;  there are no records of her birth, nor authentic photographs proving her age or revealing her childhood…”

“No records?”

“It’s as if her days until her early twenties were wiped clean from the slate;  it’s as if she didn’t exist during those years.  She, by her own protective mechanisms, has obliterated those years to survive the pain.”

I cringed, “How bad was it?”

“The pain?  We’re not talking about mental anguish only;  this woman experienced physical pain beyond comprehension…a hell beyond the gravest nightmare.  Her only hope was the law of opposites—she knew Hell existed for she was living in it, therefore there must be a Heaven.  And if there were a Heaven, there must be a Savior.”

Yo, Ho, Ho, and a bottle…

“Did she receive a clean slate, Jackie?”

“Miraculously, yes.  When she emerged from the chamber, she chose marriage with a wised-up young man familiar with spiritual warfare;  she chose White Chamber friends, and chose to be Born Again.  The very fact she splits off certain parts of herself are an indication her will is fighting against the programming.”

“It’s a battle…”

“The battle becomes very powerful in that she chooses what she is going to be.”

“Say again, Jackie?”

“She decides what character she will play in the play she is directing.”

Yo, Ho, Ho and a bottle of rum!

“I see,” I think.

“She is writing the script, Daniel, and producing the play…and she is also the audience.  Remember, her talent is not a handicap;  it is a gift.  She’s learned to create a little universe inside herself in order to survive the big universe outside.”

“Amazing.”

“Yes.  Black Chamber troopers cannot force an individual beyond their will, the will of their own heart.  We’re not robots, Daniel;  we have our own mind and our own heart.  But our mind can be controlled beyond our ability, while our soul awaits Salvation.”

I wondered, “Do you believe innately our soul knows what’s right for us?”

Yo, Ho, Ho and a…

“That is the battlezone, Daniel.”

“The battlezone?”

“Yes, it’s a number’s game.  At the end of time, the Strongman is going to ask for an arbitration.  He knows his doom—his eternal fate in the burning river of fire, forever.  And according to the Word, those who walked with him will accompany him to the pit.  In his final moment, the Evil Commander will appeal to the Most High God.”

Yo, Ho…

“What will his appeal be, Jackie?”

“If you, the Lord of the Universe, send me, the Master of Evil, to the eternal pit of damnation, it is written you must also send all the innocents who have walked with me, who are marked by me.

“Are you a God of Mercy, or one of Vengeance?  Would you send the Innocents to the Fire?”

Yo, Ho, Ho and a bottle of…


10:27:37

She is approaching her landing zone, falling backwards.  She was on her fertride;  a ride to fertilization.

As the conveyance lowered her closer, she began to smell dirty sweat;  she hoped it wasn’t emanating from her landing zone.

This would be her first time;  she was a virgin.  Will she see her lover?  Will she touch him or just feel his flesh inside hers?  Could she kiss him…talk to him?  Would she ever have an opportunity to tell him she has a headache?

Down she goes on the slide, sliding toward her…her hardon.  She is in great fear, entertaining no idea what will happen.  In the Minion Starcluster there is no sexual education;  she was just lead into the launch platform and strapped in.

The fertride chair slows…she feels the breath of something warming the back of her neck.  Something firm and fleshy is at her entrance, her opening.  An operator who looks like Broderick Crawford inserts the tip and shoves it in.

The pain is quick and sharp!

Yelp, she screams out and receives a slight electric shock.  She screams again and receives a stronger shock.  She whimpers and there are no more shocks as the erect flesh slides into her to the hilt.

To her surprise, she smells a flesh that is not repulsive to her, hears a moan that vibrates deep inside her womb, smells a breath that is sweet as honey to her.  In her imagination, she sees his eyes;  robin’s egg’s blue.  Music flows from the chair’s acoustic device…like a Brahms’ concerto.

The fertride chair abruptly begins to vibrate and undulate.  The lovers are strapped very tightly, unable to move independently, back to back, unable to see each other.

This particular fertride chair is calculated for twenty-seven undulations per minute, to provide an optimum sperm-count ejaculation.  Tests have proven this method, over artificial insemination, produces the strongest males in the largest quantities.

The vibrations and undulations increase to the summit;  she is hysterical with…with fear.

She hears a deep moan from behind her, a moan different from the other grunts and pants she has heard from the others who she can’t see as she cranks her neck from side to side, desperate to see what is happening to her.

She feels his warmth flowing into her, the seed of creation flooding into her tunnel of love.  It is a gentle rush;  it flushes her, tantalizing her.

Her first fertride was wonderful!

From behind her he whispers, “I love you…” and he is instantaneously shocked electrically.

She feels something she’s never known.

This is the Breedhouse…will she ever find her penis again?

Mustering all her womanhood, she vows to one day land on her penis again, even in the maze of tragedy that is her everyday.

As the fertchair vibrates…


10:32:14

As Jackie and I walked down Main Street, leaving the Magic Kingdom behind, I realized my legs felt like spaghetti.  Age, it creeps up on you like a demon.

When I was a youngster, I romped around Disneyland, looking into every nook and cranny, spying out every crevice of fun, dragging my parents along for the ride.  Those were the days of laughter, before the turning.

At the Old-Time Ice Cream shop, Donald Duck and Goofy strolled in shaking hands with all the kids…it was perfectly normal.

I laughed, something triggering in my heart, “I guess there’s a Goofy in all of us, Jackie?”

She responded, “Goofy just needs to be allowed to be, that’s all.  All the things we see in insanity—people crawling around, seeing things that aren’t there, barking like dogs—that’s the Strongman’s playground, his domain.  The Commander of Evil is the giver of those ideas.”

“Jackie, are you saying there’s a thought-transference taking place from the mind of Satan to the mind of his victims?”

“Yes, to his perpetrators, and to his troopers.  If you want to open your mind to evil practices, the sky is the limit in terms of perverted, decadent, abhorrent phenomenon you can create.”

“Just to be evil?”  I licked my cone.

“No, for a definite purpose.  His warriors are not just evil for the sake of fun.  They can play, but they are very intelligent and crafty.

“Their form of play involves a high level of wisdom.  They’ll utilize poetry;  they’ll wield very intricate mazes against you, dungeons and dragons type of behavior.  It’s not unusual for them to play for keeps dungeons and dragons with real characters and real people, concrete tunnels, genuine torture…that’s fun stuff for them.”

“But not much fun for the victims.”

“Unless you’re a sadist, Daniel.  For example, there was a poem written on a friend’s car.  The first letter of each sentence was an initial of my name, “Jackie.”  The poem’s theme was, “If you do this and if you do that, we’ll play, we’ll have our way.”  Who will lose in this game…Jackie.”

Codes…I wondered about codes, “What does the cryptograph mean?”

“It’s an invitation with a veiled threat.  The demonic alters want me out of the picture so they can control the core personality.”

Baby doesn’t like this!…one of the kids screamed at Goofy who was scaring him, I guess;  “What was your reaction, Jackie?”

“He who is in me is greater, always.  The demonic realm only has power if you don’t stake your claim.  To them, it’s fun to mess with people, and yet it’s all for a purpose.  They don’t just hang you by your feet upside down to try that for an effect.  They know how the mind works, how the body works, how the brain works.  They are masters of human nature.”

Goofy and Donald strolled out of the sweet shop, kids dancing around them and in hand.

“Yes, the evil troopers start out in Black Chamber bootcamp learning this—if you want someone to give up something, entice them to love something else.  Then, if they don’t do what you want them to do, you’ll love what they love.”

“That’s eerie, Jackie…love?”

“Love is their term for destruction, to destroy.”

“Jesus…”

“Yes, the Black Chamber is two thousand years ahead of us, far beyond what we legitimate psychologists know and understand.  They’ll play every trick in the book to make good a laughing stock, twisting it into bad.”

As we left the Happiest Place on Earth, I asked Jackie, “What’s Satan trying to prove?”

“I believe Satan’s main goal is to prove he has as much power as God does.”


10:37:52

[Winter in Mudville]

Dear Daniel,

Sorry I haven’t called to thank you for your book, “Jessica, A frolic in and out of Love.”  I’m still reading it and feeling inspired by it.  Thank you—you did a brilliant job on it, Danny.  And of course, I enjoyed the personal notes and inserts, as always!

