Bloom

for my mother

Book One:

Doves Overhead

Chapter 1

“A man of God is more than a father. A man

of God is more than a husband. He can be selfless,

humble, and good spirited, and without sin, but only

by sharing the word of God may a man accept

Christ into his heart.

We are gathered to see off our beloved

friend, Robert Parish, husband, father of two sons

and a daughter, and a true man of God. Robert spent

the last thirty years of his life as a carpenter, but his

dedication to his profession did not exceed his love

for his family and his God. On Sunday mornings, he

would arrive at church with his family, always

bearing a dear smile, rain or shine; a sure sign of his

love for the Lord and compassion for his family.

One particular Sunday morning, Robert

arrived an hour before commencement. He said he

would like to help usher in the attendance. ‘You

need not feel an obligation to usher,’ I said, and I

will forever remember his response. ‘God fuels the

flame that burns within me. My intentions were not

blinded by obligation, but brought to life by God’s

grace.’

May he live on in our hearts and in our

prayers.”

His words echoed in my head as I was taken

back to the memory, the day more than four

harvests ago. I was going over the day’s sermon

when Robert opened the door. He walked in with

bounce and vitality in his gait, and a warm smile

upon his face. He was not regarding this as a chore

to his congregation or his God. He was simply

compelled by the love of God to do his work.

How long has it been since I was compelled

by His love to do such a slight in its own, but

selfless act? I have dedicated my life to love and

serve the Lord as a priest, but it wasn’t my

occupation grinding at my conscience, or at least

not a question of dedication. My life has become

defined by my occupation: this church, my home;

this robe, my clothes. Robert’s intentions to usher

were brought to life by God’s grace, but me, I was

coming to work; just fulfilling my obligation to my

congregation and my God. Like a crop’s

diminishing returns I too felt worn, exhausted, and

in need of relocation.

The funeral was a moving display of speech

and emotion; dark in the sense of black veils and

tears, yet countered by an uplifting energy that

encompassed us all. The finale of the ceremony was

Robert’s youngest son, Paul, giving an anecdote on

his father’s fondness for blueberries, and his

daughter releasing caged doves.

As a symbol of purity, fidelity, and faith,

Robert’s daughter released two white doves,

commemorating his life. This custom would likely

be hacked for its lack of sensibility if the doves

were not trained to return after spreading wingtip to

wingtip. But expectancy of the birds returning to

their captive state is overshadowed by the

breathtaking dance the pair take to the air.

My walk back to the church was peripheral,

permeating a reflection of what I was pondering. A

leaf drifting in the wind brought focus to one of the

doves perched high on the holy cross of the church.

It was able and had all means to fly far away from

this church and never be caged again. Most likely,

it was willed by familiarity; too scared to venture into

unknown skies.

The church was filled with a light tinged by

the stained glass and spotlighted at the head of the

isle by a candle on either side. These floors knew

my footprints better than most, but none fresh or out

of place. Day in, day out, I walked these planks of

wood to a summit on the high end. With a clouded

conscience I took a knee and began.

“Lord, it is your bounty and your grace that

has brought me here. It is your love and willingness

to forgive that has shown me the light. It is your

word that gives meaning to mine.

Lord Savior, the path I have cleared is now

cluttered. I have lost a sense of what I once knew,

and just as you have made a sacrifice for me, it is

my time. I must leave this church on a mission of

faith, and in my quest of witnessing let the flame

rekindle my fire. Peace to all. Amen.”

When I attempted to get back on my feet I

must have blacked out because I woke up with a

sharp pain in my forehead. After feeling around the

agitated area I concluded it was a tension headache.

There was no blood or raised masses so if I had hit

my head, it was not severe. Trying again, I latched

onto the surrounding pews to carefully pull myself

up.

My head was pounding as I was elevated

upright. Looking out the windows I noticed the sun

had set. I figured I was stretched out on the floor for

several hours before coming to. I was disoriented

and considerably confused. My feet shuffled to the

door and I opened it, further exposing the late hour.

The sun had set some while ago because it was near

black and empty on the roads.

Being as late as I assumed it was, I decided

to retreat to my apartment downhill from the chapel.

My steps moved separately from my body. I was

dizzy and a twist in my stomach geared my

thoughts to the two eggs over-medium, butter toast,

and grapefruit juice cuisine I had for breakfast. Its

nutrients thoroughly drained from me, my tired

limbs were powerless to the wind.

I fell through the door of my apartment and

flicked on the dismal, single overhead bulb which

flickered at first. The pale light was nothing like the

warm sun rays that flooded the windows on the east

wall through noon. This light only illuminated the

poor aspects of my cramped living quarters. The

kitchen was bare, and I had no appetite for stale

bread or leftover milk.

I closed the refrigerator door, shaking the

whiskey bottle on top of the icebox. Now standing

tall and proud it settled half full: 100 Proof /

Straight Kentucky Bourbon. I reached for it

immediately. The first shot warmed my chest, and I

quickly chased down another.

“Tomorrow, I will leave.”

The words swam about my consciousness,

blinding my recourse of lucid thought. One would

think the notion was implanted because with every

attempt to forget I found it had resolved more

intensely. I accepted this notion. This battle would

not be won with denial or repression. This beast of a

notion was drilling my stomach more than the

whiskey.

I kicked off my tie-less brown leather shoes

and melted into the bed; its cover soft and pillow

supportive. I closed my eyes and said goodbye to

my surroundings. My thoughts subdued to

blackness.

The serenity of my unflustered sleep did not

remain as long as I had anticipated. I found myself

uncomfortable and my tired body moved about the

bed like a misplaced puzzle piece. With solace a

lost hope, I rolled my feet to the side and came to an

erect stance. My stomach desired an ale a bit calmer

than whiskey and so did my head. I pulled my

melody maker, an acoustic six string, from the wall

and walked to the front porch.

I settled into the wicker rocking chair with

the guitar and began a rolling shuffle, rocking to the

beat. As soon as the melody appeared, so were the

words sung:

Fly far from your cage as I look from mine

As I have many times

Awry emotions disturbing my mind

Breaching the Truth rind

Find salvation

In a salutation

Unconcerned with creation

Free from desolation

The façade erases

Cage crumbles to the foundation.

The melody carried as red-orange beams

peeked over the treetops. The early morning breeze

chilled my arms and neck, but the distant sunrise

warmed me from the inside. This day of rebirth was

indeed a beginning, but the challenge of my

expedition was worthy. My destination was clear,

although not measurable by location or timeframe,

my infantile spirit was eager to reclaim its passion.

I spent the next hour gathering a few

necessities and packing any unneeded food in a

basket that I would leave at the church along with

an explanation of my departure for the nuns and

aides. I turned the key in the front door of my

apartment, locking it; checking off all

responsibilities in my mind. I picked up my guitar,

now held in a chipboard case, and a valise with a

change of clothes, a loaf of bread, and forty-two

dollars, which was all of the money I had.

I did not worry about my meager resources;

an overwhelming assertion to leave waved

immediacy over material dependence. I would make

the trip. This was fully aware to me. By way of

trade, education, wit, or means not yet in my present

conscience. I would do whatever was possible, and

with perseverance. I knew where I was headed now.

It was some three-thousand miles from the church I

minister. It was where I did my first missionary

work, and coincidentally it was my most rewarding

experience: Mexico City.

Chapter 2

The bus station was a ninety minute walk away;

if I wasn’t caught up by a passing train, or

stopped by members of the congregation wondering

where their priest was going—Monday morning,

baggage in hand, headed away from town (the

lively center of a one-hundred square mile

township). I was wearing a black brimmed hat that

nursed my eyes from the harsh glare of the midday

sun, but my aesthetic field was dominated when I

heard a sweet voice.

“Father.”

I wasn’t sure from whom or what direction it

was coming.

“Father Guillaume, it’s Colette.”

It was Robert’s beautiful fifteen year old

daughter. She was sitting under a tree, east of the

Parish family’s pond. She stood up and waved to

me. I met her in the middle, my broad steps and

quicker stride brought me closer to her.

“Colette, how are you?”

She cracked a sad smile. “I’m fine. Where

are you going?”

“I’m leaving on a missionary trip.”

“When are you coming back?”

“I don’t know how long I will be gone, until

my mission is complete, I suppose.” I was sad to tell

her and she didn’t look the happier to hear it.

“But Father Guillaume, how will we have

Church?”

“I have sent for Father Allen from Hunter

County. He’s very nice and will lead the services

very well. I studied with him when I was younger.”

“O Father, please don’t be another void in

my life,” she said lowering her pretty crown with

deep breaths and set a tear loose that trailed down

her youthful face.

I put my hand on her shoulder. “Colette.”

She looked up and another tear trickled down her

cheek. “I am your priest and I love you dearly, but I

am only a vessel of God’s will. God hears your

prayers as clearly as I do. Find comfort in this.”

She nodded her head with reassurance.

“Good bye and good fortune,” I said and

took my hand from her shoulder.

“May your trip be fulfilling.”

I cared for Colette something like I would a

daughter, and like a daughter, I felt a need to

console her. I knew that as I pressed forth on my

path meaning and clarity would only increase. I

would have liked to stay with Colette a while

longer, perhaps the afternoon, but to deter from my

objective (reaching the bus station in a timely

fashion) would be disadvantageous. I saw the

resolve of her issues would only free my mind from

mine. No, I had to be without question myself

before I could help her, or anyone for that matter.

A random mailbox served as a sundial; its

shadow revealed hours and minutes in length and

direction. My bus would be leaving in half an hour.

The buses were sixty-four passenger, twelve

cylinder, moving machines. The noon bus would

take me to Blackburn, a vibrant fast paced city. I’ve

traveled through Blackburn on the ride to Kansas

City with my parents—my last visit seen through

the eyes of a sixteen year old.

I walked up to Murry Bus Transportation.

The smell of diesel exhaust flooded my nostrils and

the thick air choked me. Those buses would bounce

out of the lot spitting black smoke like train steam. I

walked through the double doors serving as the

building’s front entrance, and moved on to the

service desk. There was a clock behind the service

desk clerk. It read a quarter till noon, and the queue

was less than intimidating for my current time

restriction.

As my position rolled to the front of the line

I was greeted by a young woman probably in her

early twenties; a flower still blossoming. Her green

eyes and warm smile delivered her welcome.

“Hello Sir, how can I help you?”

“Are you still seating the twelve o’clock to

Blackburn?”

“Yes Sir, we are. Can I have your name?”

“It’s Josiah Guillaume. G U I L L A U M E.”

It was a commonly misspelled name.

“That will be seven dollars,” she said,

crossing her arms on the desk and looking up at me

with a bright smile. I fumbled around my pockets

for a second and pulled out the tousled bills. I

handed her the money and sifted through the

remains: a thin wad of crinkled low denomination

bills. She handed me the ticket and thanked me. I

thanked her and walked to the bus.

There were many family and friends seeing

off loved ones in the bus terminal. I was saying

goodbye too. I was saying goodbye to this town, its

people, and the members of my church for now;

until I return with interconnectedness after a

fulfilling missionary trip. I gave the baggage

handler my guitar and valise, but kept the bread to

eat on the ride. I thanked the man and stepped onto

the bus. It was a little crowded, and that was

obvious before I reached the top step. I flashed my

ticket at the driver. He was an older man, I would

guess in his sixties. He didn’t give the ticket a

second glance. By the looks of the general feral

nature of the bus attendants, I figured he thought a

free hitch wouldn‘t be worth the insanity of the

loaded sixty-four-seater. I found refuge in a seat

next to a gentleman in a suit and tie.

“Well hello there, Sir. How do you do?” The

man greeted me as I sat beside him.

“Great.” I sat the loaf of bread on my lap

and shook his hand with awkward elbows. His

handshake was firm and his presence was strong.

He spoke with a rich southern accent, deeper than

mine, and crammed his words together.

“What put you on this bus to Blackburn?” I

asked him.

“Well just so you know it‘s less going and

more returning from my brief stint abroad. I work

finance in Blackburn. It is where my home is

and where my family resides. How about you stranger,

what has you on this bus?”

I told him I was making my way to Mexico

City. It just so happened that Mr. Franklin, William

of the Connecticut Franklins and Franklin’s

Accounting Firm in Blackburn, was returning from

a business trip and had a layover at our farm facing

bus station. The two of us had a good chat and

spoke of the rowdy attendants that had now settled

into the cushioned seats and met tranquility—as I

did—with a nap. I took the end section from the

bread for my stomach and my calmer nerves floated

off to peaceful oblivion.

It was a crashing kind of sleep, a black,

dreamless sleep. The odd hours of contemplation

and the walk to the bus station had worn down my

body and mind. Not a fidget and not a thought, just

pure black recovery. I sat there, upright in the seat,

motionless even with the bumps of the bus ride.

William saw my eyelids fluttering as I made

sense of the unfamiliar surroundings of brown seats

and conversations and he said, “We’re getting

close.” I opened my eyes wide and extended my

arms and legs to a relaxing stretch.

“You slept all but thirty minutes of the trip,”

William said warmly.

“It was the best traveling sleep I can

remember having,” I told him and laughed.

“There they are,” he said pointing, “the

lights of Blackburn.”

Tall buildings with cherry red and grape

lights, car headlights, and brilliant street lamps

contrasted the dark veil of night in the busy

commerce-driven city. Rolling to Murry Station, we

passed rows of quaint shops and restaurants. The

major streets were lined with neatly trimmed

shrubbery. This was a city of colors, smells, and

life.

The driver docked the bus into the station

and a relieving sigh was heard from the mass of

attendants milling towards the door. Everyone

grabbed their sweaters and hats that had slipped off

of their bodies during the community nap. We

picked up our luggage outside of the bus and I

picked up my guitar and valise. I put the bread loaf

in the valise and looked around for a nice spot to eat

and enjoy my night in Blackburn, the city of good

memories from my past.

“Josiah.” It was William. He was putting his

luggage in the trunk of a yellow car. “What are you

doing tonight?”

“I don’t know. I was going to find

something to eat,” I yelled back.

“Nonsense, you eat with me and my family

tonight.” He was a generous man helping a stranger,

priest or not. He was genuine.

I put my guitar in the trunk of the cab and

got in the back seat. Once again, William and I were

sharing a seat. I thanked him for his selfless offer

and reassured him I would have been fine on my

own, but he was persistent.

It was about a ten-minute ride to William’s

house with the cabbie and his polished leather

smell. I offered to pay the cab fare, but we agreed to

split it. I handed the driver my half of the money,

two dollars, and helped William haul his bags to the

front door. His home was elegantly decorated, as

were the neighboring homes with flowerbeds—a

colorful array of lilacs, lilies, and some flowers I

had never seen. He opened the door releasing the

light that streamed from a crystal and silver

chandelier that hung from the high ceiling.

“Beth, I’m home, and I have company.”

“Yes Dear,” his wife said from another

room.

“You have a beautiful home, Mr. Franklin,”

I said.

“Thank you, and it’s William, please.”

Before he finished his words a gorgeous long-

legged brunette walked in from the kitchen. She had

a loving smile that brightened as she walked closer.

“Josiah, I would like you to meet my lovely

wife, Beth. Dear, this is Father Josiah Guillaume,

correct?” he asked, turning to me for confirmation.

“Yes, very nice to meet you.”

“Father,” she began.

“Josiah, please,” I refuted.

“Josiah, it’s nice to meet you.” She extended

her hand, and I sat down my guitar to shake it. “And

what brings you to Blackburn?” she asked in her

soft voice.

William spoke before I could reply. “We

have plenty of time to talk about it. He’s joining us

for dinner.”

I helped William take his bags upstairs, and

he gave me a tour of the grand estate. It was

complete with a study with walls of books, several

lounge areas, and a vast terrace of plants and trees

at the back of the house. He also had children, John,

twenty-two years old and away at law school, and

Jennifer, very intelligent and witty, who sat next to

me during dinner. Beth prepared a large meal of

roast pork, potatoes and carrots, and blueberry

cobbler for dessert.

After the laughs subsided from the

entertaining talks, in which the four of us were

engaged wildly, I tried to excuse myself and make

an exit. “I can’t thank you all enough, but I should

be on my way.” I stood up and placed my napkin on

the table.

“Where do you plan to go, Josiah?” Beth

asked sincerely.

“I will go to a church until the morning, and

from there I will be on my way to Mexico City,” I

explained.

“You will stay the night here. We have an

extra bedroom and there is no sense in you leaving

at this hour to find a church,” Beth offered with

grace.

“I would be imposing,” I answered, but the

three of them insisted so I agreed.

William offered to show me where the bath

and toiletries were located, and the thought of a bath

sounded soothing upon his mentioning it. The

bathtub was gigantic, and as I slipped under the

foam—feathered high like meringue and

effervescent like fine tapped beer—I took in the

reflective surroundings: tall mirrors and polished

chrome. The tub felt like it was made from a mold

of my body the way I slid down into the sleep-

tempting basin of warm soapy water.

After I was clean and fragrant, I dried

myself with the embroidered towels. “F,” it was

simple, but meaningful and identifiable, the reason

of precedence in my regard, like your mother would

stitch your name on the band of your underwear. I

combed my hair in the counter-length mirror that

reflected the detailed decoration, an evidently time

consuming décor of strategically placed bowls filled

with carved soap and creatively folded hand towels.

I dressed and went downstairs where

William and Beth were drinking wine at the

fireplace and Jennifer was reading a book under a

desk lamp.

“Feel better?” William asked with that

endearing chuckle of his when I approached them.

“Yes, thank you. I just wanted to say

goodnight before I go to bed.”

“O Josiah, will you play us a song on your

guitar before you go to sleep, and before I go to

sleep?” Jennifer asked me from the corner of the

room. “I’ll even get it for you,” she said and jumped

to her feet.

I couldn’t say no to her if I had wanted to.

“I’m sure I can play one song.” I told her. She

smiled and rushed to get my guitar.

“It’s at the base of the bed, in the

guestroom,” William yelled to her.

“Right Dad,” her voice responded

whispering behind a maze of walls.

She came down the stairs and handed me the

guitar case. I took a seat on a couch that looked like

decoration but sat there regardless in its revealing

comfort. Placing the case at my feet, I opened it and

took out my wood and steel. Checking the tuning,

the e harmonic segued into the E Major rhythm of

Bach’s Partita. Its eloquence in French meter

reflected the Franklin family’s eloquence and grace.

I hoped that they might pick up on the subtlety and

take it as another gracious benediction.

I believe I soothed their souls and tired my

mind for sleep. They applauded my performance

and we exchanged goodnights. I walked myself and

my guitar up the stairs to my sleeping quarters. I

placed the guitar case back at the base of the bed,

folded my clothes and placed them on the adjacent

chair, and got under the heavy comforter. I nestled

between the cushioning pillows and drifted to sleep.

Chapter 3

I don’t remember emerging from blissful

sleep, just the sun in my window blocking all

possibility of rest; and the omnipresence of a

hangover that had no reason for appearing, or a

hunger all too foreign for my body. I sat up to

illumination. The sun had invaded every last

shadow in the room. I felt like I was under a

microscope—the window served as the lens—but

the silk sheets and forest of pillows kept me

grounded in a dawn gaze. I dragged myself out of

the soft pond of cloth and put on clean clothes for

my rebirth into daytime Blackburn.

Knock knock. “Mr. Guillaume, are you

awake?”

“Yes, come on in.”

The door opened and there stood a sunned

goddess parting the ocean of floating dust particles.

It was like staring into a painting of a woman

created in the artist’s mind, for she was too

beautiful to walk amongst mortals.

“I am Francesca, the housekeeper.” She

raised her arm to her chest and held her hand as if a

bird—the winged dove of my truest love—had

landed there.

“I am Josiah, Father, the Franklin’s guest,”

came out of my jumbled thoughts.

“I know,” she said with reverence, “but your

food is getting cold,” she added with a humbling

smile and shut the door. She had a French accent to

her speech, subtle but not completely Americanized

by Midwestern dialect. It is said that French

women, with an essence of refinement, polish

instead of cleanse.

I walked down to the kitchen, but the aroma

of fried pork and baked bread flooded my nostrils

on the stairs. Jennifer was already at the table

sipping a tall glass of orange juice.

“Good morning, Jennifer,” I told her,

holding the back of a chair. Beth walked in from the

kitchen with a bowl of sausage and gravy. There

was fresh baked bread sliced on the table and bacon

strips browned to perfection.

“Good morning. Did you sleep well?” Beth

asked.

“Yes, very well. Thank you.”

“Eat up, Josiah. You have a long day ahead

of you.” I did too. Sands of time and space to travel

with little means, but I was traveling out of purpose,

not comfort.

We ate and I drank a cup of coffee as Beth

was telling me that William’s firm was closing a

deal with the local Catholic church today. She was

very excited about the account and said I should

meet with the clergy and William at his office

before I was on my way. It only seemed

appropriate, and I wanted very much to see William

again and thank him for his hospitality. Beth called

for a cab that soon arrived to take us into the city.

The streets of Blackburn were now lined

with people. Dense traffic and waves of pedestrians

reacquainted me to the tide of the business day.

Street corners looked like mounds of ants amassed

with people drifting from one row of stores to

another, crossing traffic as they did so. The cab

reduced its speed as we approached a marvelous

building of tall pillars and sculptured architecture.

The driver stopped in front of the double doors and

let us out. Beth thanked him and tipped him for his

services.

The wooden banner above the door read

Franklin Accounting. We walked into an expansive

corridor of business casualty with a couple round

tables and seats, backlogs of magazines, and

soothing abstract paintings. It was certainly

intended for the cushioning of clients, an

omnipresent mitigation for affluence. The

receptionist waved to us and Beth replied, “Hi, Jill.

Go on in?” And Jill motioned us to do so. William

was sitting on the corner of his desk talking to two

gentlemen.

“Beth Dear, and Father Guillaume, so nice

you could come. Please.” He paused, standing.

“Bishop Thomas, Bishop Reilly, I would like you to

meet Father Guillaume.”

“Nice to meet you gentlemen,” I said and

shook their hands. “Bishop Thomas.”

“Father.”

“Bishop Reilly.”

“Father.”

“What church are you currently presiding

over?” Bishop Reilly asked.

“Sun Grove Catholic, or that’s where I was

for several years. Though, I’m leaving on a mission

trip.”

“To where, may I ask?” Bishop Thomas

inquired.

“Mexico City. I’ve been there many times. It

is a poor city with a bleeding heart.”

“Yes well, we certainly wish you the best.”

Bishop Thomas responded.

“Josiah,” William gained our attention, “we

were just discussing how Bishop Thomas and Reilly

want to spread Catholicism.”

“That’s right,” Bishop Reilly spoke, “We are

bringing Catholicism out to the streets and to the

people.”

“Yes gentlemen,” William continued. “Our

relationship begins here, but will flower to all of

God’s children. The word is here to be taught, and

let us not deprive a soul. Investing in your faith is

like endowing our children a birthright to

salvation.”

William spoke deeply and my heart

responded. His words of passion and perseverance

for a cause, one such as serving God, brought back

memories of Robert. Robert and his Christ

reflecting deeds of selflessness were as effortless as

gravity. He simply radiated energy and channeled it

with purpose. A thought perhaps, brought on by a

dream, gave him the single-mindedness to

accomplish such kind acts, like the one he

confessed to me fifteen years ago. It was not a

month after Colette was born in the spring of sun

and showers that Robert walked into the

confessional.

“Father, forgive me for I have sinned,”

Robert began.

“Speak and you will be forgiven,” I

comforted him, as I always tried to be

compassionate to these naked souls.

“I was raised Catholic, married in a Catholic

church, and baptized my children. I go to church

regularly, but I’ve come to realize that my efforts

have been deliberate. The sin I am confessing is an

absent heart. It is that I’ve spent so many Sundays

kneeling, singing, following what I’d been taught.

I had a dream that I was staring into a

mesmerizing fire. The flames were dancing nymphs

beckoning me to stay fixed on their rhythm. I sat

entranced like a sailor at a cabaret of short skirt

dancers, my jaw lowering and my eyes widening

with their high kicks as gusts of winds kept their

motions in unison. I remember wanting more

flames, more dancers, so I picked up a log that was

nestled next to me and heaved it at the fire. I

expected a bigger fire, but I got water, splashed in

the face. I wiped my eyes and looked at the fire

again. When I drew my attention from the dancing

flames to the blue curtain downstage I noticed it too

moved like the dancers, swaying in unison. I once

again enlarged my domain and this time noticed that

the fire was sitting on water, burning on the rippled

surface of a pond.

I sat down in amazement of my blindness

and naivety. I wondered if I was this blind in other

aspects of my life. Was I wasting my time on

arbitrary things and completely missing the larger

truth? I even pondered the log itself. It had a second

purpose other that floating in a pond. Perhaps it

could have been used to start a real fire, an

applicable one, something that would provide heat

for cooking and illumination for sight. Instead it

would find its decay in the waters of my delusion,

just as my mind had been decaying. At this moment

I thought of my family and how I should open my

eyes to any darkening clouds of delusion. I thought

of my friends, my congregation, and my God. I

pondered, was I wasting my energy by worshipping

out of commitment, a deep seeded ritual from my

youth? I felt perhaps that I had been too deliberate

in my religious worship and should act from the

bottom of my heart.

In my reflection since the dream I have

come to terms with what time I have wasted with

hallow repetition, but I now see the fruits of my

actions. Now I bask in the paradise of my

consequences. There was a time when my sight was

obstructed. We all radiate light, we all radiate love.

With my actions, words, and thoughts I will

embody God and transform sadness into

happiness.”

“We are all God’s children. For one man to

see God’s will is a blessing, but to spread the will of

God is an act of God,” I reassured him. I now

wonder if I understood the depth of Robert’s words

in the confessional. What had Robert invoked for

God to visit him in dream? What hadn’t I invoked?

“Father,” William got my attention. “The

bishops and I were going to ride to the new chapel.

Would you like to join us?”

“Very much, thank you.” I was delighted at

the offer. I had been wanting to see the chapel and

now my ride was secured.

“We’ll have lunch afterwards, everyone. I’m

buying!” he said and chuckled that jovial Saint

Nicholas laugh of his. “Dear, are you joining us?”

he asked of Beth.

“No, I suppose I’ll visit the shops while I’m

in town,” she replied.

“Splendid, shall we gentlemen?” William

led us to his car. Bishop Reilly and Bishop Thomas

sat in the back seat and I rode passenger to William,

our bodies in alignment again like stars fixed in

space. His car was very luxurious. The seats were

beige leather. It looked like it could fit six people

comfortably since there were vast areas of spacious

cushion between us. William drove the car with

ease and agility. We seemed to float to our

destination. Perhaps the wheels simply rested on the

same bouncy cushions. We pulled up to the church.

It looked like a Cathedral with buttresses flaring

from the sides. The columns on the face of the

building looked like they supported Roman

stadiums.

“How does it strike you, Father?” asked

William.

“Oh, it’s simply marvelous,” and as the

words left my mouth bishop Thomas opened the

carved double doors revealing the beauty within. It

had a landscape of pews separated by a wide trail

through the center to the horizon where the crucifix

hung like the setting sun against the crimson

curtains of dusk. It was illuminated by the stained

impressions of saints on the windows and the

flickering flames of prayer candles. The bishops

walked me through every wing of the vast church. It

had several rooms for Sunday school or church

classes, a recreational hall, and another spacious

wing designated for the presiding member of the

clergy.

“I don’t know about you, gentlemen,”

William said as we rounded back to the door, “but

I’ve worked up an appetite after all this walking.

Are we ready for lunch?” The breakfast Beth had

made held me over but the suggestion of food was

surprisingly delightful. Back in William’s car, we

drove to a lovely French restaurant in downtown.

“Must have beaten the lunch crowd,”

William exclaimed as we pulled into a vacant lot—a

desert landscape with only a cactus here and there

to separate the dunes.

Inside we were greeted by the kindest

Maitre ‘D and were seated at a table, centered in the

dining room and placed with fine glasses and a

quaint burning candle sitting in a bowl of water and

potpourri. William ordered our food and drink, red

wine and veal.

“This is wonderful, William. How can I ever

pay back your kindness?” I said graciously.

“You can preside at our church.”

I was taken aback with surprise and fork

frozen in hand. “That’s most generous of you to

offer, but I really couldn’t,” I explained. I was

already late in my progress to Mexico City I told

them.

Bishop Thomas broke his silent demeanor

saying, “Josiah, it is indeed a rare occasion that

such a soul should wander through Blackburn on a

mission of faith. We, as a community, have been

lost without a leader to conduct our church services.

We have found your presence warm and inviting.

We need a person like you to lead our children into

salvation.”

I told them I didn‘t know if I could accept.

“At least sleep on the idea, will you?”

William asked, and I agreed.

It was a heavy lunch, a lot to digest, a lot to

think about. William paid the waiter for our meal

and his attentive service. I was feeling the wine

through the bread of the meal; he had a careful eye

for the wine level. We said goodbye to the bishops

who were headed to their respective places of

residence. As we walked to the car a man that sat on

the sidewalk slumped against the restaurant in

tattered clothes got our attention.

“A little help, brother?” he said and

extended his empty palms, and as I reached for my

money William said to him, “Now you go on, you.

Move along.” He put his arm behind my back

moving me again towards the car. “Old wino’s

always out there. It’s better that we don’t fuel him.”

The irritation of selfishness bubbled in my

mind. I thought of the old man and how I should

have responded. He may have been an old wino, but

these times I wondered if I was nothing more than a

hobo in disguise; an emotional creature seeking

redemption in blissful intoxication.

“I’ll take you to see my friend Judy

Reynolds. She runs the best jewelry store in town,”

William said as he pulled out of the parking lot.

“That sounds wonderful,” I said.

We turned onto Fifth Street and hit Market

Street where people were flocking from one sale to

the next. One exceptionally busy place was Judy’s

Jewels. William found a parking space on the block

and pulled in.

“Close as we’re going to get. Come on

then,” he said.

Trying to walk on the same sidewalk as

these bargain shoppers made me feel like a fish

swimming upstream. Judy’s was a magnificent

spectrum of diamond-studded gold and silver

shimmering as each passing car threw the light of

the sun on the floor-to-ceiling showcase windows.

When we walked in, William headed over to a

woman helping a couple pick out a bracelet.

“Oh, William, what a wonderful surprise,”

she said smiling.

“Jessica, would you help this couple for

me,” she asked one of her employees.

“Absolutely Ma’am,” Jessica responded.

“Thought you could use a bit more

excitement in your day,” William said.

“Not too much more or I might have to hire

you to do some sales,” she said laughing. “Come

back to my office.”

I followed William behind the counter and

down a hall to Judy’s office behind the showroom.

“Judy, I’d like you to meet a dear friend of

mine, Father Josiah Guillaume,” William said.

I closed the office door behind me. “It is a

pleasure to meet you, Judy,” I said and shook her

hand.

“Father.”

“Josiah, please.” The title had worn thin and

lately it felt good to be addressed as an individual,

and not a priest.

“Please gentlemen, have a seat,” she

welcomed us.

Her dark hair bounced down her back as she

reclined in her chair. She had an enchanting smile

and carried herself with grace. She was sitting at a

beautifully carved desk and the office had a glass-

faced clock that stood nearly six feet tall, the

pendulum ticking the seconds away.

They each exchanged pleasantries and

affection for the other’s loved ones. There was a

sense that they had been close for many years.

William said that I duly arrived for the opportunity

to preside at the newly erected chapel at its

accessible location. It was built like a castle and was

hard to miss from all sides.

“Judy, I know you will be present Friday,”

William said leaning over the desk and extending

his hand.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” she replied giving her

hand to him, and with a kiss of chivalric respect to

her jeweled hand she smiled with fluttered eyes.

“Well, we’re off to pay Tyler a visit,”

William said as a farewell address.

“It was very nice to meet you, Judy,” I said,

raising myself to William’s level.

“It was wonderful, Josiah. I will see you

soon.”

She walked with us through the jewelry

store. It was just as busy as when we had arrived.

We left Judy to her business and hit the downdraft

force of commerce in leather boots clicking down

the sidewalks. We decided to walk the six blocks to

spare ourselves from having to find another parking

space. People ran in and out from car to store or

store to store; and more walking: for the hunger of

the product driven individual.

We eventually arrived at the doors of

Midwest Mutual. I followed William to the counter

where he asked to see Tyler. The clerk immediately

left the desk to inform Tyler of our presence, and

upon his return, not far behind, was a gorgeous

blond that stood six feet tall in heels. Whoever

Tyler was, he certainly had a well-maintained crew

of employees, both in attentiveness and

attractiveness.

“You gentlemen can follow me,” she said

and with no hesitation were we behind her. Her legs

were like redwoods stretching to the clouds, and her

skirt bounced like leaves in the wind. The image

coalesced: the shaking branches to the trunk as she

swayed her hips; and like a hummingbird she

seemed to float weightlessly. I was hypnotized by

the rhythmic dance, my eyes fixated on her step like

the clock’s pendulum swinging seconds.

The plaque on the door read Tyler Wilde,

President. His assistant opened the door and

announced our presence. She wished us a good day

and took a seat at her desk adjacent to Tyler’s

office. The blinds filtered light onto a charcoal gray

suit animated by a well-groomed man with a toothy

smile. He waved us to have a seat while he finished

his phone conversation. The soft lighting was

nurturing the spider plants that sat in the four

corners of the room. Each item of the room was a

luxurious piece to the opus that sang with

intonation—interactive cybernetics symbiotically

postulating functionality.

“Sorry about that, gentlemen,” the figure

behind the desk said. “I had to tie up some loose

ends; business, you understand.”

“Always on top of it aren’t you, Tyler?”

William said laughing and emphatically shook his

hand.

“Old dog, and who do you have with you?”

Tyler extended his hand to me.

“This is Father Guillaume,” William said

introducing me.

“Josiah Guillaume,” I said approaching him.

“It’s very nice to make your acquaintance, Tyler.”

“I’m sure the pleasure is all mine,” he said,

shaking my hand.

The room darkened as clouds rolled into

town in blankets of ominous precipitation

encapsulated. The light that had illuminated the

room seemed to be sucked out of my awareness,

leaving me in a desolate and penetrating void. Tyler

and William shared a spectacular conversation,

bubbling with an exchange of frank wordplay. I

noticed that William’s literary strategy was a

provocative canvas for elucidation to be painted.

Tyler seemed to hold the same art, twisting

William’s words into a trap of connotations and

warping his initial lyrical intention.

“How’s the bank, Tyler?”

“We are flooded with investments bringing

substantial interest.”

“An interest intended to extend the limits of

Mutual, Inc.?”

“We’re on the brink of a leak being so

substantially collected in mutual investments. I

know your collections enhance the demand of

accounts.”

“No doubt we’ve got a mountain of

accounts.”

“An avalanche of considerable interest for

Franklin Accounting that I can only imagine.”

“In fact, Tyler, I’d say you’ve imagined

your vault being filled wall to wall.”

“Oh, William, it is grim how slim your

pockets were before you opened the door to more

investments, and now I believe the seams are nearly

bursting from the pressure.”

“True, Franklin Accounting is mounting a

mass of accounts, but as you said we supply for

such a demand that no one could refuse

compliance.”

They continued their game of heightened

conversation on a plane above normal interaction. It

seemed like forever in that dimly lit area that they

built a lyrical monument of connotative amusement.

It was as if two old men were playing chess. Once

one advanced, the opponent would strategically

form a counter attack, timing each other with quick

reactions to devastating maneuvers. I listened to

them chime like crickets amid the encompassing

dark of night, swimming in the sound of voices

projecting waves of auditory hallucinations.

The cloud cover seemed to finally disperse,

dissolving in a staircase of eastward descent. The

blinds were again reflecting the radiance of the

afternoon sun. William brought me into the

conversation as he was concluding his conference

with Tyler by noting my timely arrival being the

last link in his magnificent contribution to the

community. I thanked Tyler for his company and

wished him well as we were leaving.

“See you Friday,” William added before we

were out the door.

“Couldn’t keep me away,” Tyler responded

with a laugh.

We walked to the car in silence. I felt like

those clouds themselves, the quiet observer of the

flux of economic barter, the fulfillment of

animalistic desires of comfort. Being a stratosphere

mirroring the ravenous consumers, I was the

detachment of such a desire, as comfort dissolved

from my grasp as my own form disintegrated,

revealing the warm essence of sunlight. I could see

that Judy’s was still overflowing with business as I

climbed into the passenger seat of William’s car.

As we pulled into the track of lanes and

raced to a stable position William said that Tyler

was a good friend of his. He told me not to mind his

idioms and conundrums. It was just how they

goofed around about their business personas. He

said that Beth was cooking supper and that I should

not object to joining them, and I easily acquiesced.

I couldn’t help but reflect on all of the

generosity and kindness William and Beth had

shown me, and how my soft-spoken thanks deflate

with lackluster intensity. I wanted to do something

for them to show how much I appreciated their

kindheartedness, letting me stay at their home and

cooking me meals. I decided in the car that I would

try presiding at the new church. For all William had

done for me I should at least help make his

compassionate efforts a working arrangement.

When we got to the house, Beth had

prepared a baked goose with white rice and sautéed

mushrooms and peppers, steamed carrots and

broccoli, and cheesecake for dessert. Jennifer was at

a friend’s house eating supper, so it was just the

three of us enjoying conversation over a fabulous

white wine. When I saw an empty pocket in the

stretch after such luscious indulgence I presented

my resolution.

“I’ve decided that this community has been

lacking the stability and support that an active

Catholic church creates. I would like to try

presiding at your church. I am no authority in the

manifestation of divine will, but I think I may be

able to add a positive dimension to such a properly

deliberate, but culturally misdirected parish,” I said

laying my heart out on the table.

William spoke after a moment of silence.

“I’ve never been so glad, and to hear those words in

my house brings a sensation of renewal not only for

us, but for the community. Let us toast.”

We raised our glasses in a toast of renewals

from personal to professional and individual to

collective efforts, prayers, and intentions. William

said that the minister’s quarters were completely

prepared for my immediate residence. He called me

a cab so that I could get a feel for the new church

before presiding Sunday morning. He poured

another round, partially filling our glasses as we

waited for the taxi service.

William carried my valise out to the car and

put it in the trunk, and I placed my guitar next to it. He

paid the cab fare and wished me well. I thanked him

and sat in the back, resting my mind into a cushion

of interrelated reciprocation of sensation from the

situation. The lights of the city night must have put

me in a trance because we were at the church in no

time. I thanked the driver, grabbed my luggage from

the trunk and walked to the priest’s bedroom. I

barely made it to the bed before sleep enveloped

me.

Chapter 4

My conscious recollection was a mess of

voices and images as some sense of rationality

returned to me. I remembered splashing in a well of

characters who were trying to take me somewhere,

or show me something, but with each piece of

certainty I would slip into another scene. I could

hear birds singing outside the window and for a

moment I thought that I was back home, waking up

in my apartment. The birds were absorbed with the

sound of passing cars and city noise that gained my

attention.

The room was pleasantly furnished with a

large mirror within a carved wooden frame that sat

above the chest of drawers. It was properly

ornamented with a crucifix at the head of the bed.

There was a reading lamp on the table next to the

bed, with the bible so carefully placed in a peaceful

position that reflected the shine of the morning sun

through the window. I had leaned my guitar against

a chair where I had placed my valise. My shoes

were a step apart leading to the bed. I must have

slipped them off as I was crawling into serenity

under the covers of darkness and silence.

I grabbed my valise, slipped on my shoes,

and walked down the hall to the shower. The

bathroom was a fully functional revitalizing facility.

It emptied my mind to let the warm waterfall splash

into my face and cascade down my body in an

embrace of sensual exuberance. I shampooed,

scrubbed, combed, and dried myself into a

rejuvenated incarnation of the grizzly ruggedness I

had possessed. I put on a change of clothes, and

with a new sense of worth I ventured into the open

space of the vast and expansive chapel.

The light from the windows was reflecting a

shimmering bedazzlement that danced as I pressed

on with each step. I followed the path of luminous

jewels beaming with iridescent brilliance down the

hall to the central wing where the liturgy was

delivered. I lit several prayer candles and dipped my

forefinger in the shallow well of holy water before

performing the sign of the cross. Choosing a row, I

knelt at the pew, brought my hands together and

began to pray.

So many people surfaced in my silent vigil

that I nearly felt rushed to pray for each one before

the flood of faces elapsed in undulating waves.

People of my past had helped me along greatly

when I needed it. I have only been able to listen to

their confessions and pray their names to God into

the wind. For a pious figure, I felt helpless with my

incapability of relieving the pain of such dear souls.

There was room for more than prayer, there was

room for action—action that I could not bring

about.

I thought that I should not be holding myself

captive behind walls when such vibrant swells of

imagery and sound were pulsating with the breath

of life outside. I changed my shirt for a bit more

casual look. I wasn’t yet prepared for conversations

that would be brought about by me parading a

priest’s collar into the four corners of town. I

wanted to see Blackburn blazing with intermittent

flashes of shadows cast in cracks beneath the

interaction received when clergy members visited

local attractions. I blew out the prayer candles that I

had lit earlier as I was leaving through the front

doors.

I felt as weightless as a feather as I glided

down the sidewalk with carelessness in my step. In

the heart of the city, I couldn’t help but feel I was a

foreign observer watching the primal habits of a

concrete jungle. I would merge into a flock of

people crossing busy avenues only to watch them

scatter into businesses like insects to hidden niches.

I found myself at a loss with no moving mass of

livestock to direct my path so I conveniently walked

into a corner diner to satisfy a hunger that had

bubbled up.

The sign read the Coffee House, and as I

opened the door a muffled bell rang and heads spun

around for a momentary acknowledgement. I sat

down at the bar in a row of several empty stools.

There was a menu at the edge of the bar that I

grabbed out of its handy receptacle. The prices were

reasonable. That was my main concern after seeing

William rack up hefty bills wining and dining his

compatriots in this fair city.

“Hey Honey, what can I get for you?” asked

a middle-aged woman from behind the counter. Her

curly brown hair was tied in a ponytail aside from a

few strands that curled down her face to a warm

smile.

“A coffee, please,” I replied, “a fried egg

and toast.”

“Sure thing,” she said writing on a pad of

paper she held in her hand. She took the menu out

of my hands and placed it back in its holder.

I was caught in a visual embrace as I peered

around the café staring at the subdued faces of

customers having their breakfast communion with

newspaper and coffee when the waitress brought me

my own cup of joe. I thanked her, and from my

compiled files of local behavior I added some sugar

from a jar that sat at the edge of the counter. It

certainly acted as a sweetening agent to reduce the

bitter quality of its prominence. It was not a long

pause before my order was presented in impressive

form; the eggs still steaming and the bread toasted

to a golden brown.

As I sat there chowing down on my plate of

eggs and toast, the bell rang, and surely I spun

around to see who was coming. An older man

walked through the door, hung his coat on the

empty rack of hooks, and took a seat a couple stools

down from me. He had a newspaper in his hand that

he had sat on the counter, folded in half. He sat

there fixed in a position that reminded me of a bird

perched on a tree limb, waiting for the perfect

opportunity to spread its wings.

“Here you go,” said the waitress as she

brought a cup of coffee to the old man between the

bustling of her fast order cooking.

“Next time, have it ready before I take off

my coat,” the man said in jest, laughing at himself.

“Same order every time, you know, I should

be able to. These orders just consume my

attention,” she replied with an innocent smile of

wholehearted sincerity.

I marveled at their conversational

marksmanship. The man was no doubt a regular

customer that had built an amiable affiliation with

the waitress. There was no indignation in either of

their faces. It appeared that they both enjoyed their

time together as a break from the monotonous

workday.

“Anything in the paper worth reading?” the

waitress asked the man as she brought him a

sandwich and a glass of water.

“Just about revoking the township rights of

senior citizens, and the working class.” He said

grabbing the paper then tossing it back on the

counter. “It said we are obsolete in a growing

market economy. I think it said they were training

monkeys to replace us—a low competence

revolution!”

“Between working and paying taxes you’d

think the government would be providing more for

the working class. I guess a gal’s got to apply

herself where she can to support a household,” she

responded.

“Well, with all of the healthcare and

financial relief they give us, why not make the

monkeys or a barrage of foreigners do the work for

little or no wage?” the man said cackling at his own

hypothetical constructs.

The waitress asked me if I would like

anything else before handing me a check for my

meal. I told her no thanks, and left her an ample tip

given my limited funds. If, indeed, she was being

ravaged by taxes the least anyone could do was to

compensate her monetarily for her pleasant, if not

amusing, attitude. I left the café with the bell

sounding my departure and a satisfying meal under

my belt.

A steady wind led me in the direction of a

newsstand a few blocks from the restaurant, which I

floated to thoughtlessly rolling with momentum. I

bought a paper for half a dollar from a gentleman

vending from a booth on the corner. I decided

against some other options of newspapers and

magazines the man was selling for the Blackburn

Forum. I remembered seeing a park not far from

where I was while riding around town with

William.

I let my memory guide me down streets and

alleys until I arrived at the luscious green grass of

the playground. I watched kids giggling, spinning in

a revolving ring, gliding down slides, and flying on

swings as I crossed to a park bench that was empty.

Taking a seat, I unfolded the newspaper, clasped

end to end in my hands. It was visually enhanced

with headlines and photographs to grab the reader’s

attention.

Family caught in burning apartment

building, Sanitation department engages new fleet

of vehicles, Classrooms overflow with a need for

teachers, Taxes raised to compensate for growing

economy read the headlines as I flipped between

sections. It was vividly inscribed with events of

devastations and supposed improvements. A soft

wind sent ripples through the articles. I lifted my

eyes to the cloud formations that puffed and spilled

in the open ocean of sky.

Tree branches intercepted a flock of birds

that descended, but no sooner than the last one

landed they danced into position as new birds took

command. I reflected in a reverie of memories

because parts of me that were buried would surface

recurrently. My emotional reactions would

compress and bottle up like wine—aged for

recapitulation to be stimulated. How can

compassionate service be carried out under a veil of

ignorance?

I lost my sense of contemplation when I saw

a dog running past my feet. The owner chased

behind, grabbing for the leash. Following them with

my eyes, I was led to a couple eating lunch from a

picnic basket. The fellow was lying down, propping

himself on his elbow, and the girl, entertained

perhaps from what the young man was saying, sat

laughing as she was retrieving items from the basket

and placing them on the blanket.

Memories flared within me as I recollected a

relationship I once had. I would have to say that she

was part of the reason I chose my particular career

path. Hands clasped, we sat for hours with whispers

tickling away reservations. Under the full moon, we

lazed about in a canoe building dreams of the future

while pecking kisses. The stillness of the pond that

summer still resonated with feeling as reflection

comforted my frazzled nerves.

The buildings that surrounded the scenery of

the park sang like mountain ranges cascading with

memories like rain in spring. Barren land was a

canvas for the creative mind of men to construct a

myriad of monuments. Apart from the obvious time

and money invested in erecting a city, Blackburn

lacked the vibrant ties that thread themselves

through the community. With all of the support I

had received, there was loneliness in these streets,

and I heard the echo of infinity sound a thousand

words as my emotions bubbled, struggling to feel as

one.

Once again, I felt as if I was stranded on a

desolate island. I wanted no more of the wretched

disposition in which I found myself. I stood up from

the bench, canned the Forum, and hit the sidewalk

to regain a sense of self-confidence. The evening

sun cast an orange tinge to the clouds on the

western horizon. The golden sidewalk lead me to a

haven for rejuvenation, and I had no doubts that

Barney’s Tavern would turn my mood around.

I could hear a record playing jazz guitar and

warm vocals as I approached the door of the bar. I

pulled the handle revealing a lighthearted

atmosphere of chuckling laughter between the

chugging of beers. I sat down at the bar across from

the bartender who was cleaning the counter. I lifted

my hands as he extended the rag in my direction,

wiping rhythmically in circles as to miss nothing.

“Sorry about that,” the bartender said,

looking up at me.

“It’s no problem,” I assured him.

“Can I pour you a drink?” he asked.

I thought that I should perhaps eat a meal

before drinking, but I reasoned away the little

appetite I had before asking for a glass of whiskey.

The first sip relaxed any residual anxiety within me,

and the second gulp plunged me into a sea of

indifference. I swiftly drowned my cares in the tall

glass of caramel liquor. Before I had time to debate

with my sensible half I chased another one down

the hatch.

I heard the music reverberating in the back

of my auditory perception like a haunting melody

captured in a concert hall. The voices of those

drinking slowed down in my discernment to a

muffled underwater delay. I surely could not

advance through the night at the pace I had been

going. I had numbed my insecurities, and now

teetered on the edge of the barstool as my alcohol

buzz knocked me off balance.

I paid the bill and tipped the bartender for

any chaos I may have produced in my inebriated

state. I stumbled out of the pub as carefully as I

could, accidentally kicking a few chairs before

crashing through the door. The streets were nearly

empty except for a minimal late night shopping

crowd and brigade of taxis. I flagged down one of

the cabs with the sign lit, not feeling secure in my

ability to retrace my steps.

The cab driver looked like he was a middle-

aged man that could have been of Cuban decent or

another country from that region. He pleasantly

asked about my destination; his face painted on top

of the encompassing dark of the evening as I looked

deeply with my eyes boggling from the whiskey. I

could not recollect the names of the streets or

address of the towering chapel, but with my

elucidation of the grand sanctuary he cued in,

saying he knew the place, hit the trip odometer, and

drove away.

I paid the cab fare and stumbled out of the

back seat, tripping on the sidewalk that was a step

above the street. I made my way through the halls

of the cathedral like labyrinth, following the

passages illuminated by the moonlight that was

drawn through the windows. Arriving in my

bedroom, I flicked on the light revealing a puzzling

sensory overload of bright flashes. In the midst of

my staggered comprehension, I caught a glimpse of

my guitar propped up majestically as if it were

asking me to play.

I took the instrument from its case, sat on

the bed, and molded my emotions into a rolling

melody, plucking the strings. As a sensation

enveloped me, I acted accordingly and acquiesced

to the proposal that I could maintain my wellbeing

while being paid handsomely. The chords

progressed, mirroring my feelings, into an opus of

harmonic dynamics. The theme spilled out of me as

a cathartic means of relieving my apprehension. At

ease, I placed the guitar back in its case and lay

down to sleep.

Chapter 5

My attention surfaced the next morning with

the song I was playing distorted into a symphony of

eerie countermelodies. I fully awoke from the

dream as sunlight stung my sensitive eyes. A

roaring hunger pain in my stomach made me jump

out of bed and ferociously tear into the rest of the

bread I had. I sat slouched in the chair adjacent to

the bed finishing off the loaf. Satisfied, I reclined

into the chair and felt the nutrients permeate

throughout my body before taking a shower.

The steaming bath invigorated me as the

fragrance of soap cleared my senses. I dressed

myself in black slacks and a gray button up shirt

that were hanging in the closet. Then, I walked

down to the prayer hall and lit several candles, and

moved down the isles, kneeling at a pew to deliver

my morning set of prayers and intentions. Other

than additional sentiments I kept myself to a strict

regiment of ritual daily prayer. I filled a large

portion of my morning with my head to my hands,

reciting verses.

As I was ending my session I heard the

double doors opening, and turning around I was

pleased to see William standing there. I stood up,

greeting him with a bombardment of words from

across the room. He smiled with the light beaming

around him from the doorway and laughed as I

approached him. He extended his hand and I met his

with mine in a jolly shake.

“I see that you are already into your

routine,” he said, looking over my shoulder at the

pew where I had been praying.

“It is the best way to put the rest of my day

in perspective,” I said.

“I understand,” he said. “Would such a

dedicated man be averse to lunch if it were offered

to him?”

I could not deny such an offer, being

through with my set of prayers anyway. “It would

be my pleasure, William, to join you. You haven’t

made an offer I could refuse,” I added.

He assured me I need not change my attire

for the occasion. “I hope it will meet your

expectations, but we will be eating with Beth at my

house. She is preparing another wonderful meal.”

“Splendid,” I said.

I blew out the prayer candles and the

dissipating smoke entered my nasal passage with a

hint of vanilla. I pulled the door closed as we left,

and William led me to his spectacularly luxurious

car. With the smack of the door hinges and the

spark of the ignition we sped off into the lanes of

traffic. He could have been a cab driver with the

ease and agility he possessed while navigating the

chaotic downtown streets; although, it would have

been a complete waste of his prowess in the world

of business.

Our arrival was most certainly expected.

Beth was setting out the plates of food on the table

as we entered the dining room. She smiled and

graciously welcomed me to have a seat. I pulled up

to the table and was treated to a fruity red wine. My

palette noticed the subtle mix of grapes and

blackberries among other flavors. The dish Beth had

prepared was roasted chicken which was the most

succulent meat I had eaten. Along with it she served

sweet corn, fresh baked rolls, and steamed green

beans.

As I ate I saw Francesca, the maid, walking

between rooms with a feather duster. Her silky

brown hair was tied on top of her crown as it had

been during our meeting. The outfit she wore,

although traditional, beautifully molded her

perfectly proportioned form. Her French heritage

struck the deepest chord of my interest. I

remembered her voice as fantastically soothing

when she came to wake me from the guest room.

Her concern for detail and dedicated mindfulness

made me think that she would spoil any man in bed

with such attention.

If she had initiated an interaction of that

stature the day I met her I would have let her take

me back to bed. Straddling me, she would have

untied her sexy brown hair and massaged my chest.

I imagined her whispering sweet nothings into my

ear with her enchanting accent. I would acquiesce to

her every whim penetrating the boundary of our

union. She would scream my name as we bounced

passionately, causing the wooden frame to squeak

with each thrust of our bodies.

With her leaning all of her weight against

me I would grip her hands feeling the blood pulse

rapidly in her palms. Perspiration condensing on the

surface of her soft skin would drain between her full

breasts and collect around her navel. She would tell

me to kiss her earlobes, then her neck and slowly

move down to her breasts. She would say she

wanted us to be together forever and always. We

would wed under the stars, and honeymoon on the

shore of a beach with the whitest sand ever seen.

She would want to have several of my children and

live in a townhouse on a quiet street.

“Josiah,” Beth said, awakening me from the

daydream. “Is everything fine?”

“Everything is wonderful. I apologize. I was

lost in thought,” I said.

“Beth and I have been known to throw some

grand parties,” William began. “Tomorrow, we are

hosting a party and we both wish to cordially invite

you. I can even send a taxi to pick you up at,” he

paused, “seven.”

“I wouldn’t miss your party for anything,” I

replied.

“It is settled then.” William said. “And I

assure you it will be the most extravagant party

you’ve ever attended.”

“I am sure what you have in store is beyond

my capacity to reason,” I agreed.

After we had finished eating the main course

Beth called for Francesca. I felt a wave of

apprehension envelope me and felt sweat begin to

bead on my forehead. She promptly arrived and

stood in the most divine pose, holding her hands

behind her back. Beth asked if she would bring to

the table the pie that was kept warm in the oven.

She happily agreed and smiled, showing a row of

her perfect teeth polished to a brilliant white that

shined like sunlight. She returned with the pie and

placed it on the table in front of me. She sliced the

pie and handed me the first piece. She gathered our

plates that we had finished before walking back to

the kitchen.

“I’m glad to see you’re back so soon,” she

said to me before leaving the dining room.

I think my heart skipped a beat and I was

left speechless, wearing a cheesy smile. I felt as if I

were a child at the carnival. I broke from my

emotions, seeing Beth and William raise their forks

to their mouths and sigh with delight. I followed

their cue and bit into the most delicious apple pie

that had ever touched my lips. It was the perfect

balance of fruit and cinnamon with a hint of

nutmeg. The crust was baked to the precise range

between chewy and flaky, crumbling slowly as I bit

into each piece.

“Josiah,” William addressed me. “Would

you care to join me on a walk around the garden?”

“I would be pleased to join you,” I

responded.

We excused ourselves from the table. I

thanked Beth and told her that she was the most

magnificent cook in the world. She said I was too

kind, but I meant it with all sincerity. William let

me through the living room to the front door. It was

an absolutely lovely day and the clouds drifted

above the treetops surrounding the property. We

walked along the brick path that circled the house.

“Can you smell the pine trees?” William

asked me.

I could, and after his question I was further

drawn to the invigorating scent.

“Are all of the arrangements I have made

making you feel at home?” William said to my

surprise.

I had to be completely honest with him. The

situation, although immensely appreciated, was not

what I intending when I left on my trip. I told him

there was no way I could repay the kindness shown

by him and his family. Their generosity was an

unprecedented event that made my heart ache with

gratitude. He made me feel worse when he told me I

owe him nothing. I felt tears begin to well up in my

eyes because of my inability to return every favor

that I would have liked.

“I think you should know the Bishops and I

have tremendous confidence that you will perform

remarkably this Sunday,” William said.

“I have no intentions of disappointing you

gentlemen,” I said.

“Are the payment arrangements to your

satisfaction?” he asked.

“I assure you, the weekly payment is more

than adequate compensation for my services,” I told

him. “I admit I even feel guilty receiving twice my

last salary.”

“There is no need for guilt,” he said.

“Blackburn is a large city and the demand for an

experienced Catholic priest warrants at least that

compensation.”

We sat down on a bench next to the garden,

both of us reflecting in silence. The flowerbed was

gorgeously decorated with several varieties that

were unfamiliar to me. The scheme of colors was

riveting, blooming with all shades of violet, yellow,

white, and pink. A row of long-stemmed red roses

separated the flowers from the garden. Growing

were patches of tomato plants, carrots, green beans,

and peas. Beyond the garden was a row of apple

trees and further was their lawn that was

meticulously manicured as far as the eye could see.

“If I may ask, how long had you planned to

stay in Mexico City,” William asked, looking at me

inquisitively.

“Honestly, I had not planned a duration of

time to channel my efforts as a missionary; perhaps

a week, or perhaps indefinitely.” I said. “It was

more of a feeling which I wished to resolve by those

means.”

“What feeling would that be?” he asked, not

intrusively, but seemingly with a concern for my

wellbeing.

“Initially, it was a feeling of urgency that

made me leave, as if my services were of dire need.

Now, I’m feeling as though it may be a personal

issue directing me towards a change,” I responded.

“A change? As in a different career, you

mean?” he asked, puzzled by what I was telling

him.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I have been battling

a sense of inadequacy. I feel as though my actions

are lacking the efficiency of isolating the better

quality of the community.”

“I can only imagine what it must be like to

be a priest. I have the greatest respect for the

profession, but it seems that it can be lonely,” he

said.

“It certainly can be,” I agreed, “although, I

didn’t always have those sentiments. They seemed

to have developed over years of service.”

“You should know, if it is a job opportunity

you are looking for, it is most likely you will find

any you desire in Blackburn. I would even find a

place for you at the accounting firm if that was your

predilection,” he said, chuckling.

He said he would drive me back to the

church whenever I was ready to go. I knew he was a

busy man so I told him I had some things to take

care of before the end of the day. We walked back

around the house to the driveway and hopped in the

seats. His car was an utterly remarkable chariot and

I relished in its comfort as we drove away. I

reflected on his proposal of finding me a job at the

accounting firm, but it would not have satisfied my

search for a feeling of completeness.

William stopped the car in front of the door

of the church. I said goodbye and thanked him for

lunch and his company. He reminded me that the

taxi would be waiting to pick me up at seven

o’clock tomorrow evening. I walked into the church

feeling at ease. My time with William tended to

have that effect on me. The attention and

compassion he directed were unmatched. He was an

incredible man that, I believed, would have taken

any soul in need under his wing.

The chapel resonated with an empty

hollowness, not malevolent, but helpless like an

infant. I cared for it by lighting several prayer

candles, and then walked up the main isle to the

crucifix. I knelt beneath the empowering symbol of

Christ in such a compromising position. His

suffering was a universal element—to bear the

weight and travesty of our sins—and I, like the rest

of the world, no matter how sincerely I persevered,

added to the sum total of festering evil.

I prepared the altar for Sunday service by

filling the bowl with the sacrament and ceremonial

vase with wine from the bottles stored in the

adjacent closet. I picked up the bible and flipped

through the pages, marking with ribbons the

passages which I felt were most appropriate.

Looking out to the row of pews gave me the vague

sense of how Sunday’s service would progress. I

was undeniably nervous about the situation placed

in my hands, but would no doubt step proudly up to

the altar Sunday morning. I would not disappoint

William and the Bishops who shared their utmost

confidence in me.

I closed the Bible and released a deep breath

that cleared my apprehension. The thought occurred

to me that local business hours would be coming to

a close, and that I should venture into the city to

pick up a couple items from the grocery. It was

nearly the evening and I suspected my appetite

would return in the hours to come. I went to my

bedroom and grabbed some money. Blowing ever

so softly, I extinguished the candlelight before

leaving.

The sidewalks were not crowded, merely

dotted with people busily rushing from one place to

another. The rhythm of shoes tapping was music

that I found entertaining. Trees were planted

sporadically between the buildings facing the street.

I heard the leaves rustling as a breeze blew from

behind me. I walked several blocks before finding a

grocery, but Rueben’s Market seemed like the

perfect place to suit my needs.

When I entered, the cashier, a short man

with brown hair, smiled pleasantly. I perused the

isles for the items of my liking. The baked goods

were on a shelf above the crackers and other non-

perishables. I grabbed a sizable loaf of whole wheat

bread, my favorite. Moving along, I saw a jar of

peanuts which I had always been told are a good

source of nutrition. I also picked up a bottle of

honey that seemed to complement my list of

groceries. I paid for the items and had an enjoyable

exchange with the cashier. He happily bagged my

things and wished me well on my way.

When I returned to the church I was

surprised to find one of the prayer candles

flickering. I was thinking about the certainty with

which I extinguished each lit wick when I heard the

creak of a kneeling bench. There was a woman with

grayish-blond hair who sat with her head bent

forward on a pew in the back row. I walked

silently—as to not disturb her vigil—around and up

the stairs to my bedroom.

I sat down the paper sack and knelt next to

the bed, placing my elbows on the mattress and

bringing my head to my hands. I said a prayer for

the Franklins, along with my usual list of

acknowledgements, and blessed the food that I was

going to eat. Taking a piece of bread, I spread a thin

layer of honey and ate it with a handful of peanuts.

Fatigue set into my muscles, and I yawned, feeling

exhausted. I crawled into bed and thought of the

party I was going to attend. Before drifting off to

sleep I remembered the woman praying and

wondered if she had been stricken by grief.

Chapter 6

I spent the morning getting things in order

for the party. My exuberance was that of a kid

attending the annual celebration of a friend or kin. I

showered that morning, as I regularly did, but this

time the bubbling effervescence not only cleansed

my preoccupation, but heightened my already

elevated mode of behavior. I combed my hair, and

with each stroke I parted my reservations, leaving

glossy strands of confidence.

I dressed myself in my most appropriate

wardrobe. Gray slacks and a beige collared shirt

along with black socks seemed to accentuate my

appearance nicely. I polished my black shoes with a

wet rag that cleaned off the dust and returned their

glimmering shine. Making use of some excess

energy and my preparatory state of mind, I wiped

down the bathroom counter and made the bed,

pulling the sheets tightly. I tossed on the pillows

and walked down to the prayer hall.

I lit a few candles with a long matchstick

from a box that sat next to the candle dish. Moving

down the isle I found a pew that pleased my

particular sense of being. I placed my knees on the

wooden kneeling bench with care and ease, and

bringing my hands together, entered into a session

of prayer. I had several momentary breaks of

concentration, during which I ecstatically thought of

the evening and my expectations. The session ended

early because my lack of single-mindedness did not

permit the attention needed.

Returning feelings of hunger gave me the

idea to walk down to the park with a basket lunch. I

retrieved the sack of groceries from the bedroom,

blew out the candles, and hit the street. The sun was

beaming from behind a mountain of white puffy

clouds. I trotted down the sidewalk happily to the

beat of heels clicking the pedestrian theme.

Although the sidewalk was lined with people and

the streets were filled with cars bustling for an open

parking space, to my surprise, the park was nearly

empty and vacant of activity.

There were several benches to choose from,

but I made my way to one that seemed cozy under

the shade of a tree. I looked on to a child swinging

as Mother pushed her ever so gently. There was also

an older couple sitting a few benches down from

me. The man read the newspaper silently and his

wife was sifting through her purse, jabbering as if

she was looking for something. I could hear the

chirps and whistles of birds singing above me.

I took the items from the bag and placed

them on the bench. Then, I flattened the paper sack

to serve as a tabletop while I ate. Placing a piece of

bread on my lap I smeared some honey with my

finger. I followed this procedure, making two

sandwiches, and poured a handful of peanuts to go

with them. The meal satisfied my hunger and

calmed my excited nerves. I sat there for an

indefinite amount of time listening to the trills of

songbirds.

When I finally gathered myself into a

cohesively functioning body, the sun was in the

western corner of the sky. I estimated that it was

nearly four in the afternoon. Grabbing my bag of

groceries, I walked feverishly, passing people left

and right, until I advanced to the church doors. I

swung them open extending a trail of light down the

middle isle with the silhouette of me with bag in

hand in its center.

I put the food in my bedroom and retrieved

the rag I had already used to wipe off the newly

collected dust from my shoes. I gazed into the

mirror checking every detail of my appearance.

Making the necessary adjustments, I creased my

collar, straightened my cuffs, and snugly tucked in

my shirt lining it up with my pants. I pulled the

comb across my head, fixing the hairs that were

tousled by the wind, and scrubbed my teeth to

ensure fresh breath for a night full of conversation.

It was perhaps an hour that I sat waiting for

my ride, but it seemed to go by in a flash. I had no

doubts when a cab stopped in front of the church,

and leapt gleefully for the door. Having absolutely

no concerns, I felt as if we were flying on the wings

of a giant bird; an eagle soaring high above other

means of transportation. We arrived at the home of

the Franklins in an instant, and I was not surprised

to see dozens of cars in the driveway just as

luxurious as William’s. The driver assured me that

the fare had been taken care of with a smile and a

wave, gesturing me on my way. I approached the

door and rang the bell nervously, and stood poised

hearing the click of the handle turning.

“Josiah, right on time!” William said

exuberantly.

“I told you I wouldn’t miss it for anything,”

I said just as happily and extended my hand for him

to shake.

He literally pulled me across the threshold

of the door. I was barely able to swing my free arm

around to close it before he dragged me away.

“Everybody, I would like to introduce you to

Josiah,” William spewed with giggles delightfully.

There was a chant of incoherent

verbalizations from the attendants. My eyes bulged

seeing what must have been fifty elegantly dressed

people lining the walls of what was once the dining

quarters.

“Can I offer you a drink?” William asked

me.

“Most certainly,” I responded before he cut

me off.

“Anything, you name it. I guarantee,” he

asserted.

“I’m in the mood for an aged scotch, on the

rocks,” I tested him.

“No problem,” he said. “Follow me.”

William proceeded to pour me the best scotch I had

ever tasted. The flavor was an explosion of

butterscotch so soft it rolled down the throat with

complete ease: a poignant whiskey.

“This is astounding!” I said—my facial

expression stretched to encompass my awe and

sincerity.

“Have I ever let you down?” he asked me.

“No, William, and you continue to exceed

my expectations,” I responded.

“Now, let me take the pleasure of

introducing you, personally, to some friends of

mine,” he said as he was pouring himself the same.

We walked, both of us with drink in hand, to

one room after another as William spotted, as he

said, those of whom I should make the

acquaintance. I felt that I met more people than I

had in my entire life: politicians, businessmen and

women, those affiliated with the new church and its

establishment, investors, land owners. William

would promptly address their profession after I had

learned their names and we had shaken hands. We

finally approached a woman in a dazzling red dress

with golden hair pulled on top of her head with

designs twisted in and around it.

“Josiah, I would like you to meet a very

special friend of mine,” William said with a smile.

I extended my hand for her to shake, but in

response she raised her four fingers several inches

from mine. Somewhat confused as of what to do, I

took a step forward, grasped her fingers gently in

my hand, and shook politely.

“My name is Priscilla. I’m very pleased to

meet you, Josiah,” she said with a sensual tone,

almost a heavy whisper.

“Priscilla is an intermediary in my business

endeavors,” William said.

“I know how hard William works. He must

keep you very busy,” I said, attempting to start a

conversation with this beautiful and interesting

woman.

“Like you wouldn’t believe!” she said

laughing and took a drink from her glass of what

seemed to be champagne.

“If you two would excuse me, there is a

party that I’m supposed to be hosting,” William said

pleasantly, then disappeared behind a curtain of

people.

“So you’re the new priest at the church

that’s opening?” she asked me.

“For the time being, at least,” I responded.

“It is more of a favor than a career choice per se.”

“I know what you mean,” she said and

quickly emptied her glass. “I need another drink,

excuse me.”

I walked around the party aimlessly.

Everyone I had met was intently involved in

conversation. There were the most elaborate suits

and dresses I had ever laid my eyes on. My

assumption was that they must have cost a fortune,

but that was from the standpoint of a priest that

usually wore a simple uniform if not something

more casual. Obviously, these were business

people. It was their job to present themselves in a

manner that would attract business offers. I polished

off my scotch and returned to the open bar for

another.

“Josiah,” a voice said from behind me as I

was pouring myself what looked like a nice

Tennessee whiskey.

I turned around to see Bishop Reilly as

drunk as anyone else at the party.

“Bishop, I’m glad to see you here,” I said.

“I come to all of William’s parties. He is a

serious businessman, but he is more serious about

throwing parties,” he said laughing.

“Do you know if Bishop Thomas made it?” I

asked.

“Oