When Einstein deduced that time & space are relative, the scientific community was awed, while the philosophers sighed. Since the dawn of unorganized animistic and pagan religions to the current popularity of monotheism, philosophers and theologians have grasped the concept that both time & space are dynamic happenings directly influenced by energy exchanges and synchronous events occurring right here on planet Earth. The eternal question remains Why? Or more specifically, Where do I as an individual place myself among the infinite cosmic landscape of the Universe? In an effort to stifle this often nagging metaphysical reflex that can consume much of our valuable time, (and in extreme cases can even undermine the integrity of our mental hygiene,) we as a species have been genetically and socially programmed to be provincial and narrow-minded embracing only our immediate environment, the present moment, and areas of thought that directly affect our being. In fact, all organic and even inorganic entities on Earth maintain a similar psychological instinct that merely focuses on the viewable horizon and the surrounding plane of direct interaction.
The cosmos began as an infinitely dense spherical mass that contained the sum of all atoms and molecules compacted into a microscopic orb smaller than a grain of sand. Even then, atoms did not interact with other molecules besides their immediate neighbors as a simple matter of convenience. This collective metaphysical reflex implicitly found within the behavior of our human existence -- perhaps metaphysical restraint is more appropriate -- enables us to monotonously function in our daily mundane lives. Rather than confront the taxing burden of irksome ideas and concepts that struggle to grip the handle of our cosmic orientation, we are content to merely decipher how to work all the functions on a cellular phone. Peering through an economical lens of consciousness focused on mental effectiveness, it is psychologically more efficient to repress this overwhelming affliction of perpetual questioning, which can act in direct conflict with more practical issues revolving around our immediate survival like food, shelter, and love. But as Freud explains, no instinct is ever completely extinguished, but sublimated into other circuitous modes and avenues of thought.
My anthropologist friends often joke, "If God doesn’t exist, Connie, then we should invent him!" The desire to justify and explain our temporal flicker in the Universe is the eternal question that has consciously and unconsciously plagued humanity since the first funeral. Although the vast majority of humanity struggles to find easy referenced answers in the McDonald’s drive-through spirituality of organized religion, few of us are actually fulfilled. In an effort to satiate this sublimated religious desire, science and religion have struggled to unravel this seemingly unexplainable paradox. Science has attempted to grasp reality by fragmenting a comprehensive issue into quantum fragments, while religion has drawn a massively devout following based on inherent human principles. However, there remains significant population of the disenfranchised still in need of a homogenous God, or at least a focal point of faith, which has spawned a vacant abyss of basic universal comprehension in our society (which has been coyly termed the modern day spiritual void.)
In our very attempt to decode the DNA of existence, we assume that there prevails a total unified theory of everything that describes the cohesive workings of the Universe and our divine roles in the mystical cycles of life. In turn, we also assume that, as rational and logical human beings, we may step beyond our immediate horizon and observe reality in an objective and distant light. Utilizing this great power of objectivity afforded to us by reason and an inherent spirituality, we can then grasp the mechanics of life and the soul’s profound connection to the web of existence. The basic dilemma remains: Can we as humans truly step beyond the fragile relationship between our physical, emotional and metaphysical shackles within our immediate reality and decipher a lucid theology & geometry of the Universe?
This very paradox which I have pondered many years in my studies and teachings is known as Logic’s Soul Scratching Paradox. In his appropriately titled novel, Mr. Derzie takes up this very concept within the narrative form. Although simplified, rambled, and often long-winded, Mr. Derzie has created a contemporary representation of my philosophical premise through the enchanting voice of his young and charming characters. The Helix is an odd display of literature written to the rhythm of breakbeats, coupled with an uncanny habit of romanticizing the minor details in life. I can only assume that you, the reader, will find the piece as much of a kaleidoscope of thought, wading through the textual maze of the unconscious, as I did.
E. Freo, WA New World
1.1.00 ad.��
A soft white blood cell prowls through tissue stalking bacteria to engulf within its membrane. It is a sentient being, a throbbing entity of vibrance, but alone it can not survive. Its very existence is granted in relation to a role in the larger organism of the living body. Similarly, humans run through their daily lives in interdependent societies working as a collective political animal -- shopping, killing and fucking in order to function, in their minds, dynamically with the Earth.
The Earth revolves around the sun in an elliptical pattern of symmetry. The solar system runs nine planets deep (one short of full court ball game,) spinning in an eloquent transition around the gravitational pull of the sun. The sun revolves in winding, drawn-out revolutions along the long arms of the Helix-shaped Milky Way galaxy. The Milky Way spins its far-reaching tentacles around the cold void of space drawn and repelled from its distant relatives of like-minded galaxies.
From cell to galaxy, all life is composed of the same fundamental elements that instinctively and intuitively congregate to one another through the forces of gravity and the collective drive for unification encoded in the DNA of the cosmos. Science, in our minds, can explain the depth of all interwoven living, and breathing entities in the tongue of distinct or independent organisms that merge together to cooperate as a single unified organism. Religion has secured our confidence in the significance of our existence, and reassures our waning faith with the divine evidence of a grand design. Perhaps through the synergetic confluence of science and religious thought, in a new discourse of unity, can the indivisible components of the unified One -- the cosmic soul, God, Yahweh, Allah, the Trinity, Buddha, Brahmin -- be revealed in all its homeostatic mastery as the organic grace of the living Universe.
Regardless, we are all microcosmic elements that are equally special, magical, privileged and are integral parts of the infinity that composes the Universe. Whether peering through the tainted lens of fundamentalist religions that are mired in bureaucracy and dogma and have lost their intended meaning, or through a cold science that reveals the mechanical intricacies of microsystems that are blind to the totality of the greater organism in which they live, everything in the Universe has been created from the same fundamental elements of stardust. We are all products of celestial movements, atomic collisions, stellar explosions and molecular unions that are both cataclysmic and fortuitous. We are both the children of the Divine and the children of Chance, the offspring of Divine Chance.
The narrative of life begins with a sequence as simple and as beautiful as lonely hydrogen and helium atoms randomly crossing paths during their evening strolls, attracted to one another by a certain gravity of force and intuition. They convened into vast clouds that soon triggered nuclear reactions both powerful and delicate enough to light the primordial fire of the stars. The stars exploded, the sun emerged from the womb, and beneath the scattered clouds of gas and dust, a hunk of molten matter eventually to become the Earth was solidifying. As descendants of ultraviolet light and entwined strains of amino acids, proteins, nucleotides and genes, we have evolved into conscious animals, aware of our anchoring in space, the past and future, yet have always been encased in the endlessly perpetual present.
500 million species have appeared on Earth in its brief four billion-year stint, and we are the first to be conscious or complex to the extent to which we can question our very placement in the grand mix of chemicals, motion, force and inherent spiritual energy. Of the 500 billion creatures to visit Earth and experience the gift of life, only one percent has survived to boast about it. Over half a trillion years of fine-tuning and precise refinement has created the elegant pulsing of homeostasis in Earth, mind and body.
Preserved in the interlaced strands of genes and chromosomes in all creatures’ DNA lies the evidence that we all share as our common ancestor, the first living cell. The very same four nucleotide bases of A C G T and sometimes U contain the instructions to build trees and germs, man and amoebas, whales and ants, stars and planets. The same chemical compounds that modulate our brains can ripple through the nucleus of protozoa and pulse through the luminescent spacescape of our celestial brethren. Each sentient organism from galaxy to hydra, is a community of other beings with the same basic DNA that churns and cycles to maintain the universal homeostasis of the cosmos. Moving like confluent waterfalls, the structure of this genetic material continually flows from one life form to the next.
Evolution is an unrepeatable series of events that is grasped through the melding of a hierarchical influence. The fusion of an upward influence -- in which multiple, micro-level subsystems work together as necessary conditions of the larger whole, with a downward influence that guides the subsystems within the boundaries and laws set by the cosmos -- creates a interrelated web of function without privileging one system over another.
Cosmic order expands the parameters of universal law with a fluidity that includes the formal, holistic, historical, and probabilistic patterns that describe the grand design of the Universe. The interplay of the spiritual order of the Universe is the product of both geometrical relationships and systematic properties. The Universe’s methodical cycles and patterns can not be observed on the micro level of parts, but only within the dynamic blending of the whole. From the quantum to the cosmic, molecules function together in a kinesthetic harmony, in which their cycles, our cycles, can fluidly maintain the Milky Way’s lazy orbit, the solar system’s precise patterns, the Earth’s atmospheric levels, the body’s health, and the tree’s production of photosynthesis while the involuntary ease of waves trace their tidal patterns on the shore.
The Copernican discovery of the heliocentric solar system was said to humble mankind by displacing us from the center of the Universe. However, Darwin reinforced what all living and celestial beings have known unconsciously since the biggest of bangs: that we are not merely the center of the Universe -- we are the Universe. We are biological galaxies of stellar dust, the nuclei, electrons, and atoms of the Universe; combining and reshaping, we are its past and future, the present incarnation of life. As seamlessly as the salt in our veins and the calcium in our bones has flowed from the first seas, and like the minerals in our bodies originating from the first stars, all sentient matter in the Universe will inevitably wane and melt back into the cosmic landscape that had once conceived them. The elements and genes of our bodies are destined to flare up and boil again only to be reduced into the primordial puddles that birthed us so many billions and billions of years ago. We will dissipate into another form, another mutation, a superior echelon in the perpetually evolving network of life.
The emergence of life appeared successively according to varying levels of complexity. As molecules, cells, and organisms appeared progressively, they brought new properties and styles of behavior. New forms of purposive behavior and mental life eventually blossomed into consciousness and then self-consciousness. The Universe began with an inherent brand of a unified cosmic consciousness that has since been disrupted by the emergence of the imposing and fracturing force of self-consciousness of the human form.
When an organic system is disturbed from its homeostatic equilibrium by a sour note in the harmony, it will spend the duration of its existence attempting to return to the sedative bliss of equilibrium. A new form of life, a fresh brand of consciousness will eventually re-invent the very recipe of life that once so carefully coalesced in the catalytic seas of saltwater. This novel understanding of existence will be a logical conclusion to the evolutionary journey of life, and will inevitably match the very same pattern of the original clustered stars that conceived everything so long ago... The Helix.
Malin 12
Cluster 3.14
Talmud, Hagigah 2.1
Before the Earth was fragmented into a sea of distorted vision, sundry knowledge, and misguided spirituality, the Helix permeated through the soul of the existence. Before the primordial pool of life, before the reason of logic, and before the frames of time & space, there was always the unity of the Helix.
The sun prepared for its lazy descent over the break of the horizon as the light melted steadily from day to dusk. The Luminaries gathered, slowly sipping their tepid muddy brown drinks from heavy stone mugs, trading smiles through spirit-piercing eyes. They exchanged glances with a candlelight glow that spoke of humility and knowledge, peace and violence, love and indifference, in which all opposites converged. They numbered seven in total, but emitted the aura of the masses. They gathered from all the surrounding villages in the Nucleus of the land of what was later termed Canaan, Palestine, and eventually Israel. They came as far North from the Phoenicia, West across the great waters of the LushLands, East from Babylon and the Islands, and South from the land of the Dark ones.
The Table of Time tasted of salt from the seas and was crafted from a circular slab six meters in diameter and half a meter thick. It was created from a now extinct alloy of white stone with the malleability of soft iron and the finish of marble, brandishing a smooth surface that was worked down to an oily slickness. The table was mainly clear, ornamented at the vortex with a shining reflection of the Helix image. Its echoes reverberated within each curl and twist of the Helix’s entwining strands, marking the table’s center with the universal blueprint of life, spiraling and intertwining into a single coiled nexus. A symmetrical diagram illustrating in passing and profound gestures, the imminent code of existence poised to embark upon the Earth. The
circumference of the table was bordered by a textile pattern similar in shape and feel of a figure eight that lay on it side, a recurring form with no exit.
The gathering was a mere formality, an opportunity to share new ideas and for old friends to share one another’s company. They congregated in the gathering site on the cliffs north of the Floating Sea beneath a large overhanging grotto where the table appeared to them like the sun, moon, and the stars.
The weakening sunlight began to play off the evening haze and glimmered off the table and mugs, radiating the cavern with a bold orange and red tint known only to flowers and butterflies. The Luminaries shared jokes, exchanged recipes and stories, sang songs and spoke of the people and the land. "They are starting to awaken my brothers and sisters, they speak of blood and water with the same tongue."
"Yes," a feminine voice chimed. "They speak of the Earth as their bodies, and the seas as their veins."
They could sense that the energy of the time was near and impending. Glances of subdued excitement were exchanged in hope for the collective future of life.
"The children trace the Helix in the sand," the eldest spoke, fingering the etched grooves of the table. "The code will be a code no longer, the knowledge of the Helix will be revealed and the fabric of reality will be unraveled to us all!"
Their sense of the arising Helix was perfect, but they were mistaken about time -- gravely mistaken. The Helix was coming, yes, but it was only the beginning; the time of planting. The Helix could not lay its foundation upon the occupied Earth of the Luminaries; it must first harvest the crop, till the soil, and flush the fields fallow in preparation for the arrival. The Helix was ready. It was ready to begin.
As the final syllable was uttered, the sun dipped below the sea and broke the calm with a fierce cosmic crash. The clouds darkened and inundated the sky with broad furious strokes, the rains unloaded upon the Earth, the wind tossed homes and crumbled mountains, the land beneath the waters erupted and fissured with a cathartic rage, the sea siphoned to the core and expanded to the clouds. The elders’ expression remained unchanged, accepting time and events as they came. The grotto collapsed from ceiling to foundation, shattering the table in large uniform chunks, scattering its fractured remains miles into the salty seas. The elders were forced to shed their corporeal vessels as their essence was blended, twisted, contorted and randomly strewed throughout the globe to be buried as the mountain, streams, glaciers, volcanoes, beaches, cities, shores, and oceans.
All existing matter, beings, sentient flora and fauna, inorganic life or otherwise on Earth dissipated into a formless, condensed mass of land and water that contained all the same basic ingredients and elements which composed the rest of the Universe. The summation of the Earth was again reduced to a genesis point, a dense mass circling the orbit of the Helix like a satellite in perpetual revolution. As all life enmeshed in the cyclic patterns of the cosmos, the tempo picked up from the depths of fallow fields and the rhythm called for the Earth to dance again. The flow swung toward creation and rejuvenated the Earth into a redux and she thrived once again.
The Luminaries survived births and re-births of life in the Universe that are immeasurable in the fractured moments of sequential time. Their energy had always existed, exists, and will always exist in the cosmic map imprinted within the nucleus of every cell. Only their wisdom had been diluted through the well-intentioned ideologies of religion and science, misconstrued to the extent that the knowledge of the Helix was forced into dormancy.
The fractals were slightly disfigured and had become mere shadowy representations of the actual unified nexus. Similar to all forms of life on the new Earth, they had become individual elements meaningless beyond the whole. The new people of the Earth always felt the spirit of the Helix pulse through the Earth, Ocean, Stars, and Cosmos. The songs they heard were beautiful and within an octave of the tone of the Helix, but a single note was enough discord to cause cacophony in the symphony of the Universe. Many struggled to hear, and some heard clearer then others, but they were mere shards of the whole. They called the whispers of these words Jews, Cabalists, Christians, mystics, Muslims, Sufis, Pagans, Shamans, Buddhists, sages, healers, prophets, and many beautiful names. They called upon one another for the truth, the code of the Helix. They all held different pieces to the comprehensive puzzle, but they would not share. They had many names and heard many important whispers, but they could not grasp the most primal energy released by the elders and the code... that they all shared the same name.
He was framed in glass bone thick, with a skin slick to the touch. Fingers would slide over his flat surface in a streaking burst of greasy rainbow film that dissipated as quickly as it was formed. He liked it neat and was relatively well maintained. Classically read, updated on progressive journals, passionately inclined to modernist architecture, he preferred bossa nova to modern jazz, and boasted to be well versed in several French and Greek dialects. Despite the consistently over-populated ashtray, the occasional pair of feet, a stained mug of coffee, tainted wine glasses, a silver cigarette case, and of course the books (he loved the books,) his load was light. His existence was arguably enviable, although he did have his complaints.
"I loathe this clutter," he would mumble to himself at a frequency he quickly discovered to be audible only to himself. "The chaos of these scattered pens, notes, lighters, and the rest of these frivolous knick-knacks can bring a table’s sanity into question." His legs were chic and sturdy, black enameled, and placed neatly at precise right angles to each of his four corners. He was centerpiece of the room brandishing his positive feng shui, spaced as the focal point of conversation and movement. The flat offered him ample space; the windows stretched from floor to ceiling and offered a particularly vibrant and natural luminescence for city so devoid of transparency. The TV rarely flickered beyond the occasional movie, and the sounds of folk, old school jazz and breakbeats (of which he was recently growing more fond, although he would never admit this himself) usually serenaded the apartment throughout the day. He enjoyed his existence with the smugness of a retired elder statesman or a coddled pet, burdened with the obligation to vocalize trivial complaints in an effort to keep concealed the secret pleasures of sloth and apathy. He enjoyed Alaster’s company, and after overcoming the initial resistance customary when losing a friend to a lover, he was easily seduced by Bree’s charm. As a distinguished Coffee Table from the old guard, a product of careful European breeding, an elder statesman of true classical style and grace, the Table was not merely a piece of furniture but an integral member of the household.
Alaster stumbled out the bathroom dressed only in boxers, shuffling his way toward the sofa with eyelids still too heavy to lift. He made his way through the living room on sheer familiarity with the carpet and furniture, having not yet gained full use of his vision. Slumping into his favorite corner of the sofa and gently propping his bare feet across the solid glass of the Coffee Table, he lit a smoke from the table. A cursory glance at his wrist revealed 10:22 AM as his mind slip into full rotation.
"What is stream of consciousness?" He mumbled. Rustling thoughts swirled through the breeze of his inner dialogue. "Is it your most sincere thoughts breaking through the surface, uncorrupted by the rigid control of a nagging super-ego? Is it the primordial mind stripped of the baggage of social conventions? Can the mind’s visual discourse of its mechanical and dynamic maneuvers be the echoes of uncultivated emotions struggling to be heard above the static frequency of logic and reason? Is it the Truth? Can emotions even be judged in the realm of maxims or a codified ethical code? Is the unconscious a microcosmic reflection of the primordial soul and the celestial currents that flow throughout the expanse of the Universe? Can it be a rudimentary as your mind releasing its excess baggage of superfluous thought into the void, squeezing out the excess to make room for fresh synapses? Ooh, Freud wouldn’t like that."
"Alaster." Brief pause. "Alaster, what are thinking about?" He hated that question. The audacity -- the tactlessness -- the blatant disregard for privacy and concern for another’s personal thoughts. What separates the human species from genetically similar animals if we can’ t even hold a private thought to ourselves? What is more precious and marked by the owner’s scent than the raw organic matter that constructs and twists thought patterns into idiosyncratic monologues, etched in the narrow cracks between the significant moments of life that are left to be randomly sorted out at another time. The body is exposed, emotions are played out visually on the face to even the unobservant. What is left if not the sanctity of thought? And now you ask for permission to violate my very final scraps of purity? The question might appear harmless at a glance, but the undercurrent of insecurity, coupled with the prying curiosity, fills a cliche with an extraordinary amount of social potency.
Bree’s presence, elegant style, and comfortable manner radiated rooms with confidence and feminine prowess. She stepped out of the bedroom in a flimsy nighty that struggled to cover her slim frame and made her seem more naked than if she wore nothing at all. Her hair loosely tied and looped twice around behind the nape of her neck, left a pair of silky black wisps casually tucked behind each ear. He watched her brush long fingers along the ridge of her neck, which was still warm from a night’s sleep. He could not help but be humbled by the look her in eyes when she pursed the delicate crest of her lips. He was in awe of the gift of being allowed to lie naked in the same bed as her. He felt a pride in being the target of her sharp retorts, proud that she would not tolerate his morning brooding, and even prouder that she would allow his ego to run amok unchecked. The same flavor of pride a father feels for his boy who gave the neighborhood bully a black eye, but must reprimand him anyway.
"You’re probably one of these people who think aloud too right?" he egged her own with a smirk. "Letting the stale dregs of their lazy brains mutter freely, as if their musings on how to spend the afternoon were of anyone else’s concern."
‘"And a jolly good morning to you, my darling." She replied pulling the cigarette from his mouth, and taking an exceptionally long drag. She exhaled slowly over his head. "You know very well, Alaster, that I am a proud member of the clan of hopeless floozies with nothing better to do with our pathetic lives than worry about the silent musings of our lovers… I was just wondering what you’re thinking about for breakfast."
"Oatmeal or The Park? We still got some Cinnamon Raisin oats left."
"Are you even allowed to turn down the Park Coffee Shop?"
"Je pense que non, madam."
"Well then, grab your mittens and coat darling."
He held the door for her and traced her steps out of the building and toward the curb. The sun struggled to shine its brightest for an early Winter morning. Week-old newspapers whistled though the streets, and a sedated hum filled the island like the soothing snore of a giant at rest.
"Even Manhattan has respect for Sunday mornings," he uttered to her rhetorically. He caught pace with her surprisingly long stride, slid his right arm between the crux of her left elbow, and tenderly gripped the soft flesh of her moist palm. They walked with an intimate familiarity over the cracked and bubble gum stained pavement, moving at-ease through the narrow canyons of downtown Manhattan.
The coffee shacks were stationed one to a block, and worked their lines masterfully. Sporting ski hats and I Love New York sweatshirts, their owners’ nimble hands skillfully prepare a regular coffee: two deft scoops of sugar into the blue Greek textiled paper cups tilted to a perfect 50 degree angle, chased by a steaming pour of low grade coffee with a quick curl of cream. The corner bodegas, a perennial fixture for each corner block, were restocking their display windows with a fresh shipment of dated produce and wilting flowers.
"Morning ma-dame, the usual"’ ‘Yes, thank you, Tommy," she smiled with a charming glow that only youthful beauties aware of their gift can shine.
"I see you’re still hanging around with this bum." Alaster reached across magazine display and tossed a five spot over the candy rack. He drew the burly Sunday paper beneath his arm and began to pack the cigarettes hard against the inside of his palm.
"Hey Tommy, put your eyes back in your head, will ya."
"Ah demaine, my friends," he yelled to the couple as they made their way down the street.
It had grown to become a habitual Sunday morning routine: wonder what to do for breakfast, ramble through assorted options for the sake of ritual, and pick up the morning Times and a pack of reds from Tommy the over-friendly newspaper stand guy on the way to the Park Coffee Shop.
"Hi there, sweetie. Coffee?"
"Yeah please. Coffee all around." Alaster overturned their wide white mugs with chewed-over rims that had been worked over by generation and generation of coffee bean loyalists. He poured three flat spoonfuls of sugar into his mug, which was instantly dissolved by the waitress’s snappy pour. He grabbed for the milk and poured himself a modest swirl. Bree was careful to blow lightly, close to the surface of the mug, before slowly sipping from the steaming mug of coffee black.
"You kids know what you want?" Bree and Alaster made a direct and lazy acknowledgment of the question with a silent interlocking of glances and eyes, each trying to outlast the other’s stare.
"I’ll have the French toast," she finally uttered.
"And for you doll? The special?"
"Of course ma’am, I’ll go with the usual. Eggs over. Dry wheat."
"Is that everything?"
"Sure is."
"I’m starved." She said insincerely, speaking only to talk Alaster out from under his early morning pensive brooding. "I can’t believe the holidays are this week already. It feels like just last month we were starving ourselves to repent for living in sin, and now we have to go through a week without bagels. It ain’t so easy being one of the Chosen People these days."
"I hear ya. So we’re really going to your family’s house for the sedars? Quite unbelievable, I must say."
"Alaster, I thought we decided..."
"I know, I know. It’s just that it’s going to be a little weird is all. I’m used to my family, where we can slip in anonymously and remain indiscreet amidst the chaos of screaming children and obnoxiously loud Arabic dialogue -- make a fat plate of good grinds, sneak into the den, and listen to Uncle Maurice pray while we watch the Knicks game on mute. You know, kick it with the cousins..."
"We always go to your family Al, and besides your cousins are always hitting on me."
"Nah, it’s not like that baby that’s just how Middle-Eastern men are, you know, real friendly like."
"Alaster, they’re from Brooklyn."
"I know, I know. I just thought that after your Bar-Mitzvah they hand over the money like a mob payoff for all of the humiliation you’re forced to endure by speaking publicly in a foreign tongue in front of everyone you know in the world during the most vulnerable and awkward phase of adolescence. Then, that’s all there is for a being Jew, you know? Who thought religion would be such a time investment?"
"It’s supposed to be a spiritual investment."
"That’s only on paper babe. When did being a Jew become such a formality? I thought it was supposed to a spiritual path to salvation and metaphysical understanding. It’s all matzo balls and pita bread! Where’s the peace and enlightenment? It just feels like a big waste of time, and worse even, a legitimized form of hypocrisy."
"All right. Obviously, spirituality is out the door when it comes to being a modern Jew, or a follower of any modern mainstream religion for that matter. Being a Jew these days is about gathering together with your family on the holidays. When else are you going to get all the yentas and menschs congregated in the same room? Besides, say what you will of antiquated religious doctrines -- the Semitic culture is rich, with its faults, yes -- but rich with ancient ceremonies, prayers and a relatively untainted genetic line dating back to Moses. Yeah, it’s even magical and spiritual to re-enact the customs created to honor your ancestors from a thousand years ago. Even genetically speaking, it’s special or even spiritual to be part of a relatively pure hereditary line."
"I hear what your saying Breeze, and I even agree with you to a certain extent. Hashem knows I want to. What else has kept me peripherally involved for all these years? I’m looking for a path of Judaism that breeds understanding between cultures, peace between nations and other religions, the dilation of the soul, a connection to the Universal being." He said pounding his chest lightly. "Like a real connection, you know, Breeze? All we got is an exclusive boy’s club spearheaded by fundamentalist old dudes in funny clothes struggling to re-live outdated social practices like the Amish. Their holy hypocritical principles have led to nothing but ignorance and bloodshed. They even have factions within the religion: Reform and Orthodox, real and half-Jew, Zionist and liberal softie, Ashkanzie and Safardic. I’ve had it! They’re more effective at separating each other then unifying for everyone’s greater good. My Saba told me an old Yiddish proverb ‘The heart is half a prophet,’ and my heart tells me that we can do better then this."
"Maybe you should become a Buddhist, young grasshopper,’ she gave off a sarcastic smirk and lit a fresh smoke. "Thanks doll face," he whispered with half a breath and half an exhale. "Be a dear and grab the check."
"Uno momento. I still need a refill here."
She slid a cigarette from the pack, nuzzled between the napkin dispenser and her plate, which brandished a modernist sculpture of hash browns, and ketchup.
"You were really interested in that Caballah I book I got for you. All the mathematical contingencies that explained universal law and prophesied the future. I know the yoga aspect was progressive and must I even mention the Tantra-esqe sexuality aspect that stretched the limits of flexibility? Allah knows we’re still reaping the benefits of that chapter. I just think you’re too damn cerebral to let go and take the proverbial Kantian leap of faith into religion and take God for his word. Sometimes, the answer lies beyond logic and analytic order, and you just have to believe that intuitive half of the heart that whispers late at night, ‘Alaster, I’m here if only you listen to your soul and believe in me."
"Which God? The one that appears under so many masks without a face? It’s not that I’m scared to believe or unwilling. Fuck, I want to believe. I wish I could believe in a simple God all neatly delineated in a hardcover book that I can pick up at any motel in the country. I’m just waiting for faith to leap at me and show me its sweet angelic face on a box of Wheaties," he paused. His face froze and his eyes looked distracted as he caressed the backside of his fingers against her cheek. She smiled. "Kant even called for an enlightenment ‘as an emergence from the tutelage from others’ I’m tired of tuteling Breeze; tired of being told how to think by men in costumes who don’t represent me, and more importantly, don’t represent humanity. The whole Jew and organized religion thing is outdated and frankly inadequate. There has to be something more to it babe, something that binds all these things that drive us to believe together."
The rebirth of the planet saw few similarities between modern times and the elders’ stay on the Earth. There remained two constants that wove the two nominally distinct dimensions together: 1.) The Universe and the Earth rotated and evolved on the same fundamental axis of form, matter, laws, and chaos shadowing the basic microcosmic« macrocosmic knowledge of the Helix. 2.) The bean (preferred dried, roasted and then grounded into a warm drink,) spontaneously appeared again in the exact tight red cherry form.
The coffee bean, as it now has became known, was first stumbled upon in our modern epoch soon after the birth of Christ by a young sheepherder known as Kaldi. Kaldi was esteemed by his friends for his vast collection of rare and foreign constellations that nearly illuminated the entire night sky with refreshingly new star murals. Most residents of the little town were unaware that Kaldi had found nearly his entire portfolio of new celestial illustrations in the library of his imagination, while others were simply pleased with the ceiling of new star connections that he had unveiled to their eyes. Ambling along the lands near his home in the north savannas of the Arabian Desert while languidly tending to his herd, he stumbled upon fields and fields of a mysterious cherry red blossom sprouting from the gnarly branches of dwarfed trees. He had crossed the same path many times since he was a child and had never taken notice of the trees crowding one another with their arid skin, needling limbs, and shiny red boils that sprouted off the thin leaves.
As he fondled the crunchy branches, Kaldi noticed that his sheep became unusually agitated and excited soon after eating the ripe cherries that had fallen to the ground. His breath was surprisingly light, and the hairs in his nose began to twinkle with flavor. A new smell had infested the air with an intoxicating blend of aromas that would alternate between dark chocolate and unfermented liqueur. As Kaldi herded his sheep further into the foreign pastures of these strange and appealing trees, his natural curiosity urged him on severely. Seeing the sheep quite content in their late afternoon snack, he decided to chew some of the exotic fruit himself. Completely unaware of the future impact of his little experiment, Kaldi became the first Homo Sapien to engage in the controlled bliss one experiences by getting wired off of the Java bean.
Kaldi gathered as many ripe beans that he could fill in his already crowded satchel and rushed home to the village arriving soon after nightfall. That evening, Kaldi did not entertain his admirers with the usual dancing visions of nocturnal murals and hugging stars, but expanded his repertoire to include the amazing coffee cherry. He shared with them novel smells, tastes, and even the gift of a mild buzz and a euphoric feeling of lightheadedness. Word of Kaldi’s fantastic star paintings and the magic beans spread like bushfire throughout the villages of north Africa, drawing an unprecedented number of migrants, travelers and wanderers searching for the giver of new light and emotions.
The town grew beyond recognition with a bustling market. New expensive shops emerged that sold luxuries of crystal and esoteric jewelry, and carpetbagging merchant traders rushing to solidify a position in the new java bean trade. The old village became unrecognizable beneath the facade of the new city, inciting the citizens to call for a re-naming of the new and modern city, with Kaldi to be honored as the founding father. The city was renamed Mocha, Egypt, and Kaldi was revered as the prophet who brought the gift of the stars and the beans to its people.
Prior to the birth of Christ, it was rumored that members of the Galla peoples from Ethiopia used the Java bean for their regular afternoon pick-me-up. The Gallans never drankthe warm coffee drink, but would consume the berries in a thick finely ground paste, and mixed with animal fat. Their worship of the coffee bean was so profound that the Gallans wrapped their dead in the large leaves that extend down from the beans.
Arab traders running the ancient Middle-Eastern trading routes between North Africa and the Mediterranean Middle-East began bringing coffee back to their homeland to cultivate the crop on their large, fertile plantations. The Mediterranean Arabs are credited as the first innovators who began to roast, grind, and boil the beans, creating a warm drink they affectionately termed ah-whay. The word ah-whay directly translates to "that which prevents sleep."
In 1453, the Ottoman Turks formally introduced coffee to the capital city of Constantinople. The world's first coffee shop, Kiva Han, opened its doors on a brisk Autumn morning in 1475, 520 years predating the inception of Starbucks. In turn, the Turks also re-contextualized the concept of pragmatic furniture, conceiving the first ornamented coffee table, the sole function of which was for coffee drinkers to place their cups and to hold their tobacco filled hookahs. The worship of coffee reached epic proportions, finding its way into Turkish law, making it legal for a woman to divorce her husband if he fails to provide her with a daily quota of coffee.
The Coffee phenomenon inevitably seduced Europe, and flourished throughout the countryside and the cultural meccas of Paris, London, Vienna, and Roma. The drink experienced several decade long lulls in popularity as a result of various unfounded religious onslaughts and slanders (although praised by various Popes, Muslims, and High-Rabbis throughout various times,) bad weather patterns that destroyed usually resilient crops, and rumors of health complications.
Observing coffee in modern times reveals the establishment of franchised gourmet coffee shacks that have facilitated the homogenization of a once sacred bean and beverage into an over-priced cup of pretentious Joe. In overcharging the masses for an essential element of their morning routine and a nice accompaniment to their after dinner smoke, they have sabotaged a once sacredly affordable and shared vice into a signifier of elitism.
Unbeknown to most (including themselves,) small pockets of clandestine coffee zealots have arisen sporadically throughout various periods of the Earth and have congregated around sacred tables dedicated to java bean worship. This caffeine induced religious worship feeds off the transcendental powers of coffee’s capacity to spark answers from the metaphysical and tune in to the subtle sounds of the Helix.
Dearest scratch-waxer, of course I mean wax-scratcher, pardon- Dearest Logic. I apologize Choppy, sincerely.
Dearest Harold Leon Kaminsky, Jr.,
There we go, much better. What’s going down on the left coast? Did boarding season start up yet? NYC is unchanged amidst the usual chaos of evolution hyped up on a few tins of crank. Bree sends her regards. She is beginning to suspect that I am bad Jew, though I reassured her that I was not merely a bad Jew, but a poor follower of ideology in general. I assume you’re not coming home for the holiday festivities, in which you will be placed one seat closer to the gates of Hell than the rest of us practicing Bad Jews. What am I saying, you live with a Muslim (yo, tell Sayeed I say what’s up) If I were you, I’d get some good suntan lotion brother.
Check out the latest literary gem I found in last month’s Iowa Review. "Sometimes life is a credulous attempt to mollify our souls in a weak plea to re-establish decorum, without the pre-requisite monotony of dilated egos in the crescendo of existence known as youth." Did someone fall asleep with the thesaurus under their pillow or what?
I got a strange letter from my kid brother the other day: How come besides for the initial moment, no one questions the late night hallucinations and shadow play of after-hours interstate drives? Are they illusions of unconscious apparitions trying to kick some enlightening visions when you least expect it? Thank Jah for bob marley- roxy 78’- santa cruz ’76 - the BBC & peel sessions - bobby d .- newcastle 65’- bootleg series —biograph - basement tapes.... Woke up @ noon in a rest area surrounded by septuagenarians amazed that you slept ‘in there’ in a 13 degree. night. Spent the next day & night in lobo natl. forest on the idaho/montana border trying to stay visible and hitting the deck at the spine spanking cracks of shotguns. Of course, it’s the first day of hunting season, no hiking season, no hunting sea... Mind you hicks, murderers, trophy freaks, politicians, and good citizens alike have the day marked off on their calendars since the end of last season (truck drivers with Palms.) My condolences go out to anyone who is sadly forced to brave it through an entire summer without killing anything. Motherfuckers fly in from LA & shit for the chance to spray bambi with 4lb shotguns. It’s like unleashing a pack of coercive child molesters in the jon-benet modeling school strapped with a bag of sweets. No, seriously, we need hunters to trim the moose & elk herds so they don’t overpopulate their ecosystem and kill of their surroundings and themselves... Wait, don’t they overpopulate each season because we herded them into deer concentration camps after we strip-mall-ified the majority of their home away. Nah, we kill them to help them out -- worked in nam -- cough, cough. I got more tangents then an equilateral triangle.... Sooo, after ducking a few dozen shells while hiking evergreen mountains, I broke out to Missoula, MT.
Honestly Choppy, should I be worried or proud of the kid? I’m leaning toward the former.
Okay, enough idle small talk. Shall we resume our metaphysical discussions? Allow me to synopsize the minutes from our last few discussions, which are essentially a spiritual expansion of the Anthropic Principle:
1.) The Universe is 8 billion years old, Earth is 4 billion years old, We (Homo Sapiens) are roughly 750,000 years old.
2.) If the Big Bang were to unfold again, the odds of a form of life resembling Human Beings developing as a result of evolution are infinitesimal.
3.) If the rate of expansion one second after the Big Bang had been smaller by even one part in a 100,000 million million it would have recollasped before it reached its present size, or lack there of. If it had been greater by one part in a million, the Universe would have expanded too rapidly for the stars and planets to form. The initial explosion of energy required a perfect synchronicity of elements, mass, gravitational force and timing to balance on a knife’s edge.
4.) If the strong nuclear force were slightly weaker, we would have only hydrogen in the Universe. If the force was slightly stronger, all the hydrogen would have been converted to helium. In either case, water and stars would have never been able to emerge.
5.) For every particle in the Universe, there is an anti-particle. During the Big Bang, for every billion anti-protons, there were one billion-and-one protons. The one billion pairs annihilated one another to produce radiation, with a single proton left over. A greater # of survivors, or no survivors would have created a Universe that would make the Earth or any similar planet a physical impossibility. The laws of physics and the Universe are generally symmetrical. Why would such a tiny asymmetry occur during the Big Bang in an otherwise homogenous and isotropic Universe, when the simultaneous occurrence of so many independent forces and connections is so wildly improbable. Could this really be the product of pure Chance?
6.) The approximate % of water on Earth = The approxiamte % of water composing the human body. The average salinity of Ocean water = The average salinity of human blood.
7.) Long paired strands made of exactly the same four bases of A C G T in various sequences constitute the genes of all organisms from microbes to humans. If all known organisms and life-bearing entities use the same code to translate DNA to proteins, then there is tangible (well almost tangible) evidence that there is a common origin for all living things. The basic structure of DNA of any cell in any human being = The basic structure of DNA of any cell in any human being. Basic components of organic DNA of flora and fauna = Basic components of Human DNA. The mutational repertory of a gene is a function of its structure, which inherently limits the very operation of chance.
8.) The number of Elements and Minerals known on Earth = The number of Elements and Minerals known in the Universe. Molecular composition of Stars in their infancy period contained in the gaseous state = Molecular composition of human infants contained in the solid state.
9.) 900 billion dollars spent by the United States of America on armaments ¹ 900 million people without enough food to eat each day. 5% of the Earth’s population is contained in the United States ¹ 30% of all goods consumed globally is within the United States. 1% of the richest Americans owning well over a trillion dollars and 40% of the nation’s wealth ¹ The life expectancy of a black man in Harlem is 46 years old. Number of African-Americans in jail between the ages of 18-24 > Number of African-Americans in school between the ages of 18-24.
10.) Scientific and spiritual understanding both logically deduce that Humanity is directly connected to a greater cycle of being in both our essence and our physical being.
11.) The body is not a cage or a vessel, but a tangible extension of the mind that intimately guides us through the scope of our immediate reality.
12.) We, the postmodern generation (although no different in angst and disenfranchisement then any previous generation,) have grown disenchanted with the initially well-intentioned guidance of organized religion, which has led us astray from our inherent cosmic knowledge. This has diverted us from the natural path toward the unification of the collective soul of the humanity and the Universe.
Foucault says, "As [the] archaeology of our thought easily shows, man is an invention of recent date. And perhaps one nearing its end." He’s got a point here, we’re so close and so fucking far away from the bigger picture. Almost a million years strong in the world and we still can’t get our act together. I’m still searching for that sign or answer that melds together the blatant scientific evidence of our place in the greater cycle, with the spiritual thirst to hear the melody of the One: guide us like a Pied Piper to the promised land of peace & enlightenment, milk & honey. Still scratching my yamacha here. Any help?
-Alaster
On a particularly sticky August 12 in the dog days of 1877 -- inside the same small, dank laboratory that saw the inception of the first light bulb, kinetograph (motion picture camera), and the kinetoscope (a motion picture viewer,) -- Thomas Edison developed the first sound recording device known as the phonograph. Edison began by working on a machine that could transcribe telegraphic messages by making indentations on paper tape, which later could be sent over the telegraph. This development led Edison to speculate that a telephone message could be recorded in a similar fashion. He experimented with a malleable diaphragm with a sharpened embossing point, which was held against a rapidly moving roll of paraffin paper. The speaking vibrations made by his voice would then leave indentations in the paper.
Edison later changed from a paper to a metal cylinder tightly wrapped by a soft foil of sheeted tin. The new machine was equipped with a pair of diaphragm and needle units, one for recording and the other designated for playback. When Tommy would speak into the mouthpiece, the sound vibrations would be then be indented into the cylinder by the recording needle in a vertical groove pattern. After tinkering and tweaking the gramophone to his satisfaction, he gave the schematics of the machine to his mechanic, John Kreusi, to construct, which he quickly carved out within 30 hours. Eager to play with his new machine, Edison immediately tested it out by singing a popular off key ditty into the mouthpiece, "Mary had a little lamb, little lamb..." To everyone’s amazement, the machine began to play and sang back the song in Edison’s own squeaky voice.
Adding to his already monumental gift of electric light, Edison further offered humanity the gift of music and sound that could be recorded and played by cutting a groove into a revolving wax spindle and then onto the round disc of the platter. The first phonographs were not electrical, and ran by the strength of a simple hand crank. In order for the record to play, the disc would have to spin fast enough beneath the stylus for the sounds to be produced at the proper pitch and tempo.
Until the Gramophone and Victrola (trademark names for the first-marketed phonographs), music was experienced solely in the presence of live musicians in a concert hall. Although there were numerous folk and street musicians throughout the world, the majority of concerts and operas by well-known and virtuoso musicians were performed in large concert halls and theaters. This exclusive practice was often beyond the financial means of the average citizen, creating an unbalanced environment in which popular music was the privilege of merely the wealthy and aristocratic classes. Before the recording process introduced from the electrical synapses of good old Tom, all music was performed live and was experienced only in the principal form of live performance and improvisation. Fingers plucked, bows stroked, mallets hit, horns blared; music was simultaneously conceived and listened to. While the dynamics and synergy of a live performance can never be duplicated, the masses were never allowed the opportunity to hear music performed masterfully by professional musicians. In addition, the most exquisite and renowned performances were singular moments in time that could never be heard again. Unquestionably, the undeniable magic of a memorable live performance cannot be matched, but very few common people maintained the privilege to hear the best ensemble music or operas.
Due to geographic and cultural restraints, most people retained minimal or no access to music from other regions, countries, or time periods. Each town’s provincial grasp of music was essentially reduced to the songs played in their immediate surroundings. The phonograph’s simple design allowed it to function in reverse, which permitted sound to be easily record and funneled down the acoustic sound tube. This feature did not merely give the opportunity for everyone to hear major musical happenings that were documented and recorded, but it also allowed any musician and family to record themselves singing and playing. Edison's phonograph paved way for immeasurable human social and cultural progress throughout the entire planet, dissolving the once elitist element that was limited to expensive concert halls.
As technology and the phonograph evolved, the gramophone was improved in 1896 by the addition of a spinning motor conceived by Eldridge Johnson. At this time, electricity was beginning to gain popularity, and Johnson began minor experimentation with electronic phonographs. Electricity was a driving force in the evolution of the phonograph, in addition to other significant advancements in motors and stylus materials. While the majority of developments in record technology were devoted to squeezing as much music as possible onto a single record, a novel approach was needed to maximize the record’s potential. The most obvious approach (which more often then not is the most difficult to see) was to slow the speed and narrow the groove in order to imprint more musical notes on the record. In the middle of the century, the 33 1/3 RPM microgroove record was conceived, and phonograph technology further progressed. Originally, the 78 RPM records could only hold a single song on each side. However, the invention of 33 1/3 RPM record allowed for entire symphonies and concerts to be recorded onto both sides of a record.
The recording industry is constantly striving to improve sound of "real life" in recording. One of the most successful breakthroughs in the sound quality of records produced for the phonograph was the technique of stereophonic recording. The echo-style technique of stereophonic sound was originally developed for movie theaters in the 1930s and later utilized by recording studios in the late sixties. It allowed for greater clarity, sound texture, crispness, and a generally improved reproduction in the quality of sound. As we hear sound funneled to us through two ears, stereophonic recording responds dynamically by placing both the left and the right sides of the song respectively into their own individual sides of the groove. Stereophonic recordings dramatically improved music for the audio connoisseur, since it could played through multiple speakers, creating the appearance that individual sounds and instruments were separated and surrounding the listener.
In the middle and late 20th century, the record industry blew up with a new market of 33 1/3 LP hi-fi stereo records. Music lovers and artists were exposed to a greater selection of music from around the globe, and began to collect vinyl recordings from various artists establishing a personal library of quality-recorded records. People were finally able to purchase stereo systems for their homes that could provide them with the quality and realistic sound of a live performance.
In contemporary society, many believe that the record player was lost or left for extinction status along with eight-tracks and beta players. Over ten years after the CD appeared, the microgroove disk shows some faltering signs of disappearing into technological anonymity. Fortunately, the endangered species of vinyl continues to be pressed, purchased, and cherished as tangible pieces of the sound and the past. Listen to any radio station or step into a club or bar, and it’s evident that Edison's phonograph will not be easily buried. Records are constantly flooding the market, and there are numerous albums or song singles that artists release in LP form only. CDs have become to records what videos are to movies. Vinyl loyalists go as far to condemn CDs as sampled, scanned, coarse, and soulless sources of information.
Records are still the most relevant form of expression in our breakbeat DJ culture. They are cherished for their versatility in performances and for the purpose of DJing or turntablism, records are an absolute necessity and tool of the turntable artist. Outside the digital format, records are the only form of recorded music that have the ability to be fully manipulated, controlled and re-worked by a DJ; DJs can take the phonograph and transform it into a instrument in itself. In 1973 Technics innovated the world's first direct drive belt system with the introduction of the SL-1200 Series turntable, which for the first time allowed DJs to cue, backcue, cut, scratch, juggle, sample and beatmatch songs between a pair of electronically connected turntables. It is by way of this plastic versatility and the spontaneous powers of creation that the foundation of Hip-Hop and Rave culture have been founded.
Despite the serious technological advancements that have spawned the new digital recording era, Technics turntables are essentially the same as Edison’s gramophone, with a few modern refinements. All turntables are based on the same simple idea of vibration-induced analog waves converted into digital sound. The evolution of the phonograph has only entailed the addition of a few new materials and the further purification of sound quality. The phonograph is the root of all recorded music, with a rich history of over a hundred years that has profoundly carved its way into the soul of all recorded sound. It is not merely retro fad, but an integral part of music that serves as the cornerstone of all recorded media and the backbone of DJ culture.
"My pops said it reminded of him of be-bop/ I said daddy don’t you know?/ Things go in cycles." The needle hung deep in the groove, holding tight to the wax. The speaker pulsed methodically, spitting out hard, but gentle beats bounced heavy off the walls. The alarm clock shuttered in her ritual convulsions and shrieks for a 9:30 PM showing, followed by a short-lived snooze. The good work was on the horizon. They loved their job to the marrow. The precise simplicity s the nocturnal shift s tapping into the collective spirit s the cornerstone of subcultures s the primordial awakening power of the archetypal Beat. Both Turntables knew their existence well after years under the adept tutelage of Choppy- Don’t skip, spin the records at 33 revolutions per minute, keep the needle deep in the vinyl grooves, match the beat clean from one platter to the next, stay sharp with the cross-fader, hold solid when Choppy scratches, make the people dance, and most importantly, don’t skip.
His arms were sharp silver, long and steel, and weighted heavy on the stable end. The polished weight pulled and leaned back delicately on the fulcrum, lifted his arm, and brandished a long finger-length needle nose. One arm lay cocked sturdy in the holster, the other freely outspread to maximum wingspan, extending from the back right corner -- diagonally left -- stretching its freshly honed razor needle to the far end of the 12-inch platter.
He rode the vinyl grooves like a country driver intimate with each switching corner, sudden pause, and s-curve of a mountain pass. Together the twin Turntables were doomed to an existence of interdependence and permanent separation, an intangible symbiosis of sound and thought. They were merged and isolated by the mixer nearly a yard length that revealed the sum of their homeostasis and visceral workings in switches, meters, and faders. Their flashing synapses exposed in blinking digital lights as the dynamic interplay between movements, thoughts, tweaks, adjustments, samples, sounds, and effects pumped through their electronic veins. They played records. They mixed beats. They made the bodies rock, and for an eternal moment or longer the people danced s breathed s walked the sacred ground of an infinite present, riding the back of the eternal beat. They were two Turntables and a mixer, comfortable with their placement in the world.
Choppy scrubbed his teeth voraciously in the bathroom, upset with himself for snoozing through yet another sunset. His hair hung thick and dark falling to the curl of his lips with a slight inverted wave at the ends. He split the overhanging raggedy mess of hair in the center of his face, tucking each half behind their respective ears. The clothes peeled off his lanky frame easily, leaving a wilted pile of sleeping clothes on the cool bathroom tile. Comfortably aged sweatpants, a half decade old long sleeve T-shirt earned at charity 5K run, hiking socks, flannel boxer shirts. They lay melted on the tile, spread chronologically like the hastily abandoned ensemble of a snowman.
He ran the bath trying to manipulate an ideal temperature in his nakedness, working the tub knobs tenderly like a pair of turntables. With the door swung half-open, the music struggled to climb through the bath fog keeping time with the pounding pulse of the shower. Choppy turned his back to the water, tilted his neck forward, and let the almost too-hot water gently scald and run along the backside of his scalp, down to his neck, and along the ridge of his shoulders. He mumbled a small prayer for good water pressure. Lost in the music and liquid caress of the water he was calmed and hypnotized by the warm strength of the water that was gently pummeling his back.
Standing in the Shower Thinking4 "The actual term ‘sunset’ is a misnomer," he assured himself. "The sun never moves -- the term sunset is nothing but a collectively believed and socially justified illusion. The setting sun is actually the horizon line gradually rising as the Earth rotates on the upswing, so it can cook up each portion of land for equal intervals. The end of a sunset always fades fast, like when a gas tank that stays Full for weeks worth of driving and then suddenly rushes from the half line to Empty with an electromagnetic intensity. The sun doesn’t need to move, it just chills. It holds firm and centered, emanating beams of piercing loud silence, color, and heat, altruistically sharing its luminescence and life with this hunk of rock spinning round the solar system like a warped record in an ellipse."
His mind slipped further into the alleyways of his unconscious, caught by the pulse of the shower rushing the basin, while still trying to unwind from his daylight slumber. He began to freestyle, catching himself off guard4 Drawing from moon sketched waves and blood filled veins/ Sleeping in cartoon tested caves with mud filled stains/ My mind is lost roaming through these lyrical planes/ of reality/ Cuz’ life without beats never meant shit to me/ I’d rather chill in the light reflected from the moon/ Shine through the night and the pale afternoon/ Cuz’ I’m the DJ plus the hip-hop mystic/ Mix these thoughts with the breaks then I flip it/ Mind plus the body but there’s still another part of me/ Representing breakbeats, love, and a digital philosophy.
"Damn I should give up this DJ thing and go the gangsta rapper route, God knows it pays better," he teased himself. "They got plenty of room for Jewish DJs-turned-rapper in the Pacific Northwest hip-hop scene."
Wrapped in a short towel, Choppy gingerly stepped out the bathroom toward the blue shag carpet of the living room and caught Sayeed elbow deep in computation. He reviewed mathematical text running across his screen with the speed of a real time Wall Street ticker that resembled the indecipherable patterns of archaic hieroglyphics that have been given cosmic meaning only in the lucidity of hindsight. Choppy could visualize the cartoon digits, shapes, symbols, and equations dancing hand in hand, making a celebratory hora circle above the crown of his head. Sayeed tinkered with the mouse and felt Choppy’s glare draw him from his screen. With a low slung towel revealing the shadings of a pre-mature pot belly and the sprouting of a small crop of dense hair across his sternum, Choppy decided to walk through the motions of courtesy, already prepared for the reply he would soon receive.
"You coming down to the club tonight yo?’"
He paused to make eye contact before his reply. "I can’t make it, Choppy. I still have much of my studies to accomplish before the morning."
"It’s Friday night bro, I know you ain’t got shit to do that can’t wait ‘till Sunday. You got to cut loose sometimes, amigo."
"I have work much this weekend. Regardless, you know that my doctorate is up for review soon, and there is much to be done in the interim."
"Sayeed, you’re a Sufi dude. Isn’t it an integral part of your belief system to dance and play music ‘till until the sun rises to connect with Allah or whatever? You can’t expect to reach a transcendental mind-state crunching numbers all night in your laptop. Come with me to the club for once. I’ll hook you with free drinks, and I guarantee you phat beats that’ll take your head to the mos’ high and beyond my brother."
"Allah is not the Internet, nor does his force follow the logic of A (play music) + B (dance) =C (an enlightened understanding.) My beliefs and customs cannot be simplified into a rave dance party. It is vastly more complex and does not abide by the standard rules of elementary reason. There is an ancient phrase that my grandfather taught me early in my religious studies, "Praise Allah, and tie your camel to the post." You see it expresses both sides of the duality between my religion and my mathematical studies. Pray, yes, but also make sure you do what is necessary in this world. That, Choppy, is how you say, an integral part of my belief system." Sayeed moved his eyes with a blazed awareness down toward his monitor and resumed his work with no remnants of their conversation revealed in his expression. His desert-sun darkened skin had grown pale under the gray mist current that sweeps in from the Puget Sound and lingers between the Cascade and Olympic Mountains for most of the Winter and Fall. His tight cropped hair unveiled the pre-mature lines carved in his face and the chiseled definition of his muscular frame.
Unmoved, Choppy shrugged and made his way toward the kitchen, searching the fridge in the hopes of finding new signs of life. Much to his disappointment, it remained the frigid wasteland it had always been. He looked feverishly for his leftover Thai evil shrimp curry from the night before in drawers, under the shelves and even under the oil-stained pizza carton until he finally acknowledged the fact that it was gone. He held his hand on the open refrigerator door, allowing the internal light to illuminate his face, and turned back to shoot a Sayeed a glare that went unnoticed. He pulled the Apple Jacks off the shelf and swirled them around in a bowl of milk that was pushing the limits of its life span. He ate with a mute face, running through his to do list before he transformed into DJ Logic. Eat (check,) e-mail, roll blunt, pack record crates, call folks to say happy holidays.
Aloha Caleb,
What up kid!! I haven’t heard from your haole-ass in like a long time. I hope you’re col’ lamping kahuna style under the tropical sunshine. What am I doing in Seattle again? How’s the surf? You best pick up a stick and earn a serious wave-riding habit. What island are you kicking at, and more importantly what’s up with the fly wahine honeys? I scored a phatty Marley bootleg off Napster the other day. Check it, it’s a live recorded Peels session (BBC radio or whatever) of the Wailers from ‘72 that was re-broadcasted on a pirate radio show in ‘frisco about a year later. Bob is on fire, yo, and Tosh has 2 solo tunes that just go off. The bass is so funky that you have to hold your nose. There’s also this refined-type limey BBC cat narrating the session. It’s a trip. Hook me up with your address (if you ever get one) and I’ll drop you a dupe. I’ve been listening to it for 2 days straight -- this tape is religion bro.
I miss Hawaii, given that I was only there for a couple of weeks and with the folks, of course. Anyways here’s a little joint I found cleaning out the desk drawers that reminded me of how phat you must be living:
Me and Big Al miss you on the metaphysical tip. We need your free spirited wanderlust input on
what’s up. How else can we have a holistic grasp of understanding? Alaster is real big on the ‘Web of Life’ principles and the Gaia Hypothesis (remember that book by Lovelocke I tossed you? Essentially, it states that Earth {which can be expanded to be the Universe} is a single breathing organic entity in which every particle and element plays a vital role in its internal workings of homeostasis. No single component or individual is privileged {including us} over another, and each individual entity is a microcosm of the unified whole that is necessary for Earth/Universe to thrive optimally. If any individual organism is depleted or prospers into over-abundance, the cosmic balance and life force of Gaia is off kilter and Earth’s cyclical patterns are disrupted. The greenies and new-agers sweat this guy hard, it’d be perfect for you. Anyways I just think Bree has him reading too much scientific religion jazz, but I’m sure you know how that goes.
I don’t know. Maybe I’ve ingested too much American patriotism in school or just read too much Emerson and Thoreau in my day, but I’m just more on the rugged individualism tip. I mean we’re all members of the collective spirit, yes, but the individual atom is free. It pulsates as it wants, in low or high gear, it decides itself when to absorb or to radiate energy. I comprehend that a red blood cell contains a map of the entire human body, but it has manifested as a single entity with a distinct, individual function, and maintains a defined role that is separate from nerve, skin, and white blood cells. Like Aristotle says, all things are conceived from the One fundamental matter and then etched out into specific entities from divine forms. Okay, for Example, you have the form of a dog and the great spiritual receptacle makes a whole bunch of dogs from the canine mold, but then they individuate into explicit animals like Shepherds, Labradors, Retrievers, or whatever. From these narrower molds, each dog expresses its own identity and personality and so on. Look, I am fully aware that we’re all trees in the all-encompassing forest of life, but each Cedar retains its own character. That’s all I’m saying.
Let me offer a slightly more physical example that seems rather pertinent at the moment. As I sit here with my steaming mug of black coffee, I wonder how long it will take to cool down before I can drink it? If my coffee was just warm, the heat would dissipate without any hydrodynamic motion (movement of fluid) at all, holding at a steady state. But if it’s hot enough like my freshly boiled cup right here, then convection will roll the coffee into organized cylindrical rolls, overturning the hot fluid from the bottom of the mug up toward the cooler surface in spiral motion of convection.
The convection process becomes clearer when I pour a little milk in and the swirls twist and spin in the same rolling fluid patterns. We know because heat dissipates and cuz’ friction slows up moving fluids, that the inertia of the convection motion will inevitably stop. What I’m tying to spit out here is that no matter how much science we know, it’s basically impossible to deduce the cooling rate of a cup of coffee because of an infinite number of trace variables all simultaneously affect the rate of convection in the system. I’ll assert that, although we can’t forecast the temperature of coffee a few minutes in advance, we’ll know for sure its temperature in about an hour.
I would never argue against the fact that all systems eventually return to temperate state of equilibrium, it’s just that it’s the time trying to reach homeostasis that interests me. That’s when life is really lived. It’s like that corny saying (allow me to paraphrase) "getting there is half the fun." Nah, it’s more 99% of the fun, or at least what you remember. I mean, as a species we’ve barely lived -- we’re just babies man. So, who’s to say that the evolution of the mind is not constantly evolving and mutating into new and subtle changes of understanding and consciousness that are too fine for us to even notice? We could just be mile marker 750 on a road trip around the contours of the Universe. I understand there is a complex structure in all large systematic streams of seemingly disorderly-grouped fragments of organic chaos, but we don’t live that way; we’re like molecules of H_O in the Ganges river. How are we supposed to act like streams when we’re programmed to be drops?
What kine you have say brah?
-The twisted sanity of Logic
Although there is no precise date recorded on the day surfing truly began, the ancient sport of he'e nalu, or wave-sliding, has been practiced and mastered since the ancient Polynesian Kings and Queens, and inhabitants of the Sandwich Isles took to the breaks well before the 15th century. Blessed with a remote location over 2000 miles away from any landmass or natural barrier, the Hawaiian islands beckoned the great waves of the Pacific in to the sandy shores of the tropics.
He'e nalu, a Hawaiian word adopted by the ancient kahuna poets to describe the spiritual ceremony of surfing, is delicate and rich in nuance. The etymological subtleties of the term express the cultural significance of surfing and the ancient Hawaiians’ profound reverence for the ocean. He'e illustrates a change from the solid to the liquid form, or to run as a liquid. Nalu refers to the surfing motion of a wave, the foaming of a wave, or more simply, wave-sliding.
Hawaiians have attached an enigmatic mystique to the ocean and her fickle moods. As the Eskimo use several hundred phrases to relate forms and concepts of ice and snow, the Hawaiian people similarly assign numerous persona and poetic metaphors to the ever-changing kai spirit of the sea. The kai malie is peaceful and serene water, while the kai pupule fumes rough and rages with energy. Her more sensuous references of identity are streaked with symbolism, whispering of her silent conditions. She can swoon as the puna that’s so smooth you can punalua or glide effortlessly with a few deliberate paddles into a wave. Even mellower is Kona or the leeward wind, known for her seas with cloud billows that forecast peace. All these natural forms have a significant effect on wave-riders, as any modern day surfer will eagerly testify. Hawaiians even have designated the word hopupu to express the endorphin rush of a good ride similar to what modern day surfers call getting stoked. The aloha spirit is a practice that is still common today. When the waves roll in on big sets, old school and modern surfers alike cast their normal responsibilities aside, grab their surfboards and head for the waves. This custom still remains widely popular, as any employer that has surfers working for them will be quick to note.
In ancient times, if distant storms didn't generate suitable waves, surfers would enlist the aid of a kahuna high-priest and literally pray for swells. If there was a serious dearth of surf in a particular area, the local kahuna would take several branches of pohuehue and, in unison with the surfers, would swing the sacred vines and lash them upon the water, summoning the big surf. In an archaeological study conducted in1919, John Francis Gray Stokes wrote of a seaside hey temple at Kahalu Bay on the Kona coast of the Big Island. At the temple Hawaiians made offerings and prayed to their gods for good surfing conditions.
"A heiau is a temple for surf-riders to pray for good sport. There were bleachers like a terrace where spectators could watch surfers in action, and within the temple compound's confines was a brackish pool where surfers could rinse away saltwater after a wave-riding session. Known chants that have to do with surfing and with surfing’s physical and metaphysical effects on the mind and body are too numerous to recount here, but those that are known illustrate the substantial role surfing played in the social and spiritual lives of ancient Hawaiian practitioners."
There was a strict hierarchy of class in the surf culture that dominated by the ali'i or royalty, who claimed the highest reputation for their dedicated proficiency with boards and waves. They maintained their own prayers, chanters, board shapers, wood, and even beaches where they alone could surf with others of similar rank. No one dared to drop in on the ali’i’s waves, because it would often bring severe repercussions and in more severe cases, death. As surfing was strongly endorsed and revered by the ali'i as well as the common folk, it achieved special status and a highly esteemed level of respectability in ancient Hawaiian society similar to that of the Roman gladiator. Renowned and skilled surfers were celebrated in song and dance, often enjoying special privileges in the royal circles. Their status as leaders within the chief class depended in part on their strength and stamina. Like the gladiators, the sport of surfing served as arduous training ground as well as a challenging pastime to keep the population fit for the strenuous physical requirements of warriors and chiefs. The chiefs and warriors took great pride in the skill, grace, speed and courage with which they rode the fat Pacific swells. Hawaiian surfers often exhibited their finest wave-riding styles in fierce and often brutal competition.
However humble a wave-rider’s surfboard, it was treated with the utmost dignity and respect. Before a board could be shaped, a proper surf-building ritual was carefully observed. As with most forms of life, it began with the tree. Only three types of tree were used to make the ancient surfboard; the wiliwili, the ulu or breadfruit, and the koa, which is the preferred stock of the trinity. Once a tree is selected, a board-builder uses a stone axe to dig a hole among the roots and then places a ceremonial fish inside with a special prayer. This serves as an offering to the Gods in return for the tree he is about to carve and shape into a board. The construction and shaping of the board that followed was an exacting art that required the experienced craftsmanship and diligence of the professional native shapers.
The trunk was first chipped away with an axe and then shaped roughly into its desired dimensions. It was then drawn down to the beach and placed in a halau canoe house for finishing and detail work. Granulated coral and a rough kind of volcanic stone called oahi were used for smoothing out the rough surfaces and leveling the dings, dents and knots of the wood. In order to finish and stain the board, the root of the ti plant or the pounded bark of the kukui plant was used to give the board a dark glistening luster. Stains were also obtained from the soot of burned kukui nuts, charcoal from burnt pandanus leaves, or the juices from young banana buds. Finally to complete the ritual, a dressing of kukui nut oil was applied after the stain dried, unleashing an ebony, glossy board that was now ready to slide the surf.
Today, such boards are nonexistent with the exception of some ancient Hawaiian surfboards that have been kept in private homes and museum collections. The principal riding tools for the ancient Pacific surf were segregated into three distinct classes of Hawaiian surfboards: the olo, or standard board, the kiko'o longboard, and the alaia short stick style. The olo is thick in the middle and grows thinner toward the edges. It is preferred for waves that swell and rush shoreward, but not for waves that rise high and curl over. The kiko'o reaches lengths from 12 to 18 feet and is made for surf that breaks hard and rough. This board is good for surfing, but is often difficult to handle by inexperienced wave-riders. The alaia board, which averages at about 9 feet, is thin and wide in the nose tapering off toward the tail end. It tends to lean downward and cuts through the meat of a wave, never rising up on the wave when it curls over on the rider. Skilled surfers use it frequently, but the unskilled are afraid of the alaia ,opting to sit on a canoe or to surf on even smaller boards.
Surfing played a crucial role in the annual three-month Polynesian festival of Makahiki, which was resided over by the God Lono, the patron deity of the festivities. From mid-October through mid-January the Hawaiians ceased work, relaxed, and spent much of their time dancing, feasting and enjoying the surf. Thousands gathered to watch the famous surf tournaments and exhibitions that served as the climax of the festival. No important contest began without showing deference, and included prayers and offerings to the Gods in an effort to win their favor. When a man felt harmonious relations with the mysterious forces of the ocean and waves, he felt capable of accomplishing superhuman feats of strength and skill.
Ancient maps of the Hawaiian Islands indicate that there were more than a hundred popularly used surfing sites in ancient Polynesia, and although there was no written language, a list of forty terms were compiled to form a working lexicon of the traditional surfing language. This fact suggests that among the early Hawaiians, there was a great need for self-expression and discourse on the subject of wave-sliding. The modern surfing culture is as abstract and foreign to the untrained ear as the Hawaiian words sound to the average Westerner. With this rich, descriptive vocabulary, teamed with the prominent number of surfing sites spread throughout the Hawaiian Islands, we are offered a more lucid insight into the spiritual, cultural, and metaphysical significance that surfing has brought to the rich Hawaiian culture.
The sun gingerly inched up over the horizon of Mauna Kea, sneaking a few shards of sunlight over the mountainside and onto the breezy lanai. She rested comfortably, propped against a snug corner, enjoying a faint hint of dew and the salty breeze, and feeling the rays begin to warm her trident of fins. Her proud colors had long since faded from their original glazed luster. She retained the rustic elegance of a rosy and well-aged, mid-western high school beauty queen that has since married and lived a healthy life working the farm. She wore a wide and refined crimson streak that stretched across her sleek nine foot span from nose to tail like a form-fitting dinner gown. Her once defining stripe was now slightly chipped and dappled, and was closely accompanied by a pair of parallel royal blue pinstripes that dotingly ran the trim of her borders.
Her sun yellow frame was diluted to the wilted shade of chamomile flowers dried too long on the windowsill. Yet she was still capable of capturing a flicker of her essence and intrinsic sensuality at the right time of a withering afternoon. She had no corners or cut edges; her slender frame was rounded, curved, and looked as if it had been traced from the powerful legs of an Amazonian Goddess. Her nose rounded to a subtle curve at the head, forming a semi-circle composed of a 2.2 foot diameter that held plumb down through her body to the tail. Upon a salty and glistening underbelly of polished fiberglass, a humbled logo lay in the shadow of her three imposing fins starched to attention in an equilateral salute. Her surface was sticky, revealing her wear and age through scars, years of use, and sedimented layers of wax. An ocean girl since birth arched s shaped s crafted s set to ride the ephemeral majesty of the crumbling crest and liquid soul of a wave.
She never resented her brethren younger s stout s sharper s edged to cut and grind the lip, bust off the top, slash hard and deft. She was from another school, the old school. A longboard cruiser with a single purpose s passion s telos: shoot the hole, remain focused within collapsing tubes, ride steady through the mystical break of the waves. A veteran who read and composed swells and breaks like a student and teacher of the ocean arts. Years of silent observation and reserved deference for the ocean taught her not to silence fear, but to channel its energy and ride it unhindered -- free of consequence. She could read the moonbeams and how they spoke to the waves s how they hummed the same rhythms s tapped the same beats s orbited the same planes s ran the same circles s reflected the same patterns.
She rode often and could still keep pace with the unyielding exuberance of the boys. The boys knew the best breaks and smoothest swells on the island, taking her from the clean lefts of Hanalei to the endless tubes of Kua Bay, always careful and intent to show her love, respect, care and admiration.
The sun rose and shined her home bright on the lanai, heating her bones and burning off the straggling remnants of the evening cool. She pondered, "If I was to go for a surf today, I would’ve already been in the cab of a pickup or strapped to the roof." Pausing to bask in the salty winds whistling off her streamlined body, "the swells must be hiding," she sighed and figured for a late afternoon ride. She didn’t mind, "the waves aren’t going nowhere."
Aside from his tattered boxers, Caleb lay naked. His bruised feet dangled loosely over the edge of the futon. He was awake, the apartment was silent. A slight stiffness in his neck, coupled with a subtle pinch in his lower back, reminded him that he was waking on a couch, again. He was on the final leg of his U.S. couch tour that had begun in the New York City (affectionately known as Rome of the Holy Modern Empire.) He swayed through the college towns of the South, the red rocks of the SouthWest, north to Big Sky country, south through three layers of Cali, back up through the Rocky Pacific coast, Canada, and a particularly pleasant six-month stay in the kind town of GirdWood, Alaska. After a few months of hiking through the parks and backcountry of the Alaskan Range, a particularly good harvest season, competing online airplane ticket wars, and an acquaintance from his undergraduate days rounding out his education in paradise, he found himself on the shores of Hilo, Hawaii.
Hilo, or the Hi-Low country as the college kids like to say, was the ultimate paradox, the paradigm of the dark paradise. More elusive than a paradox, it refracted a bent pleasure spectrum curving into a malleable ring that blurred the translucent distinction between Zion and Babylon, pleasure and pain, the high and the low. Hilo fit the standard archetypal mold of a once prosperous, but now decaying small town, impeccably. The dilapidated buildings painted the remnants of a boom-town that peaked out in the dry institutional architecture of the late sixties and early seventies (tourism being the deteriorated industry in this particular instance,) but has since faded into a rundown, colorless, economically stifled, and socially dysfunctional shell of a town that caters to the impoverished elements of the most oppressed local population (the native Hawaiians, immigrant Filipinos and Tongans, and lost hippies from the mainland.)
The towns are very often accompanied by a severely physically and emotionally debilitating climate (Hilo receives on the average of 272 days of rainfall annually and has been know to go weeks without sunshine.) Every other storefront is either an antique shop or is vacant. Drugs (ice, heroin, grass,) alcohol, and fast food chains are in no short abundance and unusually inexpensive (local burger drive-ins.) Social and welfare benefits from local and federal funds are easily obtained (EBT food stamps feed nearly half of the population,) and housing costs are extremely affordable (a 2 bedroom in the particularly poor part of town runs about at $450.)
The town is often accompanied by a pair of large competing high schools, a state college (the University of Hawaii at Hilo) and a local community college (Hilo CC.) There is another town within a 60-mile radius, which is the antithesis of the depressed city, namely because it is simultaneously revered as a utopia and loathed as a harbor for the bourgeois elite (the resort village of sunny Kailua-Kona.) The economy is usually supplemented by an established network of illicit activity (high-grade marijuana farmers and drug distribution circles) that runs freely under the protection of the local authorities. There is a strong sense of a dominant religious community that often governs the socio-economic landscape of the town (first colonized by missionaries, the ‘progressive non-dominational’ Catholic churches of the Big Island strongly influence politics and the tourism industry.) This town could be found in any state in America -- the drastic difference for Hilo is that it’s located on a majestic tropical island over 2,000 miles to the closet landmass.
Hilo is surrounded by postcard beaches (although rocky and murky due to local river runoff,) and is nestled on the outskirts of lush tropical rainforest, towering waterfalls, and a pair of imposing 13,000 foot mountains. It is within a quick hitchhike of green and black sand beaches, active volcanoes, snorkeling and scuba in colorful tropical reef ecosystems, dank valleys, organic farms, the southern point most of the United States, sunset dinners, ocean swims and the surf. It maintains all the dark elements of life surrounded by the beaming clear light of paradise.
Caleb was on the couch, again. He was surprised that no one was awake surfing, but the scattering of cigarette roaches, cheap beer bottles and a slight headache reminded him it had been long night. He scoped around the apartment with his eyes for a clock, and laughed, realizing he was in a house with other like-minded patrons of timelessness. For the first time he grasped the tragedy of commons -- if no one carried a watch we could never rely on anyone to tell us the time.
"That would be beautiful" he thought, and laughed again. He scraped together a shirt and some flip-flops, and made his way over a few sleeping bodies toward the door. He ruffled his pockets in a standard wallet check and found his way toward town. He was in Hilo only three days and had already begun to establish a breakfast routine: wake early thanks to gnawing jet lag and head to the internet cafe cutely titled Bites & Bytes.
The islands have that cathartic and mind massaging effect, in which a few days will erase your past and re-write your history in the relaxed tongue of the Tropics. Despite all his travels, he couldn’t clearly ingest the strange energy of the dark paradise. He felt simultaneously happy, odd and unsettled in the head; a discomfort in the blending of opposites.
"Maybe it’s just jetlag or this weird energy circulating through the guts of an island that’s literally growing bigger each day, but damn, I just can’t shake this overwhelming feeling of lightheadedness -- like I just smoked my first cigarette." He grabbed his Kona coffee at the counter and worked his mouse through the digital waves.
Dearest Big Br@ and da Beat-Junkie extraordinaire Logic [Respective masters of idle thought & elementary reasoning,]
Aloha kids! Sorry about the combo e-mail, but I’m on the clock here @ the e-cafe, so I must consolidate. Greetings from Polynesian paradise, or shall I say, colonized Polynesia. I don’t know if you guys heard or whatever, but I sold my beautiful VW van Blue Velvet. You might remember her from assorted journeys and escapades through the Canadian Rockies, the Bible Belt, California, the bayou Thick of the Deep South, the SouthWest, and her last stop through the Pacific Northwest. A quarter million miles and stories later, I sold her for a mere $900 bucks. Her boxy orange and tan VW frame was slightly tattered and she needed a well-deserved rest, although her new owner promised the occasional road-trip.
"On the road is where she’s most comfortable," I told him and I think he understood. 3000 miles and $300 bucks later, I find myself on Jeff’s couch trying to gradually absorb the chaos of the Hawaii, or more specifically, the Big Island. My humble words can not explain the vast reservoir of energy emitted from an island that is still alive and growing about 50 acres a year due to constant volcanic activity. I know I say this all the time, but you guys have to come and visit me here. I know I always planned to come back to NYC (home) and move onto to Al’s couch (little bro privilege) and get "settled," whatever that entails. I miss you guys, I miss being in a town that I grew up in, I miss living near all my old school friends-ex-girlfriends- the folks- unconditional love. This even surprises me. I miss the stability of waking in a dry apartment with a bed, lights, bathroom, radio, you know, the whole show.
I miss New York, but in the same sense, it’s not going anywhere. I still have much to do, see, experience before I’m ready for the whole show. I mean fuck! we’re still young. So, I struck a compromise with my nagging superego and I’m going to score a pad and a job down here and live like the civilized folk for a spell. God, I miss Blue Velvet. I have a few prospects for jobs waiting tables on the sunny side of the island in Kona and I even found a 2 bedroom pad with a kid from Alaska, which has sunset views over Maui, a large balcony (lanai,) and a huge living room and kitchen. It’s going to require a significant amount of psychological retrofitting to get accustomed to living in one place and not on the road, but I’m tired of moving and ready to relax to the gentle hum of monotony -- if you consider enchanted beaches, beautiful women, and prime surf monotonous. Being that I’ve only been here a few days, I have little else to report aside that El Jefe is still running his fly game out here and sends his regards to both of you.
On your dueling self-indulgent metaphysical rantings, I have a few modest interjections and assertions to add. Let me play Satan’s attorney and propose a possible negation to your perception of the Universe functioning as a dynamic, ordered system of being that acts according to some inherent code or body of laws that govern evolution and organic action, Anthropic style. The very plague of consciousness that we carry from birth has impregnated us with an insatiable desire to unravel the mysteries and classify the contents of our reality into a unified ordered system. The concept itself is bold, and very possibly moot from its origin. To assume that life, or humanity for that matter, appeared from more than a fortuitous sequence of events that erupted from the primordial core of chaos is taken directly from the texts of monotheistic thought. The very same school and dogma is responsible for the killing of millions, the mining of our natural resources, and the destruction of our planet.
It is undeniable that an innumerable number of synchronous, and possibly even mystical, events extended over time to create, by chance, the human species. We are infinitely lucky, yes, but divine, no. The sum of parts is not equal to the whole. Life can not be itemized or atomized into a list of similarities and connections that bind us together, and then thrown into a formula that proves the Universe is an equation that can be solved by a proper mix of numbers. It’s so human to have the audacity to try to label order and symbols in the face of chaos. The more we learn from science, the more they learn how little we know. After simmering science down to its basics, we come up with memento mori -- we all must die, so maybe we should spend our ephemeral existences trying to live life instead of explaining it.
Okay, suppose I buy into the theory that there exists a universal law besides chaos, and that there is a method to cosmic evolution. If we are all integral ingredients that simultaneously compose and follow the divine code of the Universe, then our collective fate as a species has been calculated and encoded into this theory of everything. Allow me to follow the logic of your metaphysics:
A. I assume the Universe is not arbitrary, but is governed by finite laws
B. I further assume that if you combine all partial theories and synchronous events that spurred the evolution of the Earth and humanity into a complete unified theory, it will describe the workings of the cosmos. BUT,
C. If there is a comprehensive universal theory, it would presumably weave the fabric of our reality and determine the basic outcome of our collective actions on a very general level. (e.g. Homo sapiens evolve 750,000 years ago, insert a great plague here and there to weed out the flock, and eventually the extinction of the species.) Then dammit
D. This neat universal theory would determine the outcome of our very search for this holisitic theory of the One. What if!!!
E. It is written (maktub) in this theory that we should never be able to decipher the totality of the cosmos’ contents, human genome project and all. It's like telling a red blood cell its role in the human body. It would just freak out, lose its specified orientation, and not be able to complete its inherent function of feeding the body with oxygen.
It would then seem its in the best interest cosmos to conceal the meaning of everything from one of its fundamental components. No matter how hard you try, you can’t give a computer soul, AI and all. Do you think we’re smarter now than humans a 1000 years ago? We’re just not meant to be in on the secret, or maybe the secret is simply to Give UP! Once we stop trying to solve the meaning of existence, we’ll realize it’s a lot simpler than we thought. Just follow the stream of the endless present It's the same logic that makes governments classify information 'for our own good.' Like we'd all know too much and go fuck it up! Thank the lord for organized religion and for keeping us in check. Screwed over by Uncle Sam Again once again. Maybe you guys should stop reading all those Western philosophy texts and take a note from Lao Tsu "To take all you want is never as good as to stop when you should." So stop thinking so damn much and live!
All this philosophy jazz brings me back to our undergrad days of drinking coffee and smoking joints back at State, which, by the way, resembles Hilo with a scary similarity. I miss those days....
Shanti & Nostalgia-
Caleb
Choppy gently squeezed the end of the joint between his fingertips and slipped the smoking cherry through the slim crack in the backseat window, letting the rushing wind dust off the lingering ash. He quickly snapped it back and drew an audibly deep pull off the joint without letting the roach touch his lips. Before exhaling, he sneaked out a barely decipherable sentence powered from strength of his lungs. "Hey, yo. Throw on some beats." He emptied his lungs, careful to guide the smoke through the thin opening of the window slit. Passing the grass from the left hand side to Caleb, Choppy added, "Enough of his hippie shit already. Toss in that Pharcyde tape or some Digable Planets — whatever, yo. Feed me something to nod my head to."
Alaster kept both hands on the wheel and glimpsed at Choppy smirking in the reflection of the rear view mirror. "Dylan is not some hippie shit Chopster. Besides ‘Subterranean Homesick Blues’ is hip-hop. Here, peep this verse."
Caleb laughed and mumbled, "Hey, Bree-Star," passing the quickly deteriorating joint up toward the passenger seat. Alaster turned up the sounds of Dylan’s wispy rasp, flowing to the swift tempo of his relentless guitar lick. He waited for the next red light, and gripped the roach with his free hand from between Bree’s fingernails, stealing a fleeting caress of her soft fingers. She smiled without showing her teeth to his whisper of "Thanks."
"Ah man. All you long hairs suck. And yo, turn up the heat in this piece. It’s cold as a motherfucker up in this bitch."
The crew was on their standard late afternoon Lost Dog Lounge run that had been perfected to a near science over the last four years of their undergraduate career at Hampshire College. The routine essentially consisted of: A) Alaster making the neighborhood rounds of the small college town picking up Bree, Choppy, and Caleb, respectively, in his beat-up, decade-old Blazer truck. B) Burning a joint and deciding on the musical selection for the five-minute drive to The Lounge -- as it was affectionately known. C) Warming up from Central New York’s biting cold winters by the fireside. The Lounge was home to a huge colonial stone fireplace that appeared more at home in a Vermont ski lodge than at a local coffee shop. D) Drinking good coffee, discussing the generalities of life while still living in details, and relaxing on plush vintage sofas, chairs, and coffee tables.
Everyone in town -- from meat-head frat boys prowling on young freshmen women, professors and grad students overly-absorbed in their laptops and archaic texts, alcoholic vagrants and townies seeking refuge from the cold in a warm drink, to the artsy academic types requiring a place to congregate and socialize -- frequented the Lounge regularly. From the 7:00 AM opening until the 2:00 in the morning closing, the Lounge was host to nearly every sort of resident that populated the sleepy, economically stifled Upstate town throughout the course of a single day. Among the Lounge’s diverse array of loiters and patrons, the crew was among the most loyal and well received of the coffee shop cats.
They rolled in hazy-eyed with lazy steps, drifting toward the far corner of the large, open room that faced the fireplace. Peeling off heavy layers of scarves, hats, gloves, coats, and sweaters, their clothing was quickly scattered across a plush purple velvet couch and the two adjoining easy chairs. After a quick game of rock—paper-scissors, fate choose Alaster to buy this afternoon’s round of drinks. The others ambled toward the fireplace and slowly roasted their frigid hands and feet over the soothing flames of the fire. They appeared to have just had arrived to the comforts of home after a draining humdrum day at the office. Oblivious to the bustling late afternoon scene that engulfed them and buzzing throughout the lounge, they were honeybees congregating around their liquid gold.
Caleb’s shell of stoner anonymity was quickly dissolved by an encounter with a few acquaintances from his experimental film class. In a matter of moments, they off handedly traded lines like, "I think the underlying existentialist themes of Goddard are questionable," and, "It’s not so much the visual play, but its social significance that gives the dadaists’ strength behind their impact." After reaching his threshold of self-inflated statements from kids that rank themselves according to their number of piercings and tattoos, and who gather their cinematic opinions from journals and lecture notes, he used the first pause in the conversation to make a polite exit.
"Oh no. Please don’t feel obligated to rush back to your real friends. Please, feel free to go and play with your perforated playmates to compare black ink work and punk rock lyrics."
"Step off, big Al."
"Easy up, little bro. I’m just playing." Caleb melted into an open easy chair and sighed. The collective pre-graduation tension was growing tangible in the first months of their final semester. With the help of some advanced high school courses, summer classes, and a burning motivation to get out of school and travel the globe, Caleb was graduating two semesters early with his brother and the rest of the crew. Despite their excitement in bringing their school days to a close and the chance to finally turn dreams to reality, they were quite apprehensive about trading in the only lifestyle they’ve known since birth for the unknown drama of the outside world.
They were comfortable in the academic world, learning-growing-playing-fucking-living in the safety of regimented class schedules-meal plans-house parties-mixers-road trips-blunts & forties on the porch-summer breaks. It was a light existence, free of pressing burdens, and without the weight of expectations or a social responsibility to the status quo. The beauty of the setup was that adults and parents alike believed that in college their children were investing quality time to nurture their minds through education, in order to progress into an individualized being, and maybe even secure a stable job. They were right -- to an extent -- but most kids were psyched just to pass the prime of their youth in a four-year vacation binge of booze and sex, spaced out by the intermittent class or two. Despite their ideals, which were pure and nobler than most, the crew could feel the impending shackles of occupational slavery, looming like Central New York rain clouds that have been known rest in the Susquehanna Valley from Halloween to the Ides of March. They had entered the final days of the romance of youth, and planned to party like rock stars until those last days eventually filled themselves out.
Aside from the standard angst concerning graduation and the fall from innocence, each of them had their own individual issues to do battle with. Alaster pondered life in New York City, trying to break into the Greenwich Village literary scene armed with only a few stories, a BA in philosophy, and a passion for the pen. Bree questioned her motivation to begin her masters in education at Columbia University, wondering about her future with Alaster. Caleb’s plan was simple: travel the country in his faded Volkswagen camper, aptly titled Blue Velvet, and see as much of the world as grandma’s trust fund will allow. Uncharacteristically, Choppy was the most focused of the crew. His plan was to head out to the West Coast, probably Seattle, where many of his friends from high school had already settled, and begin his career as a breakbeat DJ. Regardless of their vague plans, the anxiety of actually having to pursue their goals began to take its toll on their fragile egos.
"I’m psyched for that new X-Files tonight," Choppy mumbled from the silence. "Television -- always a lovely way to spend the evening," Bree chimed.
Alaster teasingly nudged her shoulder, "Stop it Breeze. You love X-Files, and I’ve seen you skip class to watch Simpsons reruns. Plus, you tape all those A&E Biographies and..."
"I know, I know. I’m a big bad hypocrite. It’s not the television I don’t like as much as the time it siphons away from doing other things. Like, for example, sitting around here and exchanging witty retorts with you guys."
Caleb wondered aloud, "Imagine if all you did was wake up, put on a suit, go to work, eat dinner in front of the TV and crash out watching Skin-O-Max."
Choppy smirked, "Hey! Quit talking about my dad like that."
"Sadly enough, my distinguished friends, but I think that’s the inevitable scenario for all of us. There’s a little known indentured servitude clause in the Constitution, slipped in real small between the 10th and 11th Amendments. It states that We as upstanding citizens of the United States of America, declare that we will voluntarily sacrifice the overwhelming majority of our serviceable lives to the nobler cause of the democratic labor machine in order to ensure the progression of our way of life, and to wholeheartedly contribute the sum of our productive worth to secure the future of our liberty, justice, and freedom. I think there’s also a minor clause in there about the right for free cable TV, electricity, and Internet access, but they’re not as successful at enforcing that one."
"Not me, yo."
"Me neither bro. I’m going to be passing my time cruising the open road, hiking in the woods, or riding killer waves Eddie Aikau style."
Bree was a little startled by Alaster’s newfound cynicism. "I’m surprised to hear you talk like that, Al," she said softly. "Where is the Alaster who doesn’t wear name brand logos, or even shop at Wal-Mart? What happened to the Alaster who wouldn’t even consider wearing a suit to bar-mitzvahs or weddings?"
"Sorry, ma’am. He’s out at the recruiting fair trying to get a job with a philosophy degree, and I wouldn’t be holding my breath."
Choppy added, "This is whole job thing is a bunch of bullshit. I’ve seen too many successful people in the rich suburbs driving around in big ass jeeps with their sunglasses on looking just straight up miserable. I mean, they’re beautiful people man -- at least on the outside. They’re wealthy, educated, with access to everything in the world and I still pity them to the core. That frozen frown on their faces, they way they move so self-consciously, you can feel the negativity just dripping off of them. It’s not how much bank you have, but how come comfortable you feel in your own skin. How does that Bob Marley tune go? You could fill your life up with things that you could feel, but you just can not touch."
"That’s Bob Dylan, yah moron."
"Whateva. What I’m trying to say is that no matter how fat your pockets are, if you don’t exercise your passions or really love what you’re doing, you’re doomed to spend the rest of life searching for happiness with short arms in deep pockets. I believe that quote is from the Rza."
Caleb jumped in, "Confucious said something like ‘If you love your job, you never have to work a day in your life.’ I think you touched on an even bigger issue here; being that so many people don’t even have any passion for anything, or even a venue to focus their energy. It’s just so easy these days to be complacent in our own little sliver of existence, waking, eating, going to class, drinking coffee, partying, going to bed, and not worrying about Tibetans being oppressed in their own homeland or the rainforests being massacred in South America. If you don’t have passion for anything like healing, art, music, engineering, law, love, healing, teaching, learning, or just something, man, then you’re lost. Passion reminds you that you’re fucking alive man! Not just some well-oiled cog in the machine. It’s like saying to the Man, "Fuck you! I won’t do what you tell me, I’m taking my own route." Everyone acts so insular and self-important, not even paying attention to the seemingly obvious fact that we are all dependant on one another to make these things work out for the positive. But, I guess that’s what we have religion for."
"I decided against religion a couple years back -- if it’s true it makes fools of people, or at least draws fools. And if it isn’t true, then they’re all even dumber. There has to be a more pragmatic solution than being forced to chew on an outdated ideology that has caused more division, hatred, and war than all forms of government combined. But all cynicism aside, I can feel it: the penetrating feeling that we’re all evolving into a more unified and conscious community, striving to attain that nearly tangible goal of a collective enlightenment. Call it spirituality, the collective unconscious, religion, or a more divine twist in evolution -- but the TV, wireless phones, United Nations, Internet, e-mail, and that all stuff are signs that we’re headed for a global collision of species and culture. Whether it’s positive or negative, I don’t know, man, but I do know that every yin has its yang."
"It’s funny that even worrying about having to finally get a real job can transform into a philosophical discussion with you guys," Bree smiled as she began to unlace her boots. "I guess everything can boil down to metaphysics, if you’re willing to take it there, although I think we’re all just anxious about leaving this place and putting in forty hours a week to the Man." She lifted and crossed her wooly-socked feet, placing them with a thump down on the coffee table. "Look at this coffee table right here. It hangs out in the Lounge day in, day out, offering up it’s sturdy frame for us to place hot drinks on, rest our tired feet on, giving us a place to just come together, share some good drinks, good times, and conversation. It doesn’t sit around and question its role in the grand scheme of coffee shops; it simply does its job humbly and thankfully, grateful to be part of the greater nexus of coffee tables spinning around the Universe. This consciousness thing really messed up all of our heads by making us over-analyze the prominence of the individual and even humanity as a whole. There’s a definite danger with inflating our species with some great divine hyper-importance that somehow privileges us over everything else that works equally hard in the universal schematics of existence. We have a fucked up environment and social climate to prove it." Knocking on the wood coffee table, "Maybe we could all take a note or two from our mahogany friend here and be grateful for the integral role we play -- that we all play -- as cooperative elements in the grand operation of the macrocosm."
Located nearly fifteen miles east of Jerusalem, riding the cusp of the frail Palestinian border, the Dead Sea is situated some 400 meters below sea level. As the lowest point on the surface of the globe, the Dead Sea is profoundly deep and contains water permeated with the highest amount of salts possible for a liquid. An extremely low elevation contour, teamed with a submerged placement in a deep desert basin, has created a climate in the Dead Sea region that is unusually remarkable. The distinctively high evaporation rate of the region produces a perpetual haze over the horizon, while maintaining its atmospheric humidity at a constant and moderately low level. The surrounding desert shoreline is particularly arid, and remains at a relatively stable temperature throughout the year. The junction of all of these extreme climatic conditions has created an optimal environment for the preservation of stone, engravings, petroglyphs, and parchment scrolls.
In 1947, one year before the official creation of the state of Israel, a pair of young Bedouin shepherds in search of a missing sheep stumbled into a series of caves at the northwestern cliffs of the Dead Sea, known as the Khirbet Qumran region. They had been crossing the same rubble path, tending their sheep as long as they could remember, and had never taken notice of the small entrance to the caves. Either through random coincidence or divine providence, a rich collection of Hebrew and Aramaic manuscripts were discovered. As the first known living humans to explore the caves in nearly 2000 years, they had re-discovered the seven ancient texts, now collectively known as the Dead Sea scrolls. The initial discovery of the scrolls was followed by the scientific exploration of the neighboring caves under the auspices of the Department of Antiquities of Jordan, the Palestine Archeological Museum (now the Rockefeller Museum), and the Dominican Ècole Biblique et Archèologique of Jerusalem. The manuscripts originally written on calf-skin papyrus, were attributed to group of scholars in a previously unknown sect of a Jewish brotherhood, later termed Qumran, after the home of the scrolls. An exhaustive excavation through the series of Qumran caves revealed more than 600 scrolls conserved in various states of preservation.
Upon decoding the enigmatic scrolls, a narrow window opened into the esoteric history of the Dead Sea’s ancient inhabitants. In their scrolls, the Qumran brotherhood had codified a manual of discipline that was intended to be the guidelines for establishing a model society as the future House of Israel. In addition to the schematic plans for a utopian society, a large portion of the texts were dedicated to the preparation for the imminent coming of the kingdom of God and the day of judgement. Details of the final battle remain obscured by the deterioration of a few choice texts, but archeologists have deciphered that the final day is to involve a struggle between the Sons of Light and the Sons of Darkness.
Unbeknownst to the international excavation teams that thoroughly searched the bowels of the Qumran caves, there still remained perhaps the most vital artifact which was not merely the most spiritually significant, but would insure the future prosperity of all life on Earth. Nearly thirty meters below the floor of the cave and less than a meter from the basin of the Dead Sea lay, a third of the Helix coffee table which was used by the luminaries so many hundreds of thousands years ago. On an uncharacteristically sunny day in the summer months of the second recorded millennium, a divinely placed minor tectonic tremor, passed unnoticed to people on the earth’s surface, released a third of the Helix tablet from it’s terrestrial confines and into the sodium enriched waters of the Dead Sea.
For their 30th wedding anniversary Caleb and Alaster’s parents decided to make their first ever exodus from their home in the south shore of Queens, NY, to their Zionist homeland of Israel. Mortimer and Ethel Portchnick toured through the narrow strip of desert, mountains, craters, and beaches that compose Israel with a youthful zeal. They visited the holy Mt. Carmel, the untamed dry of the Golan, the medieval walled fortress city of Acre, and walked the sleepy beaches and terraced landscapes of Haifa, which Ethel remarked as having "Un-beleeev-lahble fish -- the St. Peters are simply to die for." They made their way down to the Middle Eastern metropolis of Tel Aviv, where they shopped and dined on the ancient cobblestones streets of Yaffa, sunned on the tourist beaches on Ha-Yarkon Street, and rekindled ties with aging relatives and friends. After being slightly bored in their five star-hotel in the resort town of Eilat a few miles from the Jordanian border, the Portchnicks were eager to visit the pinnacle of their trip to Zion: the religious Mecca of Jerusalem.
After touring the bazaars of the Ben Gurion district, scripting their prayers onto paper and into the crevices of the Wailing Wall, and touring through the sacred stones of the mystically powerful Old City, the Portchnicks enjoyed the final days of their holiday sunning at their seaside resort on the banks of the Dead Sea.
Swimming in -- or more appropriately, upon -- the rejuvenating waters of the Dead Sea, but still careful not dip her highly manicured hair in the water, Ethel navigated the sea in a classic, elderly feminine fashion. She swam with her head above water, parting the sea in front of her with long, calculated breast strokes that rippled the surface into a small wake that trailed behind her impeccably-timed mechanical arm movements. Morty remained ashore shirtless, sipping on a Diet Coke and reading the morning edition of the USA Today beneath the brim of his white, cloth sun hat in a reclined hotel beach chair. Between articles and the occasional loud flipping of pages, Morty would glance at his wife, amazed by her almost supernatural buoyancy. He caught a flashing glimmer of his wife thirty years ago, wading off the coast of Coney Island as he sat, about twenty pounds thinner, chewing on a kosher hot dog. Her velvety blond hair curled in a perfect bob, revealing a shining face and the curved, proportioned frame of a young Semitic debutante. He sighed, still unclear if their time together had passed too quickly or unbelievably slow.
Midway through checking the progression of his securities and mutual funds, he heard the distinct shriek of his wife’s voice. "Oh my Gawd! Morty help me, I’m being attacked by a submarine!" At the very same instant, he felt a weak rumble beneath his feet as his drink was shaken from it’s cup holder, spilling all over his bleach white trunks. Hurriedly, he looked up to see a huge swell arise from the sea floor and engulf his wife from all directions. It sucked her down a few meters in pit of salty sea walls. The water then quickly spit up a rounded slab of what appeared to be Jerusalem stone directly beneath Ethel, lifting his wife completely out of the water. The stone had captured her mid-stroke on her stomach, leaving her beached on the rock’s surface like a displaced sea mammal surprised to feel the breeze of air and the sun’s direct heat. Morty dove in and swam toward his wife with the exuberance that he once exhibited as a teenager on Rockaway Beach, helping her down off the rock and carrying ashore.
"See, honey. I told you not to swim so close to the Jordanian side."
The discovery of the tablet baffled the local team of Israeli archeologists who specialized in biblical artifacts. They were having serious difficulty with their carbon half-life dating system, which, after repeated tests, marked the stone at nearly a million years old, nearly 250,000 years before the emergence of Homo sapiens. They were familiar with the infinity symbol that bordered the fray of the slab, as well as the fraction of the Helix insignia located around the broken center, although they had come across neither in their collective years of religious and archeological study.
They were further confused by the chemical composition of stone that appeared to be very similar to Jerusalem stone in physical appearance, but contained a vastly different chemical makeup. Further tests revealed that the tablet was actually composed of fossilized DNA molecules that were foreign to the Dead Sea region -- in fact, foreign to Earth. Even more amazing to the scientists was the peculiar pattern of the DNA strands which did not twist into the usual double helix, but a swirled fractal pattern reminiscent of the fragmented symbol in the stone’s fractured center.
The single Helix DNA, encased in a fossilized coffee bean shrouded in the rubble of the rock contained the exact same chromosomal composition of a standard strain of DNA. However, in lieu of the double Helix recipe that all life on Earth has spawned from, there, among the unblemished nucleus, arose the exact same coded formula only attuned into the physical shape and spiral symmetry of the Helix.
Numerous forensic tests had been conducted on Jerusalem stone, which illustrated scientific proof of the powerful electromagnetic energy emanating from the rocks that lay the sacred foundation of monotheism. The newly discovered tablet revealed even greater levels of electromagnetic emissions that bordered upon the radioactive. International curators and governments staked claim on the ancient tablet, struggling to possess the mysteries of its hidden enigma. Through strong-armed political lobbying efforts and numerous undisclosed financial contributions, the tablet was eventually secured by the Guggenheim Foundation, and later escorted across the Atlantic to the piers of New York harbor.
In a simultaneous unfolding of events, the other two splintered segments of the Helix table were beginning to unhinge from their underwater resting ground of nearly a million years, surreptitiously seeking their way to quiet shores. The smallest piece lay huddled beneath the banks of a desolate coniferous forest on the northern tip of the Olympic Peninsula. The final fragment rested dormant in Hawaii, on the north end of the Big Island’s sacred black sand beaches that were home to King Kamehameha’s birthplace in the Waipi’o Valley.
They lay naked, sprawled across dirty sheets, tangled in body and soul. "Play with my hair?" she asked decisively. He curled her hair with greedy fingers, pleased to honor such a heavy request -- a request weighted with the responsibilities of two, an attachment to time, place, and circumstance -- a beckoning for unconditional attention, unbridled focus, a modest request that inevitably leads to open bathroom doors, and cute animal shaped soaps neatly displayed around the bathtub. He had loved since before she was born. He loved her in principle, in dreams, and in anguish. He loved her hot to the touch of the skin.
Bree was beautiful from flesh to essence. He loved to find a comfortable seat and watch her work parties, mingle at the rock shows or the downtown club scene. He would find his place at the bar, or spot an open seat at the couch, satisfied to watch her radiate the room, his Breeze, catching the room’s attention with her confident movements as she floated across the room. Her words even flowed graciously, eloquent in light conversations of weather and pop music, and pedantic in prose of Jungian symbols and Classical literature. She tiptoed the feminine line, expressing her opinions boldly, yet never appearing brash or dogmatic. They would drink wine, dance, talk, and make love for days. He had always loved her. He had loved before she was born in spirit or matter as an idealized form, always grateful for the day she emerged and let him court her into love without the perquisite awkwardness of insincere and pragmatic relationships. They had been old friends since the moment they met, and rarely parted since.
Somewhere along the course of the relationship, he had experienced a splinter of doubt that contracted and expanded only slightly, but nevertheless, he was unable to ever fully extinguish it’s hold from his mind.
It was an infinitely small speckle of a doubt, a quiet ripple on the surface of tranquil seas, a minor blemish on the face of a beauty -- a small festering wound that burned him profoundly, and spread like a virus within the labyrinth of his unconscious. He began to doubt the endurance of his love for Bree, and the endurance of love as a whole. Loyalty, he could offer thoroughly, but he questioned if he could ever like even his closest friends unconditionally.
"I seem to get sick of everyone I spend a lot time with so quickly, sick to the point that I can’t bear their very presence, their gaze freezing me in my tracks from across the room like a doe in headlights. I can feel their stale energy confining me to a certain time and space of behavior, and a level of consistency. It is the feeling of completing your entire existence with the bathroom door open; your personal moments, accomplishments, failures, and responsibilities are no longer personal, but shared events that are open for discussion. Good and bad are all on constant display for their viewing pleasure. Isn’t that the reason why we rebel against our parents? Is that a rebellion against love or being all cramped up? That’s the trouble with loving anyone --first you get over-protective, then you feel crowded. Give a brother some time hang with himself." This draining of faith dipped into his spiritual core, forcing him to question even his most primal beliefs in the symmetry of life, the fractals of time & space, and the cycles that compose the sum of the cosmos.
"The sum of the parts � whole," he reassured himself. To simply tally-up miracles, coincidences, stars, animals, discoveries, patterns, galaxies, chromosomes, flora, computer chips, waves, storms, planets, and office furniture into a macrocosm is futile. The code of life can only revealed in its purified totality. Alaster doubted even the beliefs he’d devised and passed onto others. All his studies, readings, learning, and consciousness had confused him, showing all subjects from different sides and angles, but always tragically distant and incomplete. Alaster had never verbalized his emotional and metaphysical doubts, not even to himself.
"Front page of The New York Times for all the world to see. Ladies and gentleman, Mr. and Mrs. Portchnick. ‘Please, please no applause. We are merely the humble ambassadors of Jerusalem.’ Can you believe this Breeze, tablet and all?’’
"Unbelievable. Can you pass the sugar?" she remarked, reaching over him and grabbing the shaker from in front of Alaster’s mug on the Coffee Table, which incidentally, was particularly awed by the headline.
The Coffee Table began reading the headlines. "My God. Who could’ve the Portchnicks possibly have killed on their vacation to make front page of the Times? What does that headline say here? ‘Queens Couple Beached by Oldest Known Artifact’ ? What could poor Ethel have possibly stumbled upon? Interesting... a million-year-old tablet. A million years! Yes, yes, containing a foreign DNA structure similar, yet significantly different from any known entity on Earth. That sounds fantastic! Soon to be exhibited here in New York at the Guggenheim. Mon dieu! Oh, curse these shackles of immobility that have been forced upon me! I can’t wait for them to come here and complain their way through the discovery of the most impressive archeological remnant ever. There are no rules on Sunday, sprawling this burdensome newspaper across me without the slightest concern for my posture. Shouldn’t they be at the coffee shop or doing something trite and common by now, anyway."
Alaster was crippled by his own consciousness. It offered him the illusion of logic and control over of his own reasoning and actions, twisting and contorting him into emotional ellipses, but always bringing his life full circle. He exercised free will in the details, using his favorite brand of toothpaste, enjoying certain styles of music over others, pursuing particular women, even his passion for his writing was his own. It was the generalities that belonged to the world of forms. The melodies for the ear, the desire for love, the passion for art, and the vibrancy in simple breaths of air. They existed not merely for him, but as soft winds brushing the across the cheek of humanity.
Consciousness begged him to weigh his words -- be practical in love -- learn the formulae of commerce -- be weary of friends and earn the respect of enemies -- break from idleness -- question majorities -- deconstruct art into matter -- divide before assembly -- be underestimated, learn with focus -- reconstruct the present -- register faults in others -- belong to nothing and always follow the flies of the market place. The inconsistencies and hypocrisies that seemed to work so efficiently in a world of function, only worked ephemerally on the intrinsic plane of generations’ and evolutions of accreted values. He was constantly chasing an invisible thread that binds one living being to another for a moment, then unravels. As it is again stretched between moving points, it draws new and rapid patterns so that at every second, our discontinuous reality, contains within it another collective reality unaware of its own existence.
This very plague of consciousness that is blind to the subtleties of energy exchanged between cells, the virtue of plants, and humans; between humans the Earth, and the between Earth and the cosmos -- the very same consciousness that is so bitterly aware of the individual’s flash of mortality over the light of time, character flaws, specific service, order and ranking. A deafening yin without the sweet symphony of the yang that causes us to question established conventions, and to sever the individual from the frame of the whole. Consciousness, Alaster felt, amputated his soul from the collective network of life, leaving him a lonely, intellectualized sibling among the indigenous lands of his family.
One of his most vivid memories of early adolescence was the day he was viciously invaded by the first flickers of the plague of consciousness. After a severe playground taunting by a few of the popular kids near the ball court, a 12 year old Alaster was violently introduced to the concept that the image we hold of ourselves does not necessarily correspond to the image that others hold for us. The notion that neither his view of himself, nor the view others have of him corresponded to an actual unified reality of a single Alaster has haunted him since that traumatizing afternoon. From that day on, he lost the bliss of the young. He lost his trust in awareness and the power of reason to deduce an objective reality.
He heard the notes and shards of the crystalline shine from above and beam from below infusing him with fleeting moments of peace and purpose offered by the luminaries, but their off key-pitch, incomprehensible dialects, and inaudible whispers left him more confused and frustrated than before. He saw his life teetering between dualities: Love & hate, complex and simple, free will and fate, Eros and Thantos, this and that. The middle road is brief between extremes. He justified often to himself, "The dilemma of existence is not something that has been or will be. It is what’s already here. It is the battle we are forced to fight each day, simply in virtue of living together in communities and countries. I see only two routes to escape from the vices of consciousness. Route 1 is easiest for most people: accept things on the surface level and become such a part of the system that you can no longer see it."
He envied these people, so carefree in the habitual routines of their mundane jobs and weekend getaways, oblivious to the shouts of their metaphysical reflex. Unable to coerce himself back into the hallow bliss of ignorance, "I’m stuck in Route 2, which is risky, and demands a constant attentiveness and a mellowed state of perpetual anxiety. Find and recognize the hyper-intellectualized, lingering elements which have thought themselves out of the loop of the system, then make them endure, and most importantly, give them their space."
Beyond the horizon of his penetrating doubt, Alaster was still driven by the most lucid, immaculate, transparent hope that drives us all: the intrinsic clockwork of humanity that ebbs away the moments between generations of life; the watchtower of oceans that flows timeless streams toward the inevitable convergence of humanity and the unraveled revelations of the Helix code. This sacred hope, this metaphysical aspiration, rooted in the foundation of the primal mind, is beyond the perversions of conscious thought, and remains immune to the scrutiny of the intellectual — a sort of religious instinct, if you will.
Even small assurances were enough to keep him driven. The simple flip of Bree’s hair from right to left was manifestation of an eternal intimacy between the mind and body, an intimacy with the body moving gracefully through the world -- never conscious, only living. He did not question his metaphysical quest to touch the cloth that weaves the fabric of the cosmos, but his ability to step beyond the bonds of self-awareness. So entrenched in the grips of reason and logic, Alaster’s most pervasive doubt remained, "Can I step beyond the reality that I am so accustomed to and observe the true meaning of actual reality in an objective light?" His parents’ bizarre discovery perked his waning interest once again.
Hi Kids, Do you have patience?!
The sun takes 200 million years to make its way around the Milky Way, and I get antsy waiting for the elevator.
Did you hear about the folks yet, Caleb? You have to be loving this right now chopster. I like these group e-mails; it’s like having an audience. What are the odds of that shit happening? Unbelievable! I’d like to see the odds the bookmakers over in Vegas would give for this one. Morty & Ethel Portchnick starring in the final installment of the Indiana Jones epic: Floating Semites Draining the Dead Sea. Incidentally, they were kicking it right by Qumran, the same town the Bedouins found the Dead Sea scrolls in up by the cliffs. I can only picture my bleach white mom nonchalantly swimming her patented breast stroke through the salty seas, and boom! She’s 3 feet in the air, floating on an encrypted tablet that has more miles on it then little C’s old VW van.
They say humans would have never existed if the dinosaurs weren’t smashed up good by a hella big asteroid, (the very same asteroid that also gave us the lovely crater known as the Gulf of Mexico, by the way.)
Have you cats heard of the Butterfly Effect? I know our favorite numbers freak from Seattle has. It’s that whole joint of how a seemingly minor shift or turn can cause monumental alterations on the global scale. For example: a miniscule gravitational shift in the asteroid’s path could have caused it to collide with a big hunk of rock now called Earth, decimate nearly 2/3 of life on the planet, and lay out the good silverware for humans to come and propagate. Prima facie, how the gentle flapping of a butterfly’s wings in Berkeley can cause a catastrophic storm on the shore of Osaka. This whole Dead Sea jazz is giving me the wild butterfly vibes (that was for you Caleb.) Humor me. Can you entertain the theory that the Rockaway clan of Portchnicks on their 30th wedding anniversary vacation to Zion-land could potentially instigate ripples in the space-time continuum that has altered the future of the known Universe? Not in the abstruse I-want-butter-on-my-bagel-instead-of-cream-cheese sense, but in the larger scope. Maybe I’m just tripping or drank one too many cups of joe today. Whateva, as they say. There I go again, looking for paradise in the lighthouse across the bay. (Is that from The Great Gatsby or Dylan?)
Ran into some motivational force/disheartening thought from a Mr. Johannes Kepler, "We do not ask for what useful purpose the birds do sing, for song is their pleasure, since they were created for singing. Similarly, we ought not to ask why the human mind troubles to fathom the secrets of the heavens..." Maybe we don’t even want an answer to the cosmic fugue that we seem to be futilely seeking out. It’s like cliff jumping in Hawaii or climbing Mt. Rainer; you get off more on the adrenaline rush of ignoring your survival instinct and leaping off a 45 feet rock into choppy whitewater, or the struggle of battling the cold and jagged ice as opposed to the panoramic views. I sure talk a lot of smack about a collective consciousness and awareness when I can’t even hang out with my sexy girlfriend who I love for half a day, without getting sick of her. Please pardon my digital doubts and complaints, I think I just forget sometimes that these e-mail joints are really letters, as opposed to glorified personal journals for the nickel and dime philosophy that I drool onto the keyboard. Being a freelance ‘writer’ leaves you too much time to amplify and take seriously that noisy inner monologue constantly playing in the background of your cerebellum. Maybe it’s supposed to be taken seriously. It’s always the candle the lights the way that burns brightest. I got some ?s.
Is it your most sincere thoughts breaking through to the surface of all the bullshit, uncorrupted by social/personal baggage? Is it the most authentic You stripping off the cumbersome clothing that your parents bought for you? Is it the uncultivated emotions struggling to be heard over the load roar of logic & reason? Is it truth? Can emotions be wrong or lie to you?
Is it merely the hesitation of a coward fearing that the grass is truly greener? Is it the ego trying to suppress the inevitable providence pre-determined by our microcosmic reflection of cosmic orientation? Is it our suppression of that which is inevitable (fate,) or that which we have paved by way of our own action and choice (free will,) but won’t admit? Is it the fear of mortality that merely allows us a single circuitous path with minor excursions along the way? Is it a maternal warning or instinct preventing rash decisions justified by reason?
Is it merely a distraction from the reality of an etched block that we fill with different hues? Is it a necessary function of the psyche used to stimulate the soul to action and embrace existence outside our conscious confines? Is it the plague of modern man flushed from his native home by the congestion and stress of civilization pressing in deep upon the temples?
What is a question, other than an attempt to learn the truth from your stream of consciousness to fight the indecision preventing change!
Please pardon the grumblings of an empty mind that wakes up famished each morning. Incidentally, Bree* loves to wake me early when she goes to school. When I ask her why she says, "Because I have to get up." Oh I get it; it’s just that I don’t sympathize. Another question: Why does anyone who gets up early by inclination or has been forced to rise early out of necessity find it intolerable that others should go on sleeping soundly? Like in Plato’s allegory, dude runs out the cave like a madman trying to ring the alarm about the world of illusion, or in the Matrix, Morpheus (The God of Dreaming) dedicating his life trying to free everyone from the placid existence of plugging into the virtual world of the Matrix. Maybe Zack de la Rocha said it best, "If ignorance is bliss, then wipe the smile off my face."
Do you think I’ll be all right?
Peace- Al
With a twinge of guilt Choppy checked his watch, disgusted at his growing dependency on ordering his days according to the spinning numbers on his wrist. "I’m hip about time, man," he mockingly spoke aloud, while unhinging the clasp and tossing his watch onto the dresser. He’d been recently struggling with the principle of owning a watch, or more specifically, the hefty ideological symbolism it carried along with it. For Choppy, watches are a tactile symbol of stepping into the blind rat race of the masses, struggling to find a hunk of cheese at the end of the spinning wheel. Attached to your wrist is a constant reminder of your separation from the clairvoyant bliss achieved in being enraptured by the immediate moment of life. The very movement of labeling an instant 3:54 PM is an act of submission to the stale sequential notion of time that chains us to nominal distinctions like past, present, and future. More importantly, our voluntary subjection to self-reflexivity shifts the focus of our attention from savoring and lingering in the now. By wading in past regrets and accomplishments, or killing time waiting for the future to finally arrive, we forget to live and focus on the most important moment: right now. In sliding the center of our attention to shadowy concepts like the past and future, we ignore the present horizon, which in fact is composed of the fluid convergence of both past experiences and future aspirations. Only by privileging the immediate horizon, can we sincerely love · laugh · live · know what it is to simultaneously lose and gain ourselves in the endless rapture of an infinite present.
A John Coltrane solo can only be heard as a unified whole, as opposed to the organized construction of individual notes; a Van Gogh painting can not be seen as the total number of distinct dots, but as a liquid whole of millions of points melted into a masterpiece; a basketball player in the zone can not deconstruct their phenomenal game into atomized movements -- by simply feeling it they refer to being completely submerged in the moment when hitting long jumpers at will, or navigating the lane with an unconscious ease. Although the notion of fluid temporality appears abstract to our standard mode of reality, the perpetual present is the very same realm of existence occupied by every other entity in the known Universe.
A watch physically ties us to the illusions of past and present, and facilitates our extraction from the captivating beauty in the lived horizon of our present reality. A watch was a luxury Choppy had only recently afforded to himself for the first time in his life, because after all, "It gets me where I need to be on time. Besides, it’s a lot easier than always asking people if they know the time."
"Yo Sayeed. You seen my fleece?"
Barely lifting his eyes from his numbers, Sayeed offered, "Very likely, it’s in the last place you have left it."
"Fucking guy, ah," he mumbled. "Don’t get saucy with me just cuz’ you want to go camping, and your computer got ya digit-whipped."
"Yes, I would like to experience the wilderness of Washington, but I assure you that I maintain my own free will. It is simply a matter of obligation and priorities, and mine have chosen me."
"Free will? You could’ve fooled me." Choppy was uncomfortable exhuming Sayeed’s religious convictions into the conversation, and being Jewish, he was even more careful about contradicting Sayeed’s stringent religious practices. But in the same sense, as his friend, he felt an obligation to expose Sayeed to more of the world than the strict confines of his Islamic beliefs and mathematical formulas. Only in confronting him on these grounds could he elicit emotion from his otherwise stoic friend. "Where do you find time for free will, between your routine of praying like ten times a day, going to class, and counting numbers on that damn computer all night. You can’t even enjoy a beer once and a while, for God’s sake."
Closing his eyes slowly with a deep sigh, Sayeed stood from his throne and composed himself with a long, drawn out brush of the hands across his growing forehead, resting his interwoven hands on the back of his neck. "Choppy, must I constantly explain my actions to you? All of my decisions are of my own choosing, including living here with you. The way you speak of my love for Allah as hindering me falls on the farthest end of the truth. Allah frees me and guides me to distinguish what paths are in my best interest to follow. I’m not sure why I even bother with... In fact, a century ago, the Mutazilites were the dominant school of Islam. They were well versed in your sacred Greek philosophy and in addition to a strong religious conviction, they stressed the individual’s ability to reason between right and wrong, good and evil. Although later al-Ashari rejected the notion of free will as incompatible with the teachings of Allah’s words, the notion of choice is inherent in any religion. Even the basic choice of following a designated religion is an act of free will. I need you to trust me that my beliefs are sincere and come from the deepest cavities of my soul. Just like you, Allah has nothing but my best interests in mind."
"I don’t mean to be a dick. I’m just looking out for you, bro, I just want you to see the many facets life has to offer."
"I wish the same for you, my brother."
Laying the vinyl delicately down on the graffiti infested platter, Choppy handled the arm with precision, sliding the needle deep in the cut. Tweaking the levels finely with a barely detectable boost in the bass and twist of treble, Choppy gripped the mixer’s fader between his left thumb and pointer, crossing over his right hand to instigate revolution on the left limb of an attractive and good-natured pair of Technics SP 1200 Turntables. With perfect timing of mind, body, and beat, he scratched the first snare lick of side A back & forth, back & forth, teasing, foreshadowing, daring the beat to drop. Working and inciting the melody of the song not yet played with razor sharp cuts of wick, wick, wack, he paused the record with a single finger on the final four beat, and then released the wax to complete its destiny of harmony. "Yellow ribbons in your hair/ Red and Pink ones in the air/ Looking back then I remember/ Your sweet childhood in December."
"I love when he plays Roy Ayers, or any funk or jazz -- anything that changes it up from the fast breaks and hip-hop," remarked the Left Phonograph, still comfortably spinning the record in the groove.
"Yeah, I’m personally down with anything that has fat licks, butta bass lines, and a neck snapping hook. I can definitely hang with the funky jazz or folksy fucking grooves or whatever, but I’m on some otha shit. It’s all about the beats and lyrics. Yo check that out!" exclaimed the Right. "He’s got his pack out and he’s diggin’ in the closet instead of the record crates."
"Here comes the sleeping bag, and oh, that’s definitely a tent. Looks like our favorite DJ is going camping for the weekend. That should be fun for the Chop-man. He could use some time outdoors."
"Should be fun? Time outdoors? Do you even know what you’re saying yo? This means we’re locked down in this nasty-ass bedroom, rusting our chrome away for like a week, while he’s out walking in the woods like in some corny bluegrass song. This shit is the wack, son!" The Right Phonograph announced with a frustrated sigh.
"Stop being such a selfish drama-queen. He’s been cooped up in those dingy bars and nightclubs for way too long. He needs a break and I’m happy for him. I just hope Sayeed goes too, and not that crass Shadrach character who always slides his way along."
"He’s a character, no doubt."
"There’s an important distinction to be made here. Just because he is a character, doesn’t mean he has character."
"That kid’s the herb. No one needs to bust out for some R & R like my man, Said-Dogg. Homeboy is wound tighter then a new belt drive."
The intercom buzzed for a rude length of time, and with the authority of a firm press. "Hey, Sayeed. Can you get that bro? I’m still trying to pack it all up in here." Without apprehension, Sayeed suspended an elaborate long-strung equation, and buzzed Shadrach into the building. He answered the door with a warm, enthusiastic grace, indigenous to the open hospitality of most Mediterranean cultures.
"Welcome Shadrach, my friend. I hope all is well with you. Choppy should be prepared shortly." Shadrach was an imposing presence, filling the frame of the doorway. He was profoundly tanned for living beneath the Northwest canopy of slate-gray skies. His raspy chin-length, shiny blonde hair hung thin and loose over his round, languid face. At six and half feet, with the girth to match, Shadrach carried his loaded pack as if it was filled with confetti. Although not chiseled, his muscular contours could be easily defined through his clothing. He smiled the devilish smirk of naughty adolescence, revealing a poorly kept rack of teeth and a candle lit radiance of simplicity that was often confused as wholesome. His cherub face was more the product of heavy drinking than innocence, which also moonlighted as a visual display of his emotions and sincerity to even the casual observer.
His sheer presence in the apartment was high energy, turning up the tempo of the room with the mere sound of his voice. "Are we going, or what baby? Damn, I know ladies that get their shit packed quicker than you. Hey, got any brews?" he asked, sidestepping Sayeed with a hand on his shoulder. He made his way to the fridge like he lived there, cracking open the last Red Hook ESB with a swift twist of the cap. "Hey, Chop. I’m grabbing your last brew, alright? Hurry up in there. I got the truck parked illegally out front and the Olympics are calling, baby!" he remarked loudly, after pulling a serious swig off the dark glass bottle.
"Chill, bro. I’ll be done in uno momento." Choppy stepped out his room, fully strapped with a full pack tightly bound to his waist, and peaking just above his head. Attached to the outside of the bag was a small djembe drum that was secured by three horizontally wound compression straps. "Let’s do this."
"You’re bringing the drum? What are you, a hippie now or something, getting soft on me?"
"Hells yeah I’m bringing the drum, now get your fat ass in the elevator and take me camping."
First off Al, you’re not all right. You have a lot fucking problems, primarily being that you have way too much free time on your hands. Idleness is the root of all evil, or some shit like that. Allow me to paraphrase myself: you don’t have to be aware of your own behavior or the conditions controlling it in order to live productively, or even unproductively, for that matter. This constant self-observation is like torture or a serious handicap for Mr. Freelance-a-lot to say the least. It’s like when I’m doing my DJ routines -- after a certain amount of practice and (cough, cough) acquisition of mad skills, I don’t think about matching beats, dropping samples, melding bass lines, or timing my scratches. I just do it. It’s not unconscious in the Freudian sense, but it is without any forethought or reflexive deliberation before the act. It is simply embracing the now in life, the gestalt, flowing off the spontaneous insight of previous knowledge and the foreshadowed future that all coalesce on the horizon of an infinite present.
Imagine Ewing trying to work the angles: if he paused to concentrate on how to juke the other big guy and put it down, he’d get stuffed constantly, no doubt. My man is not thinking fake right, go left -- he intuitively knows it. Damn, I miss my New York Knickerbockers! Without the aid/curse of language all behavior would be unconscious, making the very act of consciousness a social construct. Awareness is not some cogito ergo sum type product of an autonomous man pontificating over the meaning of life, while puffing off a fat stogie by the fireplace. It only exists because we desperately need a method to communicate with each other besides grunting, pulling hair, and gesturing like the hoods who chill on front my stoop. I worry about you, seriously. Your conviction for answers can be much more dangerous than the not knowing. Nietzsche says "Convictions are more dangerous enemies of the truth than lies." Chew on that shit for a little.
Okay, all this mental digression leads me to the reason I digitally summoned the flying Portchnick brothers, (which I believe is actually a daredevil trapeze act consisting of 6 inbred brothers and a pair of Siamese twin sisters currently touring the former Eastern Block carnival circuit with other similar acts under a collective bill called The SuperFreaks of the Block.) Incidentally, I thought the my folks were nuts, but you cats... I mean, whose parents go to Israel, hang out by the Dead Sea, and literally swim into an ancient religious artifact that has all the Indiana Jones junkies going ballistic? If this turns out to be an anthropologically significant happening and your folks are a footnote in the history books, it would truly prove that every time you have it all figured out, the Universe (God) will hit you off with yet another dramatic sign that you don’t know shit! God, I wish I was 18 and knew everything again. Speaking of the cosmic flapping of butterfly wings, meaningful coincidences, synchronous events of harmony, or just dumb luck, you’ll be blown away by this one.
Of course you’ll all remember my self-proclaimed avant garde ex-alcoholic-hard drug abuser artist friend, Autumn Burroughs from the Hampshire days, who described her childhood as living in a dome in the woods, and raised by wild hippies (or wild wolves, I forget.) I’m sure we’re all equally scarred by her stalking techniques of calling me fives times day (early mornings, late nights,) showing up at our house at inopportune times (daily,) hunting me down on campus, seducing me at the bars with lines like, "I’ll do things to you that you’ve never imagined possible," grabbing my lovelies while I’m trying to mack other ladies and whispering, "These are spoken for," all while maintaining a serious relationship with a beefy frat boy already looking for a reason to beat on me. Although these stalking techniques suddenly sound quite arousing in hindsight, I’m quite sure there’s no reason to resurrect the intricacies of her shadowy, dark demeanor that made everyone uncomfortable by her mere presence. She had those alluring, long, tall, filthy features, in that catlike yet extremely sexy frame. I am now sure more then ever she is the incubus incarnate, and if I ever had sex with her she would spawn a demon-child.
Now that we’re all reacquainted... I just finished my gig spinning at the Baltic Room last Tuesday round about midnight, and I went over to the aro.space up on capital hill to catch a friend’s after-hours set. I roll in, down a few cocktails, cruise the crowd, say my what’s up to the usual spread of club kids, and make my way to the dance floor. I’m basically sober mind you. I’m watching my boy spin, when out of the corner of my eye (a cliche, yes, but true nonetheless) I see our favorite temptress working the dance floor hard, grinding her patented hippie-rave chick dance on E. Trust me when I tell you that at that moment I summoned every ounce of self-control in my body to put down my drink and just leave, but I’m weak, I just couldn’t do it. Reason #104 how I know she’s the devil in bell-bottoms. I discretely make my toward her without making eye contact, putting myself in the position for her to stumble into me. Before I know it, we’re embracing on the dance floor and shaking our things like we’ve been lovers since high school (reason #109.) She eventually leads me to the bar, where I buy her broke ass a few rounds (#203,) and she kicks me her rap with standard catchphrases like "...going to school out here," "New York is too much after awhile," "....conscious West coast vibes." When I finally realize what I’ve gotten myself into, I try to break out of there pronto before her hand on my knee turns into a razor claw that digs into my soul. I pull the good ol’ "I’m going to the bathroom, I’ll be back in a sec" move and bust out quick like she was five-0. The next morning, I get a frantic call from one of my boys who works the door at the aro.space that "Some crazy catwoman chick was frantically looking for you, saying she was an old friend or whateva. She gave me her numba and e-mail address to give to you, talking all fast like she was all spun out on some shit."
So that’s my tale, brothers. Again, I pose the question: cosmic flapping of butterfly wings? A meaningful coincidence? A synchronous event of harmony, or just dumb luck? Perhaps the most relevant question remains: why do I still keep her phone number tacked up on the corkboard? Reason #1.
The Chopster
"The other day, I hit off that 65 foot cliff-jump down by South Point without hesitation. I couldn’t even look down before I jumped -- otherwise I’d freak. I took a few steps back, busted a little run, and boom! I goofy-foot leaped a few feet past the jagged cliff and was in free-fall for a good long few seconds, and smack! I forgot to point my toes like an herb, so on impact, my feet felt like they were hitting concrete. The water is the same temperature as the air, and it’s that perfect bright turquoise shade. I mean, it’s like 20 feet of clear water and you’re staring the whole way through to the bottom, rocks and all, with like fluorescent tropical fish the size of small boats; reds, blues, yellows -- this glowing lemon yellow -- and black. The best part is that there’s this hanging ladder there to climb back on that the local fisherman hooked up for grabbing their nets. You hang off those things for a while and watch the waves breaking and the humpback pods playing in the distance. Right below the cliff is a sick underwater cave that you can peep and chill in. The whole deal, man, you what I’m saying. It’s definitely one of the primest spots on Earth."
"That reminds me of this 120 mile trek I did up in Denali."
"Alaska?"
"Yeah, like in the summer of 98’. Damn, was it that long ago? It’s definitely one of the kinder places on the planet. I went out with a solid seven man crew of high school friends. We walked about the first 30 miles in a dense evergreen valley, sloping down between 13, 000-foot snowcapped monsters right at the beginning of the Rockies. Grizzlies, elk, and moose everywhere man. You could feel that you were just a visitor on their land, you hear me? Then, we topped one glacier, trekked it, topped a second one and then peaked I think three mountains in all. We peaked those joints fully geared up. All roped into each other with ice axes, chiseling our way up to almost 14,000 feet. If you fucked up or lost focus, it wasn’t only your life that you were endangering, but your whole crew. If you freaked out up there you could take everyone out with you. It’s all about sheer presence and conviction. If you know you can hack it, then you will. If you hesitate or lose your shit out there, you’ll take everyone down with you. You really have to trust that crew, you what I’m saying? Not to mention carrying a couple weeks worth of food and gear with you. You learn a lot about your own capabilities and trust levels out there, like the real definition of trusting your boys with your life and not like a gangster. Know what I’m saying?"
Caleb sat, quietly refusing to partake in the ego brandishing of extreme travelers and backpackers each trying to show up one another with tales of extreme adventures and exotic places visited. Jeff, or El Jefe as he’s known in the Hilo circles, dished out the fresh juicy pieces of Ahi fish (Hawaiian yellow fin tuna, which is the fastest fish in the world reaching speed upwards of 70 mph,) straight off the BBQ grill. "Wyatt over here caught this beautiful nine-pounder late this afternoon, so let’s have a moment of gratitude and respect for the ocean for providing us with a gift from her womb and this phatty meal." Jefe, the house cook, grilled the fish hot on the BBQ marinated in a miso garlic, cilantro, lemon juice, and ginger sauce with a light coating of olive oil and a dash of salt and pepper. He served the Ahi with an organic green salad and a cumin lentil dish stewed with tomatoes, basil, and more garlic.
Caleb sat quietly at the circular table fiddling with his chopsticks, slow sipping the Merlot, intently watching Jefe fill the plates with what he’s been needing for a few days: a good hot meal. Aside from the fish, the food was provided for by EBT (Electronic Benefits Transfer, Eat Better Today, The Hawaiian Credit Card,) or simply food stamps. Whether shopping at the natural foods store, the Sack n’ Save Supermarket, or 7-11, over half the population of the Big Island are fed by EBT, the Hawaiian Island’s version of food stamps. Essentially, the state government will give EBT to anyone, and reciprocally most people are more than glad to oblige. Because life is easy tropics, many take the next logical step to not work altogether, leaving time for more noble and rewarding pursuits like the surf, sailing, cliff jumping, snorkeling, mountain biking, hiking volcanoes, reading, art, and generally living life without hesitation.
A large communal dinner was always a focal point of the high-low boys’ evening. No matter what their respective days entailed — whether it be farming, coffee bean picking, lava rock wall building, surfing, writing, painting -- they would eat together and not necessarily share the sum of their days, but simply share the present time together. When they remembered and there was enough food, they would rotate duties from prep work to cleaning, with Jefe usually doing the bulk of the cooking. No one wore shirts, ever. Possibly from coincidence or from the nature of being constantly in the sun, or more likely both, each of them was in fairly good shape with a defined six pack of abdomen muscles, strong chest pectorals, and tight biceps. They were all well tanned from the equator’s sun, most with bleach blonde hair from the daily star draining away all other colors. "Whoa, that thing is huge man," Caleb remarked, disgusted, as he watched the playing card size amber cockroach rifle its way through the fish scrapings in the garbage. The other boys played scant attention, silently devouring the remnants of their plates. "My big ass cat Rocky is smaller than that thing. That’s bigger then a rat man."
"Wait ‘till you meet the geckos," snickered Wyatt in his Alaskan twang, while chewing loudly with an open mouth.
"You’ll get used to them," reassured Jefe. ‘So what’s up with Waipi’o this weekend? Everyone is still down I assume, boards and all."
"No doubt baby!" Davis spoke for the first time in the evening. "I’ve been waxing my baby for this full moon surf all month along."
"Hey, Caleb, you could score my extra board and we’ll all be good to go."
As Jefe cleared the last drips of the steaming coffee over the raw sugar in the mugs, Davis started upon on the dishes while Wyatt and Caleb retired to the domino table and chairs on the lanai. "We got no milk, so you kids will just have to deal." Jefe spread the mugs around the domino table and sat with his legs crossed lotus style on the floor, joining his hands in a pious grasp in his lap.
"This coffee is dope!"
"100% Kona pure from the leeward side, baby," added Davis.
"So what’s up with this Waipi’o joint? I hear some buckwild haole hunting stories and what not. Is it a legit trail or some wild bushwacking type journey?"
"Waipi’o,’ Jefe reassured, "is one of the most powerful spots on this island. In Hawaiian, it means curving water, and is known by the locals as the Valley of the Kings. In ancient times, it was the political and religious hub of the Big Island and the home of King Kamehameha the Great, who is said to have received his fearsome war God Kukailimoku there."
"Coco-illa-who?"
"The war God Kuka-ili-moku. Kamehameha is the pioneer surfer and basically a prophet for all Hawaiians. Similar to what Handsome Lake did by creating the League of Iroquois to unify the five tribes back in New York, Kamehameha merged the monarchies of the five major islands under his leadership and created the first unified Hawaii nation. Waipi’o reached over 10,000 inhabitants at its climax until it was destroyed by a massive tsunami that decimated the entire settlement. Most people have moved topside since. Waipi’o is name of the largest and southernmost green lush amphitheater valleys on the windward side of the Kohala mountains. The whole joint is a mile wide and six deep. It’s a beautiful mix of tangled jungle, flowers, taro, and the longest waterfalls you’ve ever drunk from. At the very bottom is the pinnacle, a black sand beach that is home to the nicest and most consistent eight-foot peaks, perfect breaks, and consistent swells on the island. Man, when that full moon is blazing, the wave sets are incredible. I’ve surfed all the islands, and I’m telling you, this place is the sweetest and most discreet on all the islands."
"I haven’t really done all that much surfing since last summer in Cali, and I can only assume the Hawaiian breaks are a little more intense than what I’m used to," he mentioned with more concern than he let on.
"Don’t even sweat that. You’ll have the choke runs. Even though Waipi’o is kind of open for tourism, some local cats still live in thick bush and fish the waters and hunt some game. They’re not all that psyched about the haoles treading on their land that’s kapu, which means taboo and is sacred code for the old school Hawaiian social scene. They take that shit real seriously, man, and some kids get messed up or taken forever by the waves if you hear me. So if a place is marked kapu stay the fuck out. You’ll be hearing that more the longer you stick around."
"Great," Caleb answered with more than a hint of sarcasm.
"No worries brah. We are four deep and know the place well. It’ll be all good. Plus, Hawaii is mainly Tongans, Filipinos, and hapas posing as local Hawaiians talking the pidgin."
"What about the cops around here? They don’t have these sort of things on lock down?"
"The cops? The heat on the big isle are the best racket going. They drive the best cars, and even get a fat stipend to pick out their own cruiser."
"Yeah, I saw pig driving around in an unmarked Pathfinder with just a blue light on top. Doesn’t the car even have to be American?"
"Nope. Plus, they get all the best buds by robbing all the growers at the peak of harvest season. You have to be someone’s ‘cuz just to get the job, brah. It’s basically like a state run mob; if you don’t get in their way they won’t get in yours. That’s enough local flavor for tonight. We got a serious day ahead tomorrow. Besides, you’ll get burned with culture shock if you try to take it all down too quick."
"Too late, man."
"Hey, tell ‘em about the cock-fighting tournaments."
"I think he’s heard enough. Look, I know we’re a long way from Hampshire, but all the same basic rules apply: Never play cards with guys named after states or trust a chick with a tattoo of a dagger."
Still not fully recovered from his jetlag, Caleb’s bones felt the urge to call it a night and rest up for his surfing expedition tomorrow. He gathered up his loyal sleeping bag and mattress pad, and cuddled up on the far end of the Lanai under the shadow of the surfboards, sedated by the sounds of wave crashing.
"Get some rest, brah. Tomorrow is a big day." Everyone was crashed out on the couches in the living room and in the bedrooms. Jefe lit a fat spliff from his shirt pocket, letting the breeze ruffle through his open aloha shirt, and watched the waves break to the soft wheeze of Caleb’s snoring. "Tomorrow is a big day," he repeated to himself.
She could feel the light, windy air of anticipation exude from Caleb’s breath, and felt his dreams resonate anxiety like thick trails of tobacco smoke rising, circling like encoded messages from the crushed roach in the ashtray. She knew he would be riding her gentle frame on the full moon run tomorrow night, and wished she could sooth him with soft words or warm him with reassuring caresses. It had been a long time since she had rode the full moon breaks at Waipi’o, and she knew with a novice California wave rider, it would be an adventure, to say the least.
Despite her profound concern for him, she was neither worried nor concerned about tomorrow’s journey to the black sands. More than anything, she was stoked to ride again. It had been too long since she had felt the warm blood of the ocean wash over her fiberglass flesh and penetrate her aging soul with the rejuvenating potion of saltwater. The transcendence she felt hugging the curl tightly with her fins, riding the moon’s tide with her flawless grace, shaped perfectly to meld with the fluid curve of the ocean’s turbulent moods. Like the surfers, she was there neither to tame nor enjoy, but to pay reverence to the ocean’s liquid manifestation of the cyclic waves of eternity. Riding waves was a confluence of her love, purpose, and religion intertwined into an idiosyncratic, yet collective, understanding of the truly divine trinity.
She dearly yearned to be able to speak and reassure him "Don’t worry, Caleb. Everything will be beautiful. Bring me to the surf and I’ll take care of everything else. Sleep now. Tomorrow will be beautiful."
Greeting brothers, from the Dark Paradise. Dark because: I’m still sleeping on the proverbial couch. plucking the needle black quills of a sea anemone from the soles of my feet, and wiping out harder and gnarlier in the unforgiving reef than I’ve ever spilled. I still have not evaded nor answered the lingering issues or questions I’ve brought along with me from the mainland. I still remain an island unto itself. Paradise because: I’m crashing out on a lanai (Hawaiian balcony) that overlooks the warm bath water of the Pacific Ocean; swimming & surfing in the most lucid and replenishing turquoise waters bustling with tropical marine life that pushes the farthest end of vibrancy on the color spectrum’s range of intensity; learning to surf ‘da big kine’ waves with breaks and barrels so pristine that you feel you’re living out Wingnut’s fantasy from The Endless Summer, indulging in the surplus of space & time (mentally & physicalyl) to internally debate ego issues and drudge out repressed old tires from the murky waters of unconscious seas; living with perennial drifters who feed me the kindest ono grinds (good food,) fresh from the ocean. Even in Eden the dualities are inescapable. What would I give for a 3rd party candidate?
I live the transient lifestyle, and I’ve lived in hipster drifter/college towns, but as far as haoles (whiteys) go, this whole state is comprised of transients. On this island in particular (that’s still growing in every sense of the word mind you,) everyone is either just arriving from someplace (Alaska, Samoa, Seattle, Tonga, Colorado, Texas, St. Louis, Idaho, Montana, NYC,) or on their way to someplace (Alaska, Samoa, Seattle, Tonga, Colorado, Texas, St. Louis, Idaho, Montana, NYC.) No one has roots, although the New Agers call the big isle the heart chakra of the four islands. No haoles have a real grasp of home here, but only the lowdown and the best way to get by with minimal effort. Not minimal effort in the Taoist sense of the sage managing affairs without action, but in the sponge/capitalist sense of maxing out all your most accessible resources until they’re spent, and then moving on to leech off the next host’s resources.
It’s like all the drifter kids and old school transients here (and possibly everywhere) have mastered the Art of Rationalization: a pre-conscious art form, popularized in Western culture, that is defined as the complex spinning of densely layered illusions, packed so tightly that lifetimes of digging and scraping would never reveal a crisp reality beneath the sedimented folds of attainable dreams never pursued, false securities, insincere justifications -- all served on top of a large dose of life without purpose. It’s like convincing yourself of clear vision through frosted kaleidoscope lenses. They’ve polluted my romantic perception of transient couch culture by imposing a ‘real world’ set of values on it. The very act of convincing yourself that this is better than the straight world, and that you’re pulling one over on the suits in the rat race who slave away for their house and fancy car, is in fact, defining yourself as a loser in the discourse of the dominant ideology.
I’m fully aware that I’m speaking as a drifter kid going to an Ivy League law school in the Fall with an actual plan that is probably just jealous of their apathy, and not some plan that is basically a glorified extension of an intrinsically ephemeral drifter-lifestyle. (Assuming, of course, that as mammals, we inevitably seek the comforts of stability like an abundant food supply, warm shelter, social and familial bonds, and some form of financial security; although mad drifters will Rationalize otherwise.) Being that everyone talks of eventually settling down, while setting themselves up for perpetual poverty, you’ve got to wonder about the thought process going on with these kids. Maybe it’s just my undergrad degree talking, but get educated, find your passion (besides loafing in beautiful places,) and make it happen, instead of always talking about it. If I heard just once, just once that, "I am truly happy here" or "Man, I can go on living like this forever," I would shut my self-righteous trap and let everyone do their own thing. BUT, every drifter I’ve ever known in one mode or another expresses a desire for something around the block that’s better and more stable, yet they always slink along the same path over and over again. Maybe it’s the old case of looking for paradise in the home across the road (it’s Dylan by the way, Alaster,) or the looming reality of law school, but I can’t help feeling like Holden C. in The Catcher in the Rye, trying to keep the children from falling off the cliffs, or cliff jumping for that matter. Scratch everything I just said, it’s probably just an educated Rationalization from a kid duped into going to law school. Me, a lawyer? Go figure. At least I’ll get the chance to finally do some good. I guess in the celestial struggle between reality and romance, reality is the more malleable and easier to bend. You guys do realize these e-mails are as much for ourselves as they are for each other, right?
Mr. Portchnick, no matter what the parental units think, we both know this is a classic case of little brother syndrome trying to Rationalize his cake and munch on it too. You know, the responsible and careful spender, the one prioritizes who his time and cash efficiently, suffering in the short term for the greater pleasure in the long run. Functioning in strict opposition is the high roller Big Brother syndrome: looking for instant gratification, the newest toys, accompanied by a taste for the finer things in life you could feel but can’t touch. Cough, cough. Okay, that brings my self-righteous tirade to a close.
Let me finish this off on the metaphysical tip that I know you cats like to talk too much about. I think I might have worked out a compromise between Al’s religion, Chop’s individualism, and my skepticism. I live life as type of organization and activity, not as a separate intangible entity or substance. There is a passable gulf between the living and the non-living, either in evolutionary history or in present form. If the world (and throw in the Universe for good measure) is an all-encompassing organism, an integral whole with a defined hierarchy of organization and activity, there are definite distinctions that could be made between entities that define them as individual. In the universal framework, there are parts that can be identified, conceptualized, and related to one another through their roles in the functionality of the greater process. BUT, the functions are fulfilled only through the interaction of the parts. Therefore, we’re individuals, yeah brah, but also we’re also cells in the greater whole at the same time. See, different but the same. Individual and whole, definitely, but spiritual? That’s more of a personal question that everyone’s got to answer on their own.
Soon, me and the slacker drifter posse will hitch up with the first pick-up truck that pulls over and jump off the end of the world and surf full moon breaks, though not necessarily in that order. Oh, how quickly sanity can slip from the grasp of slick hands and faster tongues.
!!!!ALOHA!!!!
-The Sea Dogg-
The moon was complete. The newspapers might have called the moon full yesterday or possibly tomorrow, but her watery wax and wane is difficult to funnel into a single day, hour, or into the flickering of a moment. Full or new, her meticulous cycle spins on a magnetic axis that swells and pulses the tides, revolving and anchoring the precious cycles of ovulation. Glowing a soothing celestial light that mechanically tips and sways from fantastic to mundane, humming an ancient spherical hymn of harmony, she was consuming the night sky with her gentle radiance. The moon was complete.
Sometimes, his pretentious intellectual elitism even disgusted himself. His style, intonations, mannerisms, interests -- they were all just so oppressively... French. His loyalty to anything imported from France bordered on the obsessive. From the awkward charisma of Serge Gainesbourg’s half-shaven, cigarette dangling, exposed chest hair, rive gauche, vino sipping, musical style, to even the simple smell of an alluringly rich warm cafe au lait (he disdained the aroma of NYC bodega coffee,) the Coffee Table was convinced of the culture’s own self-perpetuated myth of French superiority. He sided with France in their unpopular UN positions, favored Hemmingway’s Moveable Feast and Gertrude Stein influenced years, and even celebrated Bastille Day on the 14th of July. utterly indifferent to America’s own Independence Day on the 4th.
Perhaps most irritating was the table’s insatiable intrigue with French philosophy, ranging from the subjectivity of Sartre to the dry phemenonology of Merleau-Ponty. Always updated on the current philosophical trends, the table was well versed on the contemporary fashion of semiotics and cultural studies in European academia. His favorite and defining quote was a number he heard Alaster once mention in passing, which was a classic de-contextualization of Foucault (naturally,) "As an archeology of our thought (implying humans not coffee tables he would of course remind you,) easily shows man as an invention of recent date. And perhaps one reaching its end." It maintained a certain je ne sais crois that always stuck with him.
"How did you score these tickets for tonight, anyway gorgeous?"
"Just because you’ve grown accustomed to my feminine wiles, doesn’t mean they faded away baby," she flirted with her eyes. He grabbed her low on the waist with both hands, rubbing the firm of her lower back through the thin, silky film of her long ,sable dress.
"A thong huh?" She could only respond with her naughty girl smile. He pulled her hard toward him, pressing her waist against his. The starch black of his tuxedo matched the black of her dress and hair, melding the contour of their thinly pressed bodies into a single, inky black frame.
He spoke lightly in her ear, "I would never underestimate the pull of your sex appeal, cutie. Dance with me, darling." He glided their bodies above the oak floor, never having all four feet connect simultaneously with the ground. The empty bottle of Merlot was an inexpensive vintage from the Finger Lakes (much to the chagrin of the Coffee Table.) Their empty glasses lay tainted and scattered on the floor. The ashtray was brimming with half spent butts, broken and bent into odd positions that appeared like worn down pencils, awkwardly contorted in a glass of water. The speakers saturated the room with a third spin of The Birth of Cool, which had been playing on repeat for several hours.
He struggled to maintain composure, physically refraining himself from pulling her dress over her head in a single sweep and making love to her right there as they swayed, intertwined, in dance. He rationalized lightly. "You got those tickets from the Mendelsohns, your parent’s friends from Connecticut," he whispered as he dipped her long, arching her back high over his arm.
"Nope," she whispered confidently. "I had to sleep with Mr. Guggenheim himself for these tickets."
"That’s dedication Breeze. He must be getting pretty old by now darling."
"Well, that only goes to show how much I love you. Doing the nasty with a smelly, wrinkled up old man, just to get my love tickets to the opening of his precious Dead Sea Tablet exhibit. See how much I love you?"
"He didn’t find this spot behind your ear, did he?" He mumbled, nibbling beneath the lobe of her left ear. "Or that the tickets came in an envelope marked Mendelsohns in bold calligraphy?"
"No fair, you cheat," she giggled pushing herself away from him with both hands on his chest, still allowing herself to be gripped by the waist. "How come your world famous parents couldn’t get you tickets, mister private detective?" She needled in an irresistible adolescent voice, running her fingertips in circles on the back if his neck.
"They’re big time now. They don’t have time for small fish like me no more. Besides, what do I keep you around for?"
"Well, that one I can answer: to keep you grounded here on Earth and not in that stupid computer, to keep your brooding moods and hyper-reflexivity in check; to remind you that life and love is lived here with me and not in those books; to make you feel emotions that you try to hide; to bring out that romantic, caring, protective side you didn’t know existed; to make love with, to feed, to drink wine and dance with; to walk in the sunlight or to stroll in the woods with; handholding, skinny-dipping, movies, good conversation; for someone to feed you soup when you’re sick; for someone to impress or be unconditionally free around, for warmth under the covers; for a partner to share with; a muse, someone who has a spare smoke, an antagonist, a best friend, a chess partner; for someone to confess to, someone to miss when I’m gone for the day; for a reason to get out of bed each morning..."
"Oh, they are wonderful to watch sometimes," noted the Coffee Table with a sigh. "Oui, oui l’amour. La jeune, ils sont la fleur de la vie n’est-ce pas? Pourqui? Parce que la lune, le soliel, et l’etoiles. Oh, it is a lonely life as philosopher-table sometimes. I am curious about their impression of the Dead Sea Tablet. Zut alors! I would love to see that tablet for myself, instead of remaining here with empty domestic wine bottles and the sweeping hum of late night traffic. They’ll come back even happier and lovelier, forcing me to watch them make passionate love on the couch. The preciousness of youth: they lack even the patience to copulate in the bedroom like any other self-respecting couple. Je pense que c’est la passion d’amour, what am I but a mere coffee table to crave such a wonderful unison of thought and corporeal desire?"
He repeated the marimba beat on the drum to the crackling dance of the fire. Enticing and feeding it with primal rhythms that spoke in the heat of the flame, Choppy’s mind grew calm as the foaming crash of the whitecap waves broke on the shore below. Nestled among the towering old growth of Cedar, Hemlock, and Douglas Fir trees that fringe the cliffs overlooking the welded joint where the land meets the sea -- where smashing waves chip away the reef and crumbling wilderness -- where with the violent shorebreaks of Rialto Beach reveal and recede with the pace of the tide -- Choppy beat his drum. The beer and neat whiskey drinks quieted Shadrach, and although he would never admit it, he was humbled by the call of the drum and the immediate presence it inflicted upon him.
It was an unseasonably mild night at the peninsula, at least, within embers distance of the fire. All of their backcountry duties were completed: the tent was pitched, the food and trash were hung 15 feet above them on a sturdy Western Spruce branch. They filtered enough water for drinking and cooking up some hot oatmeal in the morning. Their down sleeping bags awaited them in the tent, fluffed and unraveled, relaxing like content fattened earthworms, dormant for the night.
The entire Olympic Peninsula was illuminated like Yankee stadium during the pennant race. The light of the whole moon reflected a soft blue iridescence on the sleepy side of the globe, flooding the Olympics with a second-generation stream of sunlight that traveled a moment longer than the usual eight-second journey. Shadrach stared blankly at the withering stars on the fray of the horizon, and pondered the side of the moon that he couldn’t see. The galaxy and celestial lights were dimmed to background noise in the company of the radiant, cratered hunk of rock revolving around the Earth. The waves swelled and crumbled erratically like unwatched children left to run wild.
Choppy pounded and pounded effortlessly, the meat of his palms striking and bouncing high off the rawhide skin of the drum. His eyes remained fixed with the glassy gaze of looking without looking, inverting his vision within to sneak a glimmer of himself and the dark enigma. He was no longer aware of the beautifully syncopated rhythms composed by the roll of his hands. His mind roamed the glassy dome of the bright night sky, goading the cosmos to come out and play. Shadrach found himself lost in the methodical maze of the beat, which had temporarily muted the endless chatter of his overbearing inner monologue that was usually too unruly to remain silent. They had set up camp far off the trail, bushwhacking their way to the tree lined rugged cliffs that draped over Rialto Beach. The erratic rumble of the waves played the progressive harmony to the backbone of Choppy’s steady beat. Both of their necks rocked and swayed to the drumming pulse, like flowers stretching to feed on the nourishment of the sun. Even the moon seemed to be nodding in sync to the drum. The baseline heart rate for fetal infants is somewhere between 90 and 140 beats per minute through the liquid speakers of the amniotic sack. The primordial call of the drum crawled within the soul of the land, moon, waves, and the boys, calling to its children, "Leave your things behind I’ve come to take you home."
"The art of Waipi’o during the full moon is navigating the trail without flashlights."
"Yeah and four-wheeler wouldn’t hurt either."
They overslept, slothed around the pad, coffee in hand, packed their gear last minute, had to split up to hitch up-island, and didn’t make it to the trailhead until well after sundown. Caleb struggled to keep the longboard tucked tight in the crux of his armpit, while holding his pack steady on his shoulders. A cursory glance of the trail looks like a near impossible feat. He contemplated carrying a longboard down 75º muddy slants and across tangled roots and dense foliage. But once he began the descent, he let his feet shuffle themselves along the well-worn path, with the momentum of gravity taking the brunt of the load.
The beaming glow of the moon lit the glen in its majestic splendor, igniting the ancient gorge with a candle lit penumbra that was still crisp enough to discern the dank foliage of the mountainsides that were infested with Lillikoi, Noni, Papaya, Mangroves, and Ironwood trees. The black sand acquired a more tattered gray hue in the nocturnal light, slicked and hardened by the creeping watermark of high tide.
Jefe led the pilgrimage swiftly with long, bold steps, cutting sharp around trees, switchbacking through the cliffside with the knowing familiarity of a local on their way home from a long day’s work. Caleb lagged a few meters behind the crew, pausing often and looking around, trying to ingest the raw whirlwind of energy encompassing him. He held the longboard with the firm clench of a child gripping their favorite blanket during a fierce thunderstorm, feeling the residue of her wax soften and stick to the skin under his forearm. "Alright, Caleb honey. It’s show time," she kept repeating like a mantra. She spoke silent hymns of encouragement and confidence to sooth both her and Caleb’s intuitive sense of fear and impending dread.
By the time Caleb reached the beach, the boys had already begun gathering wood for the bonfire and waxing up their boards. "First, we surf, then we blaze." Jefe squatted barefoot in the sand with his board erect, standing staunchly beside him like a Spartan horse pricked for battle. He gazed stoically at the swells and breaks, silently calculating their timing, position, and patterns. He was joined by the rest of the crew that convened around him like disciples gathered around their messiah, sharing his clairvoyant knowledge about how to lace yourself into the liquid mix of the waves. The waves rose and collapsed hard and high into 8 to 12 foot peaks that formed perfect barrels, curling and toppling with an aquatic symmetry along the mile stretch of caviar beach.
Jefe crashed the silence making no eye contact with anyone when speaking to Caleb. "See the breaks fifteen feet out there? That’s where the coral reef ends. You don’t want to wipe over it, it gets gnarly up in there. If you’re going to spill, just turn back into the wave, slip out under the curl, and you’ll be cool. If not..."
"Then splat!"
"Settle down, Wyatt. And yo, don’t lose track of those rocks right there on the shore to the right. The riptides will pull you right into them..."
"Then splat!"
"Shut the fuck up Wyatt!" He again spoke with the solemn tone of a pious man with focus, and a penetrating reverence for the ocean and the place they where about to take in it. "The moon reflects brightly on the water, so you should be able to see relatively clearly once we’re out there. If you, or anyone for that matter, see fins, shout it out. Sharks usually feed at night, but it’s usually pretty mellow around here."
"Usually," Wyatt smirked. Swimming in the ocean at night, the thundering roar of the waves, the serious tone in Jefe’s speech, coupled with Wyatt’s goading, all made Caleb way more nervous than he should have been. His only thoughts were to get it over with and pray for the best.
Alaster held the door to the cab open, offering his free hand to Bree, who adjusted the slit of her skirt over both knees before graciously accepting his hand with a full body smile. "We’re late, Madame Mendelsohn, very late."
"Oh, I do hope there’s still some wine and cheese left. I’m simply famished."
"You know what I could really use?"
"Coffee!" They both conceded. Sweeping in the stark white-spiraled building with a celebrity poise that matched and mocked the academic pseudo-stars and professional socialites, which composed much of the guest list, Bree flashed their invitations to the skeptical museum guard at the door, who eyed both the invitations and their owners with a careful scrutiny that scoured his subjects from text to skin. The concierge’s smug self-importance was typical of the aura of civil pretentiousness common to most librarians, government clerks, and museum officials who take their jobs as seriously as the work they are entrusted to protect.
"Thank you, and please follow the ramp on your right to the top floor. Unfortunately, the elevator is closed for insurance purposes."
"Thanks a bunch doll face," he replied in a patronizing tone that he reserved for obnoxious cashiers and counterpeople who felt they had done him a great service by simply doing their job. Alaster gave Bree a sarcastic smirk "Great, top floor and no elevator. Remind me to thank Frankie-boy for the walk."
Barely containing her inebriated giggles while she spoke, "Of course, my darling. Mental note: Channel Mr. Wright first thing tomorrow and scold him for constructing a museum that hangs modern art in a giant slinky." They had walked the Guggenheim’s corkscrew ramp regularly, which Caleb once described as "the phattest skate park in the city." They walked hand in hand, tuxedo and black dress, yin and yang, around and up toward the flat-ribbed, glass dome that capped the continuous spatial helix of the building. The dome was gleamed with moonlight from the completed moon above, shimmering the crowd and the sounds of a bustling formal gathering below in a pool of soft primordial light. The pianist and bassist rambled through the standards, while black gowns and penguin suits drank champagne and danced around the tablet that played center stage. The pre-millennium stone was meagerly guarded by a square of purple velvet robes, a hanging halogen bulb, and a pair of clumsy security guards. It was to be the tablet’s last unobstructed viewing before concealing it in an airtight glass encasement to ensure its preservation and security.
They assessed the room, still breathing hard from their circular climb, still tipsy from the wine bottles they had sucked down not to long ago. "Can we smoke in here?"
"I would venture to guess, definitely not." There were fewer people than they had expected, possibly a few hundred, but the room was kinetic with energy and celestial radiation. The crowd was a homogenized mix of artists, journalists, philanthropists, politicians, trust fund babies, and the social elite sucking down glasses of Moet and martini, making trysts, while exchanging praises and social platitudes.
"It’s almost a socialist ideal, you know -- the tuxedo. It takes people from all walks of life, from waiters to wealthy republicans, and it makes them all look the same. I’m not sure if it’s more sad than it is beautiful." Bree led him through the crowd, past the tables of hor d’oeuvres and confections to the tall silver canisters of hot water and bad coffee. Her walk drew the gaze of several drunk congressmen lingering close to the bar, discussing the public’s best interest. She began the methodical coffee construction process for both of them. Two teaspoons of sugar (rounded for Alaster) at the base of each glass mug, unleash the diluted domestic blend over the granules, stir to ensure complete absorption, compliment with a small curl of milk, and stir again. Alaster relieved her of a mug and sipped it gingerly as if it had it just been boiled.
"Thank you, darling. Shall we?" He asked, extending his left arm. Bree rotated her mug to her other hand, slipping her naked arm into his side. They walked hand in hand, matching their steps into single pace, clicking a happy cadence with the shuffle of their shoes. The bulb hung low over the tablet like a solemn candle, covering the tablet with a dry, yet vibrant luminescence. When they got close to the center, Alaster rushed to the velvet barrier, leaning over it deep from the waist, pushing his face within spitting distance of the engraved stone. Bree leaned lightly over his back, peering in over his shoulder. The detailed lettering, the solid integrity of the rock, the fresh vibrancy of the texture, the light shades, the dynamism of youth and life that it exuded was nearly tangible.
"You could’ve told me that it’s a couple years old and I still would believe you. It just looks so... Alive." The guards stumbled to attention upon the sight of the young couple leaning overtly close to the table, coffee in hand, and kindly responded, "Sir, ma’am, can I ask you to please keep all food and beverages at least ten feet away from the stone? Thank you."
"Oh, sure. I’m sorry," Alaster instantly replied. Slightly embarrassed and caught off guard, he quickly spun around and landed an elbow directly into Bree’s shoulder, spilling the contents of her nearly full mug into the air, over the ropes, and into the form of a sloppy puddle of warm bean juice that marked a striking resemblance to the state of New Jersey, on the tablet’s surface.
Precisely as Choppy smacked the last measure of the beat, the ground beneath them grumbled and growled with the ferociousness of a hungry giant. The waves grew to tsunami heights, spitting their guts onto the rocks and the quickly decaying mountainside. The trees swung like inverted pendulums, bumping each other with the haphazard clumsiness of punk rock kids moshing at a hardcore show, wildly pushing up on one another violently from root to branch. Choppy and Shad were thrown to the dirt in a single snapping jerk of land, laying them face down beside the shattered fire.
The edges of the cliff stumbled over one another, folding into clean sheets of earth tumbling to the sea. They crawled their way, knees and nails on all fours, away from the collapsing cliff, reaching for branches, rocks -- anything to hold them sturdy. The earth beneath the toppling tent gave way, dropping the entire campsite to the ocean shore with the speed of an elevator that had its suspension cord slit. A surge of adrenaline fuelled their already taut survival instinct, pushing them frantically into the solace of the trees. As the sum of their Universe climaxed in an unsuspected unfolding of curious circumstance, there was sudden silence.
The Earth was quieted, the waves reluctantly retreated, and the cliff eventually subsided and began to regain its integrity and composure. Choppy and Shadrach found themselves on opposite ends of a profoundly entrenched boulder, clasping its grooves with fingertips, calling for one another -- calling for anything -- searching for some symbol of resolution in the gloomy silence that follows chaos.
Choppy and Shadrach clawed their way up and eventually met on the flat peak of the boulder. "You alright, Shad?" he uttered, eyeing the ground below with a new stare that questioned the loyalty of the Earth to stability, while blood patiently leaked from the fresh cut above his eye.
"Yeah, I’m alright. Spilt my drink, though." Shad grimaced in pain, searching his body for the source of the burning pain that filled every crevice of his body with an overwhelming warmth and sluggish burn. He couldn’t explain why, but Choppy wasn’t surprised when he turned to Shad, torn, bloodied, his ankle twisted back nearly 45 degrees from the outside.
"Actually, this ankle here stings a bit," he let out trying not to erupt within the roars of his pure, piercing pain, sedated only by the tranquilizing effects of shock. Watching Shad’s limp bone pierce through his skin, actively dangling like a live wire, Choppy struggled to hold back his vomit that had reached the upward canals of his trachea. The moon offered enough light atop the boulder, giving Choppy ample light to work on dressing the festering wound.
He shred his shirt lengthwise into strip bandages, and collected a parallel pair of thick branches, roughly the length of Shad’s tibia. Choppy fumbled through his pockets, grabbed his wallet, and stuck it carefully between Shad’s clattering teeth.
"Here, bite down on this. This might sting a little at first." Placing the sticks on the inner and outer lengths of his protruding bone, he wrapped the flannel strands firmly around the circumference of his leg, cringing to the occasional crack of branch and straightening bone. Shad remained amazingly silent, even as Choppy grabbed his flaccid foot, gently with both hands, bringing it back to a stable resting position.
"How you holding up partner?"
"Been better." Propping Shad up against a rock, he laid his fleece across the wounded leg, elevating it slightly on top of a small rock. "Chill here for minute. I’m going to peep what’s left of our gear and food. I’ll be right back."
"Trust me, I ain’t going nowhere," he grumbled.
He scrambled down the boulder facing the rock, blindly feeling for footholds with each step. The cliff was a lot closer than it was just a few minutes ago, leaving Choppy a shorter path to the new cliff line. His neck and back ached, and his bones began to feel sore to the marrow. He scoped his own body with his senses, looking, feeling, listening to nerve signals of pain that adrenaline has been known stifle in an unsuspecting victim. Confident in his own abused yet relatively functional condition Choppy proceeded gingerly to the jagged rim of the cliff.
He dropped to his knees and lowered himself to ground, carefully gripping the edge of the cliff with both hands, pulling his head out and over with the meticulous extension of a turtle. Peering over with eyes wide and glassy like a child looking for monsters under the bed, he saw the most magnificent prism of light refracting from a breathing stone that hummed the most phenomenal of melodies. It was another fragment · fractal of the original Helix table shining along with the glow of the moon, resting on the rocks below, as if waiting to be welcomed home from a long journey. The light and sound of the Helix table hypnotized Choppy into a catatonic glare of fear and reverence -- fear of it’s torrential emergence from the water and reverence for the sheer organic power its presence commanded.
Caleb was the last to paddle out. The rip tides were hungry, relentlessly attacking and gnawing in ankle deep waters, tugging feet, igneous sand and shells into the chaotic vortex of battling whitewash, algae covered boulders, and the dark waters of the Pacific’s rugged outback. He watched the High Low boys skim across the boiling fat of the murky white soup, forcing the board’s nose low with hand and knees, piercing the finest layer of the climaxing wave and shooting through the curl to reappear on back side, wet and unscathed. He watched them float effortlessly toward the distant breaks, intent and focused, brave and scared, playful and courageous.
Caleb envied their skill and confidence to an extent, but it filtered through him with his own brand of audacity and confidence. If they were capable, he was capable. He had lived his life under the pretense that what any person could accomplish through mind and body, all other people were equally capable of the same feats. Siphoning his will from the boy’s glistening confidence to shake his feet from their sandy tomb and jump in, Caleb smacked his board loudly on the water’s malleable skin and began to paddle full speed into the moonlight.
The water was particularly incandescent, mirroring vividly the reflected sunlight from the moon. The waves awoke to a frenzied rush of high tide, asserting all of their chaotic power as a ceremonious offering to gravity and to the passing of the lunar month. Caleb duck-dove his first wave, nearly catching the leash of a cutting Wyatt carving his path along the first captured wave of the night. Wyatt leaned back deep, feeling the liquid wall form and collapse behind him with the backside of hand. Slicing high off the crest and then backing jaggedly into the curl, Wyatt tucked tight into the muddy and toppling tube and was lost into the crash of a once elegantly shaped ocean ripple, emulated by seashells and galaxies.
Jefe and Davis soon followed, catching the next significantly larger wave in tandem, each breaking in the opposite direction off the high curl. Davis caught the short side of the tube, bailing early on the ride back toward the incoming swells. The first ride on a foreign beach for a surfer is the trickiest. On the first run, a surfer tries decipher the idiosyncratic quirks of each new swell’s patterns and habits. It’s like making love with someone you love for the first time: it may be initially awkward, but through the dynamics of some intimate interaction, everything falls into place or collapses beyond repair.
Although all breaks and swells are fundamentally the same (like men and women,) the shape, size, emotion, and an infinite number of other trace factors create an individual personality to each beach (and person’s) total psyche. Caleb knew his turn to run the breaks was next, and he had his pick of the crop in the next swell to roll in on. He waited patiently, straddling the board by her center, dangling his legs in the dark waters below. His favorite times surfing had always been the moments between waves, sitting calmly on the board absorbing the sun, marinating in the saltwater, feeling the undulating bounce of the water rhythmically swaying him up and down to the swing of an aquatic beat. It was the serenity of merging with the wave, vibing off its primordial energy, the fluidity of sliding along within the ocean and moon’s synergy that he loved. The actual thrill and adrenaline rush of big wave riding or night surfing was not as appealing.
Snapping him back into focus from an almost hypnotic daze, Caleb eyed down the first monster of the next swell to roll in. No one spoke, but they all threw Caleb uncomfortable glances, silently nudging him to join the club. He inhaled a deep breath of the dry night air, dropped his chest to the board, and paddled hard with clean strokes into the emerging lip surfacing from the water. His smooth form and directly tacked route into the cusp of the break masked the overwhelming mix of apprehension and excitement rushing the dials of his sympathetic nervous system. Before he even pulled himself up to a standing crouch on the waxy sweet spot of the board, Caleb knew it was the biggest wave he had ever caught. He didn’t freeze or tense his muscles, he curled his toes and just rode. He was cruising humbly without the flashy maneuvers the other boys had so skillfully executed.
He began to feel comfortable riding the back of an untamed beast, lowering his crouch to enter the tube. He timed it perfectly, sliding into the tight confines of a complete barrel. He glimpsed back to the outside of the wave and then looked forward directly into the path of an enormous shining white stone spurting out just above the curl, as if it had been spit from the belly of a great whale, smashing him square in the face. His entire skull and neck collapsed on impact, tossing his bloodied and flaccid body among the algae covered rocks. The boys could see nothing once Caleb had entered the barrel but a warm celestial glow from the tube, shining like an underwater star.
Alaster adjusted himself in his favorite chair with a writhe of his waist and sleight of his torso. Bree was asleep. He grabbed a cigarette from the ornamented silver box on the table, lit a match, and stared languishly at the burst of ignition from the match and systolic pulse of the blue light. The twisted unfolding of events earlier in the night weighed heavily on him and slowed his breath to a languid wheeze. Although he had no clear grasp of the gravity and the sweeping evolutionary ramifications of the evening, the unconscious understanding was nearly tangible. The glass veil that separates random coincidence -- a seemingly planned sequence of accidentally occurring events, and synchronicity -- sketched by Jung as an acausal string of occurrences that coincide in a meaningful and cosmically significant happening -- spans the circumference of all spiritual questions. Human beings have purpose -- that much we know -- but can we project onto nature a human purpose? It appears that across the spectrum of liquid temporality, humanity arises as the immediate flicker in the ongoing mutation of consciousness, the latest trend in evolution.
As effortless as it is to dismiss the seamless coincidences of scattered fractal mirrors, analogous to the heavens as mere accidental twists of fate, in the not-so-far-depths of human consciousness, there’s a plead for a more resolute and fulfilling conclusion. A plead for clarity and a key to the encoded symphony of mathematically organic correspondences that emulate the harmony of the cosmos. We mustn’t stretch too far into splay generalizations of a pre-destined Universe, but to a pre-destined harmony that is played out again and again in a polyphony of various arrangements, styles, and instruments. Can we atomize life or DNA into complex strands of deoxyribonucleic acid that entangled and arose fortuitously from a careful combination of accidental events that unfolded in an irreplicable pattern? Couldn’t these patterns have just as easily emerged in an infinite number of different possibilities that we know as life? Is this simply the best of all possible worlds? But then, who or what chooses? Would these alternate dimensions of evolution be conscious in the same manner as we are? Are we bundles of cells (galaxies included) reflecting the images of the one all-encompassing singularly divine cell affectionately known as DNA, God, Gaia, Yahweh, and innumerable other aliases? Or is it that we struggle with religion and science because we can’t endure the thought that the world was born a child of chance, a mistake, the aimless collision of atoms bumping paths on a slicked highway.
From saltwater to blood, cell to star, space to dimension, time to light, the terrestrial turn from sea to land, a blessed meteor exterminating dinosaurs, galaxies shaping in helix clusters, an ideal mix of circumstances for life to evolve from, the Universe holding its image from every angle, the synchronous instigation of the helix evolution or re-evolution has reawakened the primal screams of consciousness. The intuitive understanding of the whole that both defines and creates the helix. The image of the helix.cosmos.dna is fundamentally unconscious, a hereditary factor of primordial origin engraved in the living organic system of man, an imprint or archetype of all ancestral experiences. Too much order makes change impossible. Too much chaos makes continuity impossible. Disorder is the precondition for a new form of order. When a dynamic system reaches a stale point where progress is no longer a possibility, it returns to the most probable and logical state of equilibrium. Life could not change man and his tunnel vision awareness that was unable to grasp the synergy of the Universe, so it changed itself.
Alaster couldn’t explain why, but suddenly his miniscule wound of doubt began to fade and fall over the leeward side. His fiery speck of incredulity was somehow quenched, satiating him like he had just rolled over after hours of intense love making. The evening changed his internal programming profoundly, speaking a new brand of hope and understanding that he was physically and technically unable to fully decipher.
Life could not change the sun, water the deserts, or connect human consciousness to the One, so it decided to change itself. Spilling bad coffee, a syncopated drumbeat, and a good wave in the process. A seemingly planned sequence of accidentally occurring events? An acausal string of occurrences that coincided in a meaningful and cosmically significant happening? In a simultaneous instant of unwinding, the fabric of the reality was unraveled and re-shaped into a new image... the inherent symmetrical swirl of the Helix. As suddenly as self-awareness sprouted into the mix of life, the paradigm of human understanding was again shifted, destined and willed to progress.
As the scattered lives of humans and friends merge over the span of space and the spectrum of time in a unified instant of a tangled reality that refutes both space & time by its very existence, a new consciousness was born. When self-organizing systems like the Earth reach entropy capacity, the maximum level of disorder, they naturally lead to a new order of a higher level. When the order of the mind evolved from instinctual to conscious and from conscious to self-conscious, there were new laws governing the mind’s processes that lead to a higher and more complex level of understanding. As the coffee spilled in Manhattan, the drum beat in Seattle and the wave broke in Hawaii, a fresh child was born in Jerusalem; and within the same instant, consciousness evolved to the zenith of complexity. A level of consciousness was conceived from the womb of the Universe that is so complex that it is simple. Amidst the chaos of humanity’s inefficient and convoluted self-consciousness, the system returned to its most innocent and primal state, the universal consciousness of the Helix.
The re-birth began in Jerusalem through a special child -- a new experience of life -- carrying within her blood and chromosomes the symbol of a holistic understanding; creating a bridge between art and logic, abstraction and order, concurrence and sequence, emotion and control, left and right, virtue and instinct, parts and wholes. The child is born with foreign DNA composed of the identical 46 chromosomes of a normal child, but reworked into a pattern that no longer emulats the encrypted double helix of Watson and Crick. Her genes and chromosomes unleash themselves from the confines of the double helix into the winding · spiraling coil of the Helix.
Very similar in chemical composition and appearance to the standard human DNA, the Helix hums, glows, breaths clear a scented breeze of connection and intimacy with the world previously unknown to our reflexive consciousness. The Helix radiates brightly behind the child’s eyes like untamed oil flames beaming their bright path of glistening light through a pair of round and tiny canals. Her glow does not shine unrequited for long. There are others born rhythmically throughout the day to the beat of the Helix, singing the silent dirge of the phoenix, closing and renewing. The Helix children can sense their mutual mutation flourishing throughout the world, grasping the logic and love of their natural selection to purify and filter the harmful appendage of human consciousness, which has inflicted the Earth for its duration long enough. The Helix arose in Alaska, Azerbaijan, Brazil, France, Ghana, Laos, Sri Lanka, Tibet, Thailand, Uruguay, Zaire, emerging to populate the world with a new universal consciousness similar to ours, but as distinct as Chimpanzee is to Homo sapien.
Initially, the scientists questioned whether the births of the Helix children was attributable merely to a sudden outbreak of DNA damage or a defective gene replication caused by genetically engineered foods, polluted waters, a depleting atmosphere, disease, war, and overpopulation -- and indeed it was. What they soon learned was that it was all of these things, but the replication was not merely defective. It was divine.
The Helix children will impress upon the Universe a new form of consciousness, a new form of humanity (for lack of a new term) that is the next logical phase in the evolution of the mind -- a new link between hemispheres of the mind that will populate the world with a modern brand of universal consciousness. The Helix children are instinctively, by virtue of their inherent harmony, in tune with their own sense of being and their dynamic place among others, the environment, and the Earth’s celestial spacing. With minds attuned to the key of an eternal present, they are comfortable in their placement of the world, a concordance of law and freedom. Absorbing the best of all species, life altered the DNA code of existence, re-organizing, enriching it to dictate the crystalline image of the perfect universal form.
The sounds of the Helix arose over the horizon of a perfect sphere, an end to end rainbow, a blooming lilac, the ideal of all forms manifest. Hyperboles and exaggeration grow outdated along with the mode of entertaining reality that had conceived them. The divine pattern of the Helix is composed of the same components of the standard double helix DNA, but re-calculated into a shape that enables it into a synergism of awesome power that illuminates reality in the clearest of light. A sum of the parts of the Helix will not result in new understanding, but only through ingesting it as a whole can the old guard of human beings begin to grasp the lucidity of its holistic vision.
Evolution, God, Gaia was forced to push, instigate the stagnant spiritual progress of humanity that was mired in disassociated portions of truths, holy wars, and perversions of beauty. Innovations of art, science, philosophy, worship, feeling, technology, dreaming were cancelled out, forgotten, obsolete, amputated from one another by pogroms, intention, pollution without ignorance, injustice, missionaries, inquisitions, acceptable losses, pride, principles with lost meaning, and the refusal to accept the plurality of our collective being.
Solitary facts alone are interesting, cute -- possibly useful -- and informative at best. The Connection of facts linking, binding credulous chains of confluence is what transforms the informative into the divine, knowledge into enlightenment. It is by virtue of the Connection that we are able to define ourselves in distinct relation to others, and as essential components intimately linked with others in a circle of unconscious correspondence. Grasping axioms of truth in which one implies the other,instigates, begs, proves one another is the very definition of understanding -- understanding on the grandest scale of existence. The understanding of inter-connection between all matter and life, organic and deceased, functioning with a cooperative inertia that churns the mechanics and viscera of the Universe into perpetual motion. The meaning in the symmetry of life fervidly sought after by the hieroglyphics of consciousness and lonely, singular entities wandering for a center is this very need to be centralized · contextualized in the unified totality of the cosmos.
Even the Hebrew expression mazel tov, loosely defined as ‘good for you,’ directly translates in old Hebrew as ‘good constellation’ or ‘good placement among the stars.’ It is the subtle yet profound grasp of this Connection that has altered human consciousness into the centralizing fusion of the Helix perspective; a perspective that offers a coalescing kaleidoscope of vision in concept & reality, form & matter, ideal & tangible that has lead the new breed of conscious life to view and feel the world together in detail and as a whole. The coincidence of opposites that bent and curved to join and exchange their subtle differences. The sounds and echoes of the Helix have haunted our unconscious, religious, and scientific beliefs since the first funeral, but these facts and unspoken truths were unable to be merged, melted together into a codified body of knowledge, because of our need to separate and classify — to distinguish our individuality from others, our sects from others, our culture from others, our colors from others, our beliefs and clothes from others -- instead of the seemingly simple task of connecting what we all share in common. A simple yet fatal flaw that is illustrated by the nightly news determined to only report the bad and ugly events, because the good and beautiful are to be expected. But neglect a beautiful bride for too long, taking for granted her beauty and grace, and she will move on to the next. It is the Connection of words, sounds, knowledge, beliefs, breaths, beyond their literal meanings that explains and distinguishes the ideal, and that ideal is the Helix.
The clues were blatant and laid out for us to see and fondle. The voices of the luminaries spoke brightly from their subterranean depths and the clouds above the atmosphere through computers, cells, cars, sermons, satellites, volcanoes, radios, bodies, glaciers, cities, lilies, and washing machines. All symbols and metaphors of creation clawing and striving to break free from their metaphorical constraints into our scope of creation and death. What is beyond is isomorphic to what is within. The mysteries of the Universe are accessible in the spirit of the Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme that can take you from Paris to Moscow when running efficiently, but will not leave the driveway when a simple cog has gone inactive.
Answers are not beyond, but awake each morning through revelations lost in dream and within the mechanical and organic symbols of life, God, Gaia, the Great Spirit, or simply the universal soul; a completely transcendent entity manifesting as nature, the Universe an all-inclusive living organic entity, in which all life rotates and revolves within its membrane like organs and cells exchanging liquid and gossip. The tug and pull of the universal magnet, giving force and direction to the currents of celestial spheres, the cycle of seasons, the procession of equinoxes, the cosmic cycles, and the homeostasis of all life.
Plagued by the rational positivism of our fragmented mechanical view of the world as the sum of ingredients and materials, we fail to understand micro-processes as shadows, imperfect replications of the great system that simultaneously emulate and spur the all-encompassing cycle. The internal rhythm of flow and tension in the energy currents of our body and mind run the same path of all rivers, tectonic plates, blazing stars, and movements of the universal beat. Humans have stumbled through life like the blind, searching for a plate of nourishment beneath their noses, and in the country of the blind, the one-eyed man is king. The inner eye of the Helix has arisen as the king of consciousness.
The next rational progression of life revealed itself in the form of corkscrew strands of chromosomes that fulfilled the prophecies of the messiah. The entire process was mathematical. The extermination of mankind as we know it will be a gradual process, filtering out the double helix over a few generations as the dominant strain of the Helix eventually dominates through a new found intimacy with reality. There will even be an altruistic push for life, The Friends of the Helix cults will sprout like bushfires, expediting the process through the voluntary decision of abstinence. The Helix children have no pride. Their highly developed corpus callosum merges thought into an aqueous convergence of soul and reason that illuminates a unified scope of form and matter, the fractal symmetry of the mind, body, and world. The unconscious, collective spirit imprinted in human DNA and the Id has been prepared for the shift since it first breathed, encoded between the twists and curls of its biblical doctrines. Every generation of life has unconsciously felt the accumulating tension of the paradigm shift, but no one could ever conceive that it would be their generation to witness its own demise.
The Helix children are to be the masters of reality, bending and shaping themselves to fit in the universal contours like catalysts merging synapses and facilitating reactions of organic matter. Instead of struggling against the current form of being, the Helix children are at ease with an internal eye focused on the roots of our primal origins, while simultaneously looking ahead and feeding off the untapped resource of universal energy. Biologically, the doctors will first notice the children running normal temperature well over a 98.6 degrees and emitting a higher rate of BTUs, because the helix runs and emits stronger pulses of electro-magnetic energy. They will check and balance themselves, tapering the population off at a humble hundred million.
In essence, it was an evolution of credulity. If two things don’t fit, but you believe both to be true, thinking that somewhere -- hidden or obvious --there must be a thread that connects them -- that is credulity, and sincere knowledge of that belief is what the Helix offers in its most basic form.
Only in mastering the circular causeways of history can we understand conscious evolution over time, because it teaches us that it doesn’t exist. Space & time are products of a self-conscious animal’s rationale, a collective convenience established in order to classify and organize the world into distinct aspects and individual patterns in an effort to simplify our context and immediate grip of the reality. Time (that which is before, and that which is after) & Space (that which is above, that which is below) are both illusions created by consciousness in order to anchor and centralize our place as a species in the chaos of the cosmic landscape. An unconscious, primal mastery of time simply understands only the now, the fluid composition of present, in a congealed moment composed of an infinite number of arbitrarily occurring Nows. Space is the area of separation between objects, a mere illusion used to further polarize human minds from each other and their intimate place amongst the all-encompassing macrocosmic, celestial cycles and the homeostasis of the universal soul.
Although intriguing, the Helix tale has merely raised the stakes in the eternal struggle between spirituality and science. As Einstein deduced in the twilight of his years, "All the finer speculations in the realm of science spring from a deep religious feeling." The eternal question of whether humans are divine creations of a guiding celestial force, or spontaneous accidents that register as irrelevant specks on the universal scale still remains; the Helix has merely upped the ante on our value. The emergence of the Helix successfully evades the focus of the Soul Scratching Paradox, and simply resolves the enigma of our existence by poaching freely from the rudimentary concepts of the Anthropic Principle, chaos theory, rational philosophy and Taoism, in order to create a conveniently upgraded version of unity. Unfortunately (with the exception of hermetics and heretics like Descartes, Nietzsche, and Sartre) -- or fortunately, for that matter -- philosophers are not afforded the crutch of a literary license that allows them to simply create solutions from the bottomless resource of the imagination upon encountering a brick wall of reasoning.
Even with the infinite resources of the unconscious, Mr. Derzie was still forced to utilize his own stylized variation of the Kantian leap of faith into the religious realm (his religion of choice apparently being a rare brand of the neo-Darwinian school of quantum physics-induced philosophy,) in an effort to delineate his own undertaking of the eternal questions of humanity. Although he appears content in our metaphysical purpose through deductions of beats, waves, and coffee beans, we of plebian double helix decent, are still doomed to an existence of incredulity and fragmented realities.
Or, is the Helix merely another cliche, masked in the pedantic prose of the literary discourse as a call for individuals to stake their own claim on existence, our own niche in the cosmos, our own re-workings of life that will unveil the macrocosmic understanding of the One that we all spend our existence desperately seeking? Ironically, another metaphysical dilemma emerges that is both clarified and confirmed in the existentialist ambiguities of Sartre who offers, "The difficulty lies in choosing one’s own world." Perhaps the panacea for our myopic, methodical model for viewing life through narrow horizons was best exemplified by one this century’s most prolific philosophers, Kermit the Frog, who once remarked in a clairvoyant moment of understanding, "Life’s like a movie. Write your own ending."