Well, now to my real reason for writing.  Because we’re friends I thought I could share this with you…I feel I need to share this with you.

I’ve been very happy doing my own thing—spending hours and days just thinking;  and in the midst of all this I went to a horseback ride/dinner at the ranch I told you I was going on around Halloween time.  Well, I’m not sure why the feelings hit me, but a guy was there that I have known since I’ve been here in Washington that’s been kind of just an acquaintance.

Well, we got to talking and then everyone wanted to go to a Halloween dance in Roy—so the whole bunch of us went.  And as we talked more and danced, it just hit.  It came as a complete surprise to me and it scared me and I didn’t want it.  But…I did see him again and the friendship kind of blossomed into a lot of feelings that are both frightening and wonderful.

Maybe I shouldn’t be going into any detail on this—but I guess I just hold you so dear to my heart that it would seem wrong not to tell you.

I know I said I wanted to be alone and I do—and I am.  This person is definitely a runner in my life for however long it lasts or whatever happens.  I don’t look at relationship the way I used to.  There is no form to it—that I know I don’t want.  There’s no plans, no expectations.  This person (his name is Jess) is teaching me a lot about me and about my insecurity and especially my image.  I tried to run away from it and I kept thinking of you and what I had said—I thought you’d think less of me and I felt guilty.  But I can’t feel guilty because I know it’s all perfect.

I don’t know, maybe you don’t want to hear any of this.  Maybe you’ve moved completely beyond and have understood our relationship and its purpose.  Maybe you’ve even met someone—I don’t know.

I just know that I love you and I’m your friend.  I would like to share my experiences with you in this lifetime as I would like to learn from yours.

The point is not my new relationship but really what ours is—and if you really do care about me you will feel happy for me as I would for you.

I can’t be any more honest about this and I hope you feel the love that it took to share it.  I care about you and your heart and I respect your deeply.  You taught me more than you probably realize.

I’ll always love you, Natalie.


10:43:12

Was that a Dear Daniel letter or what?  Shit, you give your life to someone and that’s all you get…a dumb letter?

Daniel was madly hacking away on his laptop Powerbook—

How do I get back into her grace…and then back into her pants, Jesus!  Not too damn poetic for a poet, songwriter, singer, star of stage, screen, and outer space.  Damn!

Then he tried writing her a song;  Sweet Love was a resounding, international hit.  Perhaps you’ll remember the lyrics—

I wrote you a letter, then I sent it to me

It gave me some hope, what I needed to see,

I learned that hurt doesn’t end in hate

I learned that tears don’t end in pain,

The key can’t be found in the future or past

And this love of self, I’ve found at last,

And love can be open instead of closed

And I don’t have to feel so lost and alone,

Feelings allow the pain to end

Feeling allow this sweet love, to grow

We might not ever be lovers again

But we can always touch as friends,

I learned to feel is the way that I heal

It opened my heart,

opened my heart to mend

Feelings we won’t be afraid to show,

Feelings allow this sweet love, to grow

As I was sifting through Daniel’s memoirs, I found these notes crumpled in an archive box, dated around this same time period.  See what you think—

You cheated, you lied,

you made me…

miserable!

Is this the part where I throw myself

in front of a speeding locomotive?

Let it be known that God made wine for moments like these!

Dear Natalie,

I am thrilled to know passion is not dead!  (SURE I AM!)  I rushed off to the post office to pick up your express mail package.  What a surprise…a Dear Daniel letter!  What a bevy of mixed feelings.

I really had been hoping secretly that you would meet another man, (but not in this lifetime).  You really haven’t shared many relationships with men—there is a lot of responsible love in us.  And after you’ve met a few hundred thousand of us, you would know how wonderful I am!

Of course, I miss you and the feelings that were between us, but those are channeling themselves into my work and I’m feeling a freedom of creativity that I’ve never known.  So to you I owe the release of a lot of my insecurities;  the possessiveness, the jealousies, the aloneness—all of that seems to be release into song.

And the song is, “Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream;  Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream.  (I’m rewriting the tune of this old classic!)

And I feel the joy that you two share, and that makes me smile.  And I feel the care that you two have for each other, and I hope it lasts more than a little while.  And I have felt the touch and I know the passion, and I hope that ends immediately so you can come back to me!

No Regrets!

I don’t regret anything I said or did during our lovefest ‘cause it was what I was and I think I’m beautiful;  and I love myself and I know that the feelings I felt were more feelings of love for me than I’ve ever felt.

So I couldn’t possibly see this as an ending of you and I…whatever there is between us could never end.  It goes deeper that songs and music and feelings and poems and words… “beyond the spoken word.”

Yes, I’ve spent time with other women so you don’t have to feel guilty.  (On second though, go ahead and feel guilty if you want to!) And anytime you want to share any of your experiences with me, you know where to find me…I’ll be on some stage someplace, or sitting on an island somewhere all alone writing about my feelings for you.

And don’t feel guilty if I kill myself tonight.

This letter was unsigned, blotched with red-wine stains;  no sulfites, I’m sure.


10:52:18

As I drove to Jackie’s office on the bluff at Corona del Mar, the sun was just beginning to peek through the clouds.  The salty sea air filled my lungs again.

In traffic, I recalled my feelings as Jackie and I walked through the reptile cave at the San Diego Zoo.  The sight of snakes and serpents, lizards, and toads, their long, slithery tongues wrapped around dead rodents and insects, made my skin crawl…yuck.

It was good to be out in the sun again.

Her first word this morning was, “Evil.”

I was prepared, “Yes, go ahead;  fill me in.”

“In my experience, the appearance of most dark alters, especially in women, is only playacting.”

I listened intently as she repeated, “Daniel, they only playact evil.”

I listened with interest, “All of your alter’s desires are based on what they’ve taken in from their experience.  Evil is not their nature, their behavior, nor their thought process.”

Jackie had me confused, “I believe I understand…the core personality takes in the evil that was committed on them and acts that out through their alters?”

“Yes, because the core personality has chosen right and good, they split into alters who participate in the dark activities.  This is a survival mechanism;  the core personality has chosen to remain whole by splitting.”

“What do you mean, splitting?”

“The one, original personality becomes a core personality, and altered personalities split off from the core personality.  Suddenly that one person you were talking to has become forty-three different people?”

I wondered, “The split is that radical?”

“Yes, Daniel, so radical they fool even their closest friends.  They begin to split off all negative experiences into alters—life becomes very simple for the core personality because they don’t have to deal with anything;  they just create an alter to handle the problem.  Simple!”

“Simple…”

I watched Poor Bird rustling around in his cage, nibbling at his mirror, “Jackie, let’s say some Congressman…or even the President, experienced a heinous evil in his formative years.  Let’s say the President suddenly split into a vibrant batch of wounded alters.  Would the world be in jeopardy?”

She thought for a second, “As far as world security, yes.  One minute the President agrees to a peace treaty;  the next he’s in the ready room commanding the generals to arm the ICBM’s.  You can expect radical personality shifts.”

I wondered, “Who is the closest person to an alter?  His wife?”

“Possibly…yet she may be in an altered state herself!”

“Jesus.”

“Yes…help us.  To ease your mind slightly, because the altered personality is attached to the core personality, there will be a side to the dark alter that is good.  So generally, a dark alter is not entirely evil or psychotic.”

“Wait a second.  You’re saying there is good in the dark alter?”

“Yes.”

“That presumes we understand the difference between bad and good, Jackie.”

“Yes, we know it is not nice to slash that pretty girl’s throat and drink her blood.”

“Yes…I know it’s not nice;  but what about Baby who thinks her blood tastes good?”

“You can appeal to Baby to be good, Daniel.”

“How?”

“By showing Baby what bad really is.  Deep down inside, Baby is really hoping to not have to be what Baby is, partially.  Yet it has been my experience with males, they are more potentially dangerous and harmful to others.”

“How harmful?”  I stared at the jetliner on her wall.

“Male alters have a simmering hatred and rage that can explode at anytime;  explode with enough violence to destroy anything in its path.  These alters will face a SWAT team head-on and not think twice about it.  They die in a blaze of fire, but those who conquered them will remember the battle night, simply because of the super-human strength exhibited.”

“What is remembered, Jackie?”

“Well, as you debrief the SWAT team you’ll hear emotions like these— ‘Even though I was carrying an Uzi machine gun, I felt a fear in me I had never known;’  or ‘I saw a demonic rage in his eyes that will haunt my dreams forever;’  or perhaps, ‘When I heard his scream of anger, I felt like running until I found the sun again.”

I looked out her office window into the surf off the bluff, “Are a lot of alters who exhibit multiple personality disorders in jail?”

“Yes.  Now about your book, Daniel, you might present one alter who is absolutely crazy and psychotic.”

“Yes, that’s what I have.”

“That is believable, whereas other characters practice evil, but you want to communicate evil goes against their nature.”

“Does it?”

“Yes, believe it!  You want to portray these characters exhibiting a side with a little sensitivity and a little genuineness;  they are remorseful about their evil ways, repentant.  There could be a soft side to them also—that’s why they choose God eventually.”

“Choosing God…I suppose God is the good guy, Jesus, right?  What do they get out of it if they choose Jesus, if anything?”

Jackie walked over to Poor Bird’s cage and lifted the door—out Poor Bird flew!  I had never seen Jackie release him from his cage…  “His Voice is like thunder over the waters.  Poor Bird will fly back into his cage when he’s ready.”

“Maybe God’s voice to you is like thunder over the waters, but to me it sounds more like a turd in a puddle!  I’ve heard his Name and read about his fame, but in my life God has been powerless, like dung in a puddle, just laying there.”

“That’s why I like to visit cemeteries, Daniel,” and Poor Bird flew back in his cage.

“Do you visit cemeteries late at night, Jackie?”

“No, I’m a sissy, too;  I like to read the tombstones.”

“How macabre…and you’re my therapist?”

“You can learn a lot about life, Daniel, when you read how others have accepted death.  One of my favorites is, “I got old and I didn’t get any better!”

I remember laughing, “That’s a play on words of, ‘I’m not old, I’m just better.’”

“Yes, or how about this one—I died with the most toys.”

“He still died, didn’t he?”

“How do you know he was a he?  A touching tombstone said, ‘No hope, no love.’  Another almost cried, ‘I lived alone;  I died alone;  I am alone.’”

“Damn, that’s a horrid thought.”

“Here’s its opposite—To the world’s most wonderful husband, father, and grandfather.  You brought love into our life and it never left.”

“That’s a pleasant thought.  Life can be so simple.”

“Daniel, the tombstones that really tear me up are in the baby section.”

Her comment caught me by surprise, “The cemetery has a section for babies?”

“Yes.  Some just say, ‘Our Baby,’ or ‘Our Little Angel,’ or perhaps, ‘Our Beloved Son,’ or ‘Our Precious Infant Daughter.’”

“Jackie!  I don’t like to think about this stuff.”

She was relentless, “Write a song about it, Daniel.  Hear this love—God’s Treasure From Heaven, Loaned To Us For A Few Years.”

Oh, Jesus, I just flat started whimperin’…and then I was crying, “Damn it, Jackie.  I have enough feelings in me;  don’t give me these, please!”

She was unmerciful;  “This is my all-time tear-jerker—As We Lay Our Son To Sleep, We Pray To The Lord His Soul To Keep.”

We both started weeping…uncontrollable tears, then sobbing, like baby’s crying.  In a few minutes we hugged each other, dripping tears all over our clothes, attempting to compose ourselves.

Leave it to Jackie to say between sniffles, “On a brighter note, one said, I’m not here…I’m with Jesus.”

“Well, at the least that’s hopeful.”

“Another said—No resurrection here.  Then a true cynic said, Friends cried at my funeral;  I laughed at their life.”

“Sounds like he went straight to hell, Jackie.”

“Who knows?  Perhaps we can only assimilate the healthy messages, for instance—I’ll see it when I believe it.”

“Is that a New Age message?”  I wondered.

“It’s a play on words but also a step in faith—when you believe it, it will happen.  Perhaps the most healthy one simply said, Forgive it.”

“That’s not so easy, Jackie.”

“Not yet.  This is my all-time, comedy favorite—

My bones are six-feet below,

my soul is flying high;

I lived and loved

and laughed and cried,

now I’m high and dry.

That one had me in stitches of laughter;  “Jackie, I know precisely what my tombstone will proclaim.”

“Tell me, Daniel?”

“Simply, Don’t pee on my grave.”

“That’s very practical, Daniel.  Write a song about it—Don’t pee on my grave;  go pee in that cave.

I smirked, “I’m glad you don’t write, Jackie;  just listen.”

“I do read.  Speaking of peeing…”

“Is this a word-association test?”

“Partially.  What do you think about this—a medical doctor I read about claims men shouldn’t be circumcised.  He says the removal of the foreskin exposes the head to underwear irritation which eventually creates calluses.  Result—a desensitized head.”

I was quiet for a minute…then I couldn’t help looking down.  Then I remarked to her, “Just another thing to be pissed about, Jackie.  I’ll be pissed about that one for the rest of my life.”

Jackie took a long look at my loins.  I looked away at Poor Bird in it’s cage— “All that damn bird does all day long, Jackie, is stare at itself in the mirror.  Poor, damn bird…does it know it’s all alone?”

“It doesn’t even know it’s in a cage, Daniel.”

I wondered, “Is it falling in love with itself?”

“Does it have a choice?”

“Poor, damn bird.”


11:13:22

I woke up this morning in your pajamas.

The scent was electrifying, except you weren’t there.  Where were you, Natalie?  You left yesterday so I slept in your pajamas last night.  I woke up with your scent all over me.  I reached out for you and you weren’t there—you were with your new boy friend.  I wrote you a song to let your scent out of my senses—

I can’t get you off of my mind, and I really don’t know why;  you have a new boyfriend, I don’t understand, it hurts me so deep down inside.

I can’t get you off of my mind, were we lovers in another lifetime?  It seems so familiar, yet now we’re apart, I feel a longing deep in my heart…

Last night I wished I could have teleported your body next to mine.  Wouldn’t that be neat!  Someone could create a personal mouse;  we could just point and click on the icon of the person we want, and zap, there they are, in bed next to us, playing with us.  Wouldn’t that be neat!

I’ve been pointing and clicking all day and you haven’t shown up…


11:16:28

“Your clients are better people than I, Jackie…I would ask for vengeance against their perpetrators.”

“Maybe that’s why you’re writing this book, Daniel, to discover love.”

“Is love discoverable?”

We were on the bluff, walking, watching the passersby enjoying the sunny day— “You’d think Daniel Lovesong, the lovesong songwriter, would have discovered love by now.”

“Love is an illusive thing, Daniel, perhaps only known when someone lays their life down for you.”

“Has anyone laid their life down for you, Jackie?”

“I can only think of one.”

“Perhaps, if you believe the accounts of history.”

“Or if His Spirit becomes known in you.”

“So this book I’m writing is a form of therapy?”

“Yes…perhaps one of the best.”

“Believe me, Jackie, most times it doesn’t feel like the best.”

“Some of this information is hard to ingest?”

I took her hand, “I don’t believe it because I don’t want to believe it;  I would rather retain an altruistic view of reality…everything is coming up roses instead of weeds.  And quite frankly, I don’t want to be the one to reveal these heinous activities.”

“Don’t worry about it;  your readers won’t believe you.  They’ll just think your book is a work of imaginative fiction.  On second thought it may reveal the conflict.”

“What conflict?”

“Let’s say you’ve made a decision in your heart;  the decision is, I love God and I love people.  And yet what you’ve been trained to do is separate, hate, and destroy.  What are you going to do with that conflict?”

“My choices are to change my heart, which I can’t do because I think what I think and I feel what I feel;  I am what I am, like Popeye.”

She laughed as we strolled along.

“But what am I going to do when I am absolutely backed into a corner, forced to commit the most heinous?”

“Without a doubt, Daniel, you are powerless, you are vulnerable, you are in danger.  If you were a woman, in that state of demonic control, you would be forced to take the dagger and stab your own baby, tearing her down the middle;  yes, the baby you just birthed…and then eat its heart.”

“Jesus Christ…”

“It happens, Daniel;  I’ve listened over and over to the most abhorrent stories.  What are you going to do with that?  You cannot escape from it, you can’t stop it, you can’t kill the people around you, no one will help you.”

“I’m trapped?”

“Yes, you’re even being told you will kill by your own choice;  rather than kill another baby, you’ve chosen your own.  You’re forced into this, drugged and brainwashed into believing you’ve chosen this path to the higher power.  What will you do with all that conflicting information?”

“I don’t know, Jackie.”

“You have to put that somewhere in your head so I can survive.”


11:22:04

I had to reach her on the phone…my baby’s dead.  Is my Baby dead?

“Natalie!  I’ve been trying all evening to reach you.”

“I know, Daniel, the phone was off the hook after I talked with my, my mother…it’s such a cheap old thing.  I was just addressing a card I wrote to you.”

“To me, baby?  Oh, what did it say?”

“It said I loved the poem you sent me, or is it a song?”

What song?  What is she talking about?…  “Oh…Sweet Love, it turned into a song;  in fact, I’ve written seven songs since we’ve seen each other.”

“Seven?  Oh, why, Daniel?”

“I seem to create out of crisis;  from destruction emerges brilliance, or at least I like to think so.”

She laughed and I giggled;  it felt so good to be close to her again.

“Why do you feel so destroyed, Danny?”

“I don’t know…just these feelings reeling inside of me I’m trying to describe.  I’m using every outlet to express them since I can’t seen to be able to use you as an outlet anymore.”

“Well…don’t cut off your ear.  That worked for Van Gogh.”

“Maybe if I cut off my nose.  How’s your new boy friend?”

“I knew you were going to ask me that, Daniel.  He’s fine, thank you.  And whatever we have together, I live it day to day;  no expectations, no fears.”

“I see…”

“It came on quite suddenly, without expectation, Danny.  I tried to run away from it, but whatever it was, it was too powerful—I didn’t return his calls, I told my sister I didn’t want to see him, but we just kept bumping into each other.  We finally decided to go for it, to see where the feelings would take us.”

Baby, get out of here;  leave me alone…  “Well, I’m glad you did, Natalie.  You really haven’t had that many relationships with men;  we are pretty nice, after all.  I’ve had similar feelings with a few women since we’ve been apart, and I’ve explored them also, so I can’t say you were wrong to leave me destroyed, lost and alone, upset, miserable, and on the verge of death.”

She laughed that laugh that sends joy through my soul, “I didn’t do that to you…you did it to you!”

“Well, I know that…sometimes you just can’t hide from feelings.  Oh, by the way, you’re in my novel.”

There was a pause in our banter.

“Can I change what you wrote?”

“Maybe…but I think you’ll like how it comes out, Natalie.”

“How does it come out?”

“I don’t know… you let me know.”

She paused, “Well, I do think about you all of the time, it’s just that I don’t feel the passion I felt when we first met.”

“Speaking of passion, I need to tell you something that really shocks me—I want to be inside of you, gushing down your bloodstream, filling your cells with life.  When I think of another man filling you sensuously, it really scares me, baby…”

“Who said another man filled me sensuously?  Maybe sexually and we enjoyed a release…Baby doesn’t like this…just like you have with your other women friends, but isn’t sensuality different from sexuality, Daniel?”

“Yeah, You fill up my senses, and all of that.”

“And you do, Danny, I think about you all of the time;  I even wrote a poem to you.”

“You did?  What’s it about?”

“It’s about how close I feel to you since we’ve been apart.”

Daniel wondered about that…  “Would you send it to me?”

“Not now, honey.”

“Why not, sweetie?”

“Just not now,” and she laughed that laugh, “does there have to be a why?”

“Yes…er, no…there doesn’t have to be a why.  Isn’t sensuality different from sexuality, Natalie?”

“Oh, back to that.  Well, once you find yourself lost on the road to Mount Orgasmic, there are no rest stops;  who has the time to even explore sensuality.”

“Well, what is passion,” Daniel wondered.

“Passion is in the way he walks, passion is in the way he looks;  and passion wasn’t lust, it was beyond that, like he had a real sense of him and he was the passion of the hues of a rose, the fragrance of the pungent odors, the scent of woman in joy, the moment of a seed in birth.”

“A seed in birth, that’s a nice picture.  I’m taking notes.”

“Thanks, Danny.  That’s a compliment.”

They were quiet, sitting together again.  The phone line fell silent.

“Are you there?”  Natalie asked.

“I’m here…I’ll always be here.”

More silence prevailed.

“Do you think we’ll ever be together again,” Daniel wondered.

“We’re together now.”

“We are, aren’t we?  How much closer can we get?”

“You know Daniel, if you can’t know by now, I don’t really know how to tell you.  You are so dear to my heart, and I respect and trust you so much, and I feel so close to you, and I think about you all of the time…and listen, can you hear these words, I love you.  Can you hear them and can you understand them?  And can you know that even if I share intimate things with other people, that doesn’t mean you are one second away from me.”

How could he fight with that, “Those are nice words to hear, my sweet.”

“And since you have this new attitude, Daniel, allowing me this space, I see a whole new you unfolding;  a you that is moving into open love;  a you that’s letting the birdie fly.”

“Isn’t that what love’s all about, sweetie?”

“Yes, Danny, that’s what love is all about.  When all you desire for me is happiness, that’s unconditional love.  If you can offer that up to another, that means you’re moving into that space.  That’s why I can love you back…you are love.”

The phone line fell silent again.

“Natalie, could it be that sexuality plays absolutely no part in love, in total and complete love?”

“I don’t know…what do you think?”

“I hope so, sweetie.  Oh, by the way.  I invented a free-energy machine.”

She paused for a second, “Are you serious, Daniel?”

“Yes, I think it will work…it’s sure simple enough.  I’ve figured out a way to harness the surf, good ol’ in and out.”

“In and out?”

Daniel scratched his head…  “That’s what we should harness…butt power!  We could light the world’s cities with buttpower.”

“Well, after you’ve harnessed all your buttpower, Daniel, try harnessing yourself.”


11:31:02

“How is an innocent one turned into a guilty one, Jackie?”

“Are you asking, how is our soul broken down?”

“Yes.”

Poor Bird watched me from his cage.

“In some victims, it’s a quick process, Daniel.  Let’s say your life is falling apart at the seams;  large debt, no cash flow, the woman you love has turned into a shopping machine.  Everything’s being taken away from you—you don’t like it, you’re mad.  Somebody invites you to an after-work party.  The guests are friendly, you enjoy yourself;  they make you feel like a member of the club.”

“Then what?”

“A few days later you receive another invitation.  The place is the mountaintop home of one of the wealthier members.  There, the food, drink and frivolity abounds;  you can forget about all your problems and cares.  You never noticed the animal being sacrificed to the chants of some unknown god in a private room.  Someone offers you a drink…you are being hooked into the Kingdom of Evil.”

“It’s hard to believe, Jackie.”

“Is it?  What if they told you this—If you perform to our god, cash will flow into your life like an unending torrent…and it does!  What if all your problems were healed a few moments after you committed your life to the Strongman?”

“I would believe that God has blessed me…and at last, I had found His ear.”

“In the days to come you will be asking yourself, whose ear did you really find, Daniel.”

Poor Bird looked really stupid in his cage…


11:33:53

Fresh-made love.

I dreamt Natalie awakened next to me from a dream.  She was in a chorus singing, “Jesus loves me, yes I know;  for the Bible tells me so.”

She was naked with everyone else.  The ladies’ boobies were tasseled, moving along with the beat.  The males members swayed back and forth, in unison with the tassels.  She felt the dream was prophetic, predicting a Harmonic Convergence, of sorts.  In my dream, she fell back to sleep next to me.

My laughter woke me up to an empty, alone reality…then melancholy set in.  In the early morning hours here I sit, listening to the beat of the surf in the cool of the night, looking at these words of light staring at me from my laptop Powerbook.  I’m journaling pain out of me.

And I wonder if I will ever allow love long enough within me to keep it?  And I wonder if anyone ever feels the depths of despair I feel, the pain of separation from the other side of me, from the mate of my soul, my soul love.

And I wonder if she knows how I feel when I lay beside her, spending the whole day in bed with her, gazing into her eyes, inhaling her perfume, sensing her touch.  I wonder if she can feel my love?  Or maybe it’s just fear I feel, the release of fear in those little moments.

And I hear the words, I love you, and I want desperately to believe those words, yet perhaps because I think I can’t provide what she deserves to have, to own and possess in this world, I think I can’t be enough man for her.

And when I think about how we sensually possess each other, how our nerves are rubbed raw with our passion;  how flowing, flooding orgasm after orgasm shudders through her beautiful thighs and eyes, as the bed reeks, soaked in fresh-made love, I know there is no tomorrow.  There could only be today, the feelings of tragedy of today because I am not there with her.

And in today there could only be the feelings of hope that we will again be together before my life ceases the frivolity of inhaling and exhaling oxygen without her by my side.

Am I crazy, lost in love, obsessed by it?  Yes, but the question is, Why?

It seems the intensity of love is all I live for.  Not the chase of everyone I can sleep with, but the chase to discover every feeling there could be with the one I love.  It is passion I put into the movement, the searing heat that blinds me to everything else;  it has made me a failure to the world as they look at me.

And the mountains I’ve climbed, struggling to the summit of Mount Rainier.  Have you inhaled the fragrance of fourteen thousand feet?  Have you felt the exhilaration of a will that could bring you there?  When I did, I knew I could do anything.  Except, funny enough, I didn’t have a reason to do it.  My first clue was when I realized I was on a big search, a hunt for something I didn’t even know existed.

And now that I see I exist in another, that there is a stunning, captivating, intelligent, clever, sensual female side of me that I can love into infinity, it has given me a reason to exist…Only for you do I exist, only for you and for yours.  Only to hold your thoughts in mine, only to see your all as divine.  Big eyed little child I see, winding your way through eternity—the lyrics come as easy to me as morning comes to tomorrow.

You’ve stopped in this place to share the adventure with me;  my soulmate, taste every morsel of love.  When I am separated from you, I feel no happiness in my heart, just a deep, chilling well of emptiness.

And men aren’t supposed to be this way;  they are presumed to be strong, handling every situation.  Well, maybe the man of tomorrow will be strong enough to show what he feels to the world.  Maybe he will weep when he sees the tragedy of war, or the pains of starvation, the calamity of religion, and the catastrophe of those who control the world’s economy.

And maybe that love will be so strong that it will glow in the darkness of the blackest shadow, opening eyes to the other side of their soul, the side of the white shadow where brilliance is only compared to the radiance of billions of suns.

And maybe then smiles will replace dollar signs, and rape and pillage will be replaced by the sweet scent of fresh made-love on a bed of leaves spread under the stars in a forest home now remembered, cherished, and protected while the deer watch.

If two can love with all of their body, mind, and soul, maybe four can.  And if four can, maybe eight can.  And if eight can, maybe sixteen.  And soon, the radiant light of two lovers in love can permeate the world with their joy.  And in that joy, those who are in control of this place might release their iron-willed grasp.  For perhaps they could find that joy within themselves and in what they love.

For when a woman is released to love, and a man is free to love, beyond all the walls and barriers and fears, there is love.  And love is what holds the molecules of the universe together, and makes planets spin, and plants babies.

And I want, more than anything that could be desired, for babies to be born in a place of peace and freedom.  A place that honors what they are and nurtures their fate;  a place that allows them to live in the joy that is there—a place willed with the destiny of their dreams.

For then I will be happy, and in peace.  The white shadow will be cast, here and in Heaven.

Fresh-made love…


11:41:11

“Wouldn’t you say these people are the ultimate victims, Jackie?”

“Split personalities…yes, it’s possible;  it’s their way of coping.  Other people may have lost their minds.”

The jetliner on Jackie’s office wall was on final approach, in landing configuration.

“I believe the ultimate victim, Daniel, is one who couldn’t split and they end up losing their mind and died, or are in a mental institution and are unretrievable.”

“Unretrievable…interesting word.”

“Yes, they have fallen into a pit, perhaps a place like hell, where the horrors of their mind has taken over their life.”

“The horrors…”

“They have experienced evil you and I have only talked about—they have lived it.  They are unretrievable from the Pit of Hell.”

“Is that why we need the so-called Savior, Jackie?”

“That’s part of it.”

“What’s the other part?”

“There are really two aspects to salvation:  the here and now, and the eternal afterlife.  The ultimate Savior takes care of you in both areas, Daniel.”

“Perhaps splitting is a mechanism that offers us salvation?”  I looked at myself in the mirror.

“Splitting does bring salvation in the here and now, Daniel.  As far as the afterlife is concerned, that’s another question.  In a person who has a propensity to split, someone who has learned to travel in and out of their fantasy worlds, they can split over things you and I struggle with daily.”

“Like how?”

“For instance, should I shop before or after work?  You and I make that decision based on our responsibilities.  They make the decision by splitting—Mable does the shopping, and Harry goes to work, except Mable and Harry are one in the same.”

“This is fascinating to me, Jackie.”

“It’s even more fascinating to criminal investigators.  They’re beginning to discover that one person can commit multiple crimes by splitting into multiple personalities.  The modus operandi of each personality is different.”

“I suppose the personalities always pass the lie detector tests.”

“That’s correct because they are not lying.  The murdering personality hides during the test, and Miss Prim and Proper answers all the questions regarding the night of the murder.  Naturally, Miss Prim and Proper was home knitting by the fireplace on the night in question, and she isn’t lying.”

“So we’ll never know who killed Kennedy?”

“As many people as their are, they each have their own theory.  That mystery, along with mysteries of Creation, will haunt us forever.”

“So how do we live, Jackie?  What do we live for?”

“Maybe that poor, damn bird in the cage ain’t so poor and damned.”

I laughed, “Wouldn’t it be interesting if, fifty years from now, everybody agreed we all lived multiple personalities?”

“For the most part, the psychologists are aware we all have sub-personalities.”

“Sub-personalities.”

“Yes, we are fragments requiring integration, with the potential for splitting.”

“All of us?”

“Yes, for the most part.”

“That is astounding.  What is the first clue that something is amiss?”

“A loss of memory, Daniel.”

“What is the first clue that something is amiss?”

Jackie stared at me…  “Daniel!  You’re joking with me.”

“Yes…”

“You see, in fifty years we won’t be calling this multiple personality disorder.  As life becomes more complex, a wide range of disassociative disorders will emerge.”

“What do you think we’ll call it?”

“Maybe normal, for it might be normal to live in many fantasy worlds just to cope with reality.  Maybe we’ll all become personality trekkies!  It could be that our personal computer will chart our course, depending upon who we want to be today.  And then someone new tomorrow.”

“How would that work?”

“With simulation somehow…like they train pilots in simulators, altered personalities could be simulated somehow for you to decide if you want to wear one for a few days.”

“That’s pretty wild but plausible, Jackie.”

“There’s already another disorder called ego-state disorder.  Your main ego is fragmented and split, and yet you don’t have the memory-loss fugue as much as when your separate alters come out.”

“So you appear normal?”

“Yes, but when you regress back to the age when you were traumatized and frozen, you will be co-conscious;  you’ll actually be speaking, acting, and feeling like that child in the moment your emotions were frozen.  And yet the other side of you, the adult side and all the other sides of you, are aware, know, and see what’s happening while you’re in the regression.”

“It’s almost like a movie director seeing all the parts acted out from his vantage point.”

“Yes, a good analogy, Daniel.  Many of us might have ego-state disorders because we have adapted to our abuse situations by developing strong characteristics while still retaining the feelings associated with the trauma.  When we re-experience the trauma or certain triggers are pulled, that cause us to regress to that place.”

I wondered, “What kind of triggers?”

“Through therapy, or fears, or relationships, just different projections or things that happen in relationship or in life.  By sounds or smells, whatever the trigger could be, we can regress instantly to that state and our ego is then fully re-engulfed in the trauma until we are able to regain our composure to work through it.”

“Is that common?”

“Pretty much.  Everyone has developed sub-personalities they change around, adapt, and utilize, almost like wearing different clothes.”

“Why?”

“In their own character, like a chameleon, they’ve adapted to various people in order to survive and cope with the fears in their relationships.  Perhaps they start recognizing how fragmented they really are, thinking ‘Maybe I’m a multiple.’”

“How could someone know if their a multiple?”

“Multiples can be all kinds of things but the main characteristic is the fugue state—the lack of awareness to the core personality of what’s going on with the body when the other alter is taking over, or is out.  It is a freakish disorder to the average person, yet very colorful to the core personality.  The alters reflect fantasies of the mind experiencing various states of reality.”

I smelled the fetor of smoldering rubber…


11:50:47

I called her number again.  The telephone rang and rang and rang…then a man answered…I was stunned!

“Is Natalie there?”  I asked, my hand shaking.

“Sure…one second.”

Then I heard him call, “Honey, it’s for you.”

My stomach flipped over, like I was in an inverted, flat spin;  unrecoverable, auguring in.

I waited on the line, feeling panicky…I listened to the shower turn off and wet feet patter to the phone, “Hello?”

“Hi.”

“Oh…hi, Danny.”

I couldn’t say anything, my stomach was pounding in my chest;  silence, then more silence.  And more silence.

And then she says, “We’re always together, Danny…I’m inside of you;  you’re inside of me.  Why do you think we feel these feelings we feel?  Whatever there is between us is very real.”

“Uh huh…”

“But right now I need to experience intimacies with others, just so I know whatever we have between us is what it is.  That may sound confusing, but this is a real need in me…I need to experience a few more aspects of love before I move into that space with you, whatever it is.”

I swallowed hard, fear cutting deeply into my bones, “I, I do too, Natalie…I really need to, too, because I didn’t want us to ever end.”

“How could we ever end, Danny?  We are forever.”

“Yeah, and since we are forever, we will always be together?”

“Yes, forever one soul.”


11:53:27

“How do you know who you are talking to, Jackie?  How do you know which alter is out?”

“In some instances it’s difficult, Daniel;  in others it’s easier.  Let’s say Lucy is an imitation of Lucille Ball.  When Mable starts to act like Lucy, you know the Lucy alter is out.”

“That’s simple enough.”

“Except that presupposes the observer is aware of the multiple personality disorder.  Someone who is less aware than a profession observer would say that Mable is feeling giddy this morning.”

“Ah, I see.  So in some instances a different mood is prevalent which is subtle?”

“Yes, perhaps you know someone whom you’re always second-guessing as to what kind of mood they will be in;  you’re always thinking about how to approach them because they’ll always surprise you.  You won’t get anywhere, ever, with this type of personality because they are probably a multiple.”

“You never know who you’re speaking with?”

“Yes, in other words, you’re communicating with many different altered personalities.  In order to communicate clearly, you need to change your communication methods to each alter—you can’t talk to Lucy the same way you talk to Mable.”

“Consistency is not too prevalent in multiple personalities?”

“Definitely not, yet moodiness is prevalent in everyone.  The key is the ability to discern the difference.”

I watched Poor Bird staring in its mirror…  “With some woman I’ve been with, the only way to discern is to strip them naked and let them make love.  Then to watch who comes out, the whore or the lover.”

“When you strip someone naked, Daniel, you’re pulling away the protective covering of clothing.  It’s probably symbolic of removing the veils of the mind.”

“Is that an appropriate therapy?”

“Stripping your client naked is the entire purpose of therapy;  it’s what strips away all the altered personalities, revealing the core personality.  Yet, beware you don’t become a perpetrator, abusing your clients trust.  You could show that in your book, Daniel.”

“How would I do that?”

“Well, the fact that you are going to make your characters appear as if they are separate characters.”

“So as the reader begins the book, they’ll think they’re experiencing the lives of many different characters, but the characters are just altered personalities of one character?”

“And you could even give your readers clues as to which alters belong to which personalities.”

“I see…and I bet I could even tell your story.”

“How, Daniel?”

“By introducing you as a character and transcribing these tapes and inserting them verbatim.”

“Wouldn’t that take the intrigue away from the reader in discovering all the alters came from one.”

“Possibly…yet there still would be fun for the reader in discovering which character is the only core personality.”

You mean, could it be me…or is in Natalie…or perhaps Landie, maybe Ron or William Ransom.  How about David, or D’alien;  perhaps it’s the Colonel, or Myron and Cyndee;  Dolly or Mrs. Wright?”

“Yes, on and on the reader would trod, trying to decipher the code.  And perhaps there isn’t one core personality, but many.  Or perhaps there exists a covert core personality, the only evidence being the wisp of a clue given by one of the alters.”

“So, Daniel, you are planning to create a maze for your readers?”

“Not planning too…it seems that’s how it will come out, though.  And the maze will be so complete, the book will be written under a pseudonym.”

Jackie laughed, “This book will be created in the world of fantasy by a ghostwriter?”

“Or perhaps created by a ghost.”

“Don’t get creepy on me, Daniel…or whoever you are.”

“There will be an underlying plot that will connect all the characters, although the reader will be hard-pressed to break the plotcode.  Yet, some will break through, because they will see themselves in the characters.  Wouldn’t it be interesting if different readers discovered different plotcodes?”

“You mean, the characters would mean something totally different to different readers?”

“Yes, perhaps the book would grow on them…perhaps it would become alive within itself as their mind capacity was increased, as they overturned buried stones in their past and looked in the dark for answers to the pain of their life.”

I walked over to Poor Bird’s cage, wanting to set him free, “How important each one of these children are, Jackie, for when we lose just one to the Evil Commander, we lose one of our own.”

She looked bothered, “I’ve seen it, Daniel.”

“Seen what?”

“I’ve seen a friend who had closed his eyes for the last time.”

“Yes, a face covered with a sheen of glory…or was it a veil of hideous fear?”

“Someone on their way to visit the Demon Slug of the Universe, Daniel.”

“Come out…come out, wherever you are, Demon Slug of the Universe.”


12:05:54

Yes, I can make it through this day,

because I know there will be a tomorrow.

And yes, I can make through tomorrow

because I know there will be a next day.

And in a next day soon,

I will lay next to you and look into your eyes

and touch your soul and know

there will be one day

I will never have to go.

This must be what it feels like to be dead, to have all your senses numbed because you’re afraid of the pain.  You’re afraid to love again because you know you couldn’t survive it.  This is why men kill, why nations war.  This is the root of all evil.

I wrote her my last lovesong…

Always

by

Daniel Lovesong

Do you still have those sweet, soft lips

that kiss me ever so gently,

Do you still have those deep, brown eyes

that sigh when you see me?

Do you still have that pink, soft feeling

inside when you touch me?

Will you always love me, always care for me,

be my lady?

Will you always love me, always care for me,

have my baby?

There is something more than a wedding band

that bonds two as one.

In the natural state of being,

the attraction is unseen,

It vibrates in a shimmering light,

every day stronger than it seems.

And with every breath I take, my love,

I fall deeper in love with you.

Will you always love me, always care for me,

be my lady?

…have my baby?

Do you think there might be something missing on the inside of me?


12:12:25

I was sitting on the bluff with Jackie asking her, “Where are the victories?”

We watched the sea birds playing, “The victories are everywhere, Daniel.”

“Name one.”

“Well, first of all, God’s grace is rampant everywhere, evidenced by the fact we’re not all in Hell.”

I had to laugh over that one.

“Secondly, His grace abounds to the perpetrators, those who are facing an eternity in Hell.  Thirdly, His grace is lavished on the victims who are able to split their personalities into fantasy worlds and to live beyond the hideous torture they’ve endured.”

I shook my head, “Those aspects are all based on the concept of Heaven and Hell, and eternity.  That stuff is for people who believe in God and believe there is something beyond this life.  What about for those who believe this is it;  where are the victories for them?”

“The victories are truly amazing…love seems to be the call sign.  The miracle here is when you witness an individual who, after all that Black Chamber programming, all the torture, all the evil inducements, all of the sinister plague broadcast within them…after all that Hell, they still want God.  It never ceases to amaze me!”

I shook my head.

“After all of the heinous evil, Daniel, she can still survive, she can still love;  she has the potential for love in any capacity, she still cries when something gets hurt, she still has a conscience—that’s the victory.”

“Wow…”

“Yes, this is an individual who, no matter what the Black Chamber has done to them, has retained their free will, they are that strong.”

In myself, new heroes were being birthed in me…  “How can they be so strong if they are so split?”

“Splitting doesn’t have anything to do with the real human soul.  Splitting has to do with the processes of the mind—it’s a defense against having absorb evil.”

“You mean the human mind definitely registers evil differently than it registers good?”

“Absolutely differently, Daniel.  What do you think the knowledge of the tree of Good and Evil was all about?  Knowledge is the key word.  The knowledge of the event registers as evil or good, and that sets up a complex reaction in the entire human being, triggering conscience, guilt, fear, envy, literally hooking in all the human emotions.”

I wondered, “In the case of a multiple personality you have someone who has faced evil head-on, and has come out of it whole?”

“In some cases, yes, for the victim has consciously chosen good over evil, regardless of the pain in the choice.”

“And this is real pain you’re discussing, Jackie, consciously inflicted pain to cajole the victim into becoming evil?”

“Yes, consciously directed at creating a specific purpose—the death of the soul.”

“The death of the soul?”  I wondered, “Why would they want to do that?”

“When the soul has been seared, Daniel, grace runs out.”


12:14:33

Daniel asked me to relate this to you—

In a recent vision…or it could have been a nightmare, John Lennon appeared to Daniel with a prophetic message.  Daniel was intrigued and recalls it like this—John Lennon was plastic, moving like a plastic dinosaur.  He was naked, his entire body glistening plastic.  And wrapped around his plastic balls was a plastic band.  Hanging on his plastic dick was a sign;  the sign said, “Plastic Ono Band.”

Daniel told me he dreamt this dream on drugs.  Daniel thinks he is slowly going crazy…perhaps I agree.

In a dream, Daniel was at an amusement park.  He is seeing shadows of people waiting in lines for rides.  He sees roller coasters and Ferris wheels, and other rides like you’d see at Knots or Disneyland.

He waits for the ride called, End of the Line.  Everyone is lined up and waiting.  He walks into the line as it enters a darkened waiting room where he can hear the laughter and shouts of fun and screams.  He does hear the screams.

He boards the ride and feels the chill air as he is swooped up into the ride…and faintly smells blood.  The ride is a darkened roller coaster ride, like the Starcruiser ride a Disneyland.  He sees stars and lights and fireballs and meteors and falling stars.

At the end of the ride, his consciousness lifts him out of the roller car as he watches his car companion end the ride as it zips and crunches through a shredder.

And I moved up, up and away from this car as my lone companion screamed in anguish at what was to come.  His legs entered the shredder first, as they began to chew him up from the tips of his toes up to his hips.  Then in a moment, I was transported into his consciousness to feel his absolute anguish;  there was no pain, just a squishy feeling as his legs were munched into pulp.  Then…the screams continues…

I watched in horror as the car is washed, then air-blown dried, and then moves into position for the next rider, waiting for the thrill.

Daniel picked up a pamphlet next to the ride—the words begin to blur into suicide…suicide.

All the words blur into suicide.


12:19:42

I awakened from the dream, listening to Jackie’s voice, “The Black Chamber wants you to think you’re the expert on them, Daniel, then they can make an absolute fool out of you.”

“What’s the strategy here?”

“You can never be the expert, or never know enough about them unless you are one of them.”

That comment sent chills down my spine.

She continued, “And even if you are one of them, you won’t have access to the deeper truths.

“As an infiltrator, what am I left with?”

“On this level—you’re open to understanding the components;  the details don’t matter because the components are always prevalent.  The details are left to the imaginations of the Black Chamber Warriors.  They use their imagination and incantations to slaughter the White Chamber Warriors.”

“Slaughter?”

“It’s like a game of chess, Daniel, except it’s a pawn-chain slaughter—the White Chamber Warriors have no idea how to play the game.”

That was almost laughable to me.  Supposedly Jesus Christ represented all the power of the universe.  And supposedly he gave that power to His people…and they can’t do battle against the Black Chamber.  What a farce!

“Daniel, remember when you became involved in sexual behavior, experimenting as a child, learning what felt good?  Then, all of a sudden, you had to try something else because whatever you were doing was boring.  The next thing you knew you’re up to weird things with vibrators and holding pictures of naked bodies shaking in your hands trying to visualize an orgasm?

“Do I remember?  Of course.”

“When you hop over into perversion, you’ll never be satisfied.  The quest becomes more and more abhorrent;  abominable things;  atrocious, inhuman, monstrous creations.  If having sex with a baby isn’t enough, you conjure… ‘let’s cut the baby’s arm off and then have sex with it.  Then let’s feed the baby it’s own arm.  Wow, this is orgasmic!  Why don’t we try inserting the baby’s arm up a horse’s ass…while we’re having sex with the baby—fun!  Then let’s kill the baby and see how she cries.  Kill the baby…’”


12:22:21

Somewhere, in another time…someplace, in another space, the grand and glorious God looked upon thought, turned into light, turned into words—

Upon a time once, the great and marvelous God who lived in everywhere, decided he was going to make a game.  Why?  Because he was alone in the universe.  So, rather than be bored looking within himself for fun and happiness and joy, he decided to create worlds.

As he looked within himself, he saw what he was;  the void, existing in a locale of no time or space.  Being the void, he could only be looking within itself—he must be It!  It decided to bring itself into the present tense—Is.  All it needed to do was form itself into I’s…simple, just add a little mark.  It saw a flash called light, and heard a big bang—multiple I’s sprang forth, sparkling out from the void in great-light molecular structures.  Just like the fourth of July.  Effulgent.

And It looked upon these great-light structures, and then It looked upon Itself and saw, “Oh, there is a bunch of I’s in me.  Well, let me see what I can see.”

Soon, It realized this game would be very entertaining;  It decided that It wished to create a story.  But first, It need to change its name, because It was too complicated to remember what it was, whether it was this or that.  It decided to change its name to his.  Now he could tell his story;  a story of his world, his universe.  He decided to call his story, history…he appreciated economy of word structure and space.

And thence it began, as he would commingle with himself, and think and think.  And from that thought emitted light, and from light emitted gas.  And from gas, mass.  And in one moment, in a passage of time, (maybe it was a burp), an emerald planet was created.  And creation would continue thereupon until, from the sound of the void, these words would be heard— “It is finished.”  A very impressive moment in history, to be sure.

And from the other corner of the void, maybe even out of disrespect, these words would be heard, “What is finished?”  And maybe that voice emitted from the woman.

And the answer would emit from the man, “The drama.”

And she would say, “No more drama?  Give me a break.  What would we talk about over lunch?”

And he would say, “All the we’s that are I’s that are, will look for another game to play.  Good day.”

And she would say, “Not on your ass, buddy.  You’re stayin’ right here until I’m finished playing this game.”

And he would say, “I’ll leave you behind.”

And she would say, “You could never leave my behind.”

And he would say, “Give me a week to think about this.”

So, in the process of that week, an emerald jewel was created for her;  a playground overflowing in all there could be—gardens, animals, trees, fruit, and streams;  an abundance of life.  In profusion.

In time, more things were created, filled with all sorts of opposites.  Time created opposites—time…emit.  Opposites were created to help define what he was, so he could feel himself among all of his creations.  Then he could try to leave her behind.

War and peace was created, love and hate, hunger and starvation, death and birth, all wonderful feelings.  And a fantastically splendid and faaabulous feeling called procreation was created, the exchange of the seed of life with the womb of life.  It would also be known one day as rolling in the hay.

He created hay.  She created a headache.

And the story continue…their story, filled with many chase scenes.

And before he would step off the stage, exhausted, finishing his part in the drama, he wanted to experience every aspect of life in the play (or was it hay?) He wanted to share the joy of what he had created—to see it, to feel it, to know it, before the words, It is finished, emanated from the void.  And that was what he was about to do.

And yet, to never leave her behind.


12:28:23

Jackie toasted me as we looked out over the water toward Santa Catalina island…  “A father’s love to his daughter is the most sacred love there is.  And in that, both human and divine love is born.  We will unmix the wine, distilling out the herbs and spells.  Then we will see what awesome forces could be mixed in us.”

And if I could, this would be what I would say to my Natalie— “My darling, I desire that you have my son.  I want him to have your genes, your strength, your will to win, and your beauty and passion for life.  He will be that greatest racer ever, to push the barriers away from fear, to lead the world in flair and daring.

“And, if reincarnation could be, I shall return in his genes to race forever.”


12:29:43

But alas, it wasn’t so.  Therefore I, Daniel, put forth this attempt to encapsulate the last moments of my life, my grand finale—

I ached for the return of Natalie.  Her brain, in constant ebb and flow, has been embalmed at the laboratory.  She still has a sliver of love left for me—it calls out to be with me, a gurgling voice amongst the chemicals preserving her.

My brain is captive in a bottle two shelves above her’s and a little to the east.  I hear her call in a myriad of ways, choosing to relive the scenes of my life in fantasy, for all that’s left of me is my brain.

I relive my ways of degradation at wild parties and frenzied activity at my Malibu beach house, in bed with my lovers…I smell the odor of my sinning ways.

Then I see in my mind’s eye—that’s all that’s left of me—I see Natalie in all of her beauty plain as day.  I think a thought to her— “These people stink, my life stinks…there’s Nat, isn’t she beautiful, even her brains are beautiful.  And Natalie doesn’t stick, she smells sweet as roses in bloom, like honey.”

I am elated;  I lunge for her, madly swishing my brain around in my bottle, trying to capture her attention, sloshing around in this stupid bottle, and…oops, my bottle is slipping over the edge, just as I lived my life…over I go, catapulting past her.  I see her phantom arms reaching for me as I fly past her bottle.

Alas, it is over, I am dying for certain now.

Are you sad?  I am.  Even though my arms are still reaching for her, my head remains imbedded in the glass, my phantom lips pursed with the name, “Nad, Natalie.”  [I can’t speak very well without lips].

All my other lovers, who are casually observing this scene from the view of their bottled brains, are horrified for a few moments, and then applaud this canned, romance scene.

One on my lover’s brains asks casually with her phantom lips, “Hey, girls, where’d Daniel go?”

“Honey, nobody knows where Daniel is, either Heaven or Hell.  But…his head’s over there, impaled on that slab of jagged glass.

“Head!  It’s urgently needed here.  I’ll make room in my bottle anytime for Daniel’s head.

And I, Daniel, thought…Damn bitches, even after all those fucking lovesongs, all they wanted was my head!


12:32:12

As I watched the painter’s hand sweeping across the canvas, I began to wonder about his composition.  I wondered if he knew what it would look like when he finished it;  I wondered if he knew how the pastel colors turned from chalk, into images, into lives.

I wondered if he knew me?  Had he felt my pain?  Was he there when I needed his artistic touch to smooth the rough edges of my life?  I hoped he was there…but I didn’t really know for sure.

And as the sun disappeared beneath the horizon, as the oranges and reds vibrantly came alive, I realized the sun was setting in my life.  One day there will be a last day in my life.

And I looked, and I saw, and I realized, it was the twilight of my life…I had become one of the characters in His work of art.

Twilight.

I viewed a God so big…I see a God so powerful.  If the Strongman is so real, then God must be so real.  If the Strongman is all these things, there really is a Hell;  if there really is a Hell, then there has to be a Heaven.

Twilight…the sun was setting in this work of art, vivid hues of yellows and reds.  The scene was so real, I could smell the salty, sea air as I listened to the call of the sea gulls.

I looked out the window of Jackie’s Corona del Mar office on the bluff, watching the painter’s hand paint pastels in the crashing surf.  I asked her, “Do you think Poor Bird will ever f, fly away from her cage?  Do you think Nad, Natalie will ever be healed?”

“Perhaps, Daniel—we are sent to set the captives free.  But what about you, Baby?”

Sissie’s head fell into her hands, her sobs soaking through, dripping, “Baby, Baby…Baby needs love, the birdie’s all alone.  Baby needs love.”

00:00:00


Clues to Decode the Plot


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A full text search utility is provided for your convenience.  In addition to ordinary word and phrase searching, enhanced features include, among others, a Boolean search capability and one type of a wild-card character specification capability.  For help and advice using this utility, click on the “Hints” button found in the Full Text Search window.

To return to the topic you were reading before using Full Text Search, repeatedly click on the “Back” button above as many times as necessary, or locate the topic via the “History” button, also above.

Click HERE to perform a Full Text Search.

Click HERE to return to previous topic.

Click HERE for the Table of Contents.


General Information


About OmniMedia


About OmniMedia
Started in 1993, OmniMedia is committed to publishing only the highest quality electronic books for your reading pleasure.  We hope you enjoy this title and will consider a password purchase so you can finish it!  All of our electronic books are reasonably priced, and obtaining a password is easy and convenient.

You are also invited to visit, or revisit, our Bookstore on the World-Wide Web (also accessible via anonymous FTP) to download and try more of our titles.  We keep a significant portion of each of our SoftLocked electronic books unlocked.  Thus, downloading and reading our electronic books is just like browsing through a bookstore in your neighborhood.  There is never any obligation or requirement to purchase a password for any of our SoftLock electronic books, so why not given them all a try?


OmniMedia's Postal Address
OmniMedia’s Postal Address is:

OmniMedia

9671 South 1600 West Street

South Jordan, UT 84095

USA


OmniMedia's Phone Numbers
OmniMedia’s Phone Numbers are:

(801) 253-4037  (voice)

(801) 253-4036  (fax)


OmniMedia's Internet E-Mail Address
OmniMedia’s Internet E-Mail Address:

omnimedia@netcom.com


OmniMedia's Bookstore on the World-Wide Web
OmniMedia’s Bookstore on the World-Wide Web (WWW)

http://www.awa.com/library/omnimedia/


OmniMedia's Bookstore Via Anonymous FTP
OmniMedia’s Bookstore Via Anonymous FTP

ftp.awa.com  /pub/softlock/pc/products/OmniMedia


Important Notes
Because of the sexual content of this electronic book, it is For Adults Only.  Permission is not granted to upload or distribute this title where prohibited or forbidden by law.


Which Items are SoftLocked?
The sections starting with time-stamp 01:08:58 are read-locked using SoftLock™.  To unlock and read these sections requires the one-time purchase and entry of a SoftLock password, the details of which are given in the window which appears whenever you attempt to read any SoftLocked item.  You will find the registration procedure to be very easy and quite convenient (see below for further details.)

All the remaining sections are unlocked so you can preview and evaluate this electronic book.  There is never any obligation or requirement to purchase a password.  It’s sort of like browsing through a bookstore!

The password price for A Book Called Heaven is $7.95 (US), close to the price of most paperbacks!  Payment can be made by credit card (VISA/MC) or check.  Using credit card payment, four convenient ways to purchase a password are provided:  World-Wide Web, e-mail, fax, and toll-free telephone.  For paying by check, click on the “Product Info” button in the password registration window for further details.


Locked Topic
The Selected Item is SoftLocked

You cannot read or view this item until you purchase a password from SoftLock™ (see the Password Registration Window, or PRW, for the details).  Once your SoftLock™ password is entered in the PRW, all locked items in this electronic book will be unlocked and this “nag” window will not reappear unless the password becomes invalid (fully explained in the PRW).

If you decide to purchase a password, be sure to write down or print out the password, the product number, and the SoftLockID (again see the PRW), and keep this information in a safe place.

Click HERE to go to the Password Registration Window

Click HERE to return to where you were in the text without registering


Thank You!

Thank you for purchasing a password to this electronic book.  We’re sure you’ll enjoy it.

If you have any problems with the SoftLock™ password (for example, the password becomes invalid or you accidentally delete the file softlock.ini from your Windows’ home directory without having written down the password), contact SoftLock at (800) 763-8562, or send e-mail to slcustomerserv@softlock.com.  Be sure to have ready all the information you provided SoftLock when you first registered.

For any other technical problems with this electronic book, please contact OmniMedia.

Click HERE to return to where you were in the text before registering


Registration Program Error

An error has occurred while attempting to register this electronic book.

Please make sure the files slregist.exe and sl16-20.dll are in the same directory as this electronic book file.

If either or both of these files are missing or corrupted, you need to download a new copy of this electronic book from OmniMedia’s archive.

If these files are properly in place, and you still get this error message, then the problem could be a lack of memory—close all other running Windows’ applications and retry registering.

Click HERE to return to where you were in the text before attempting to register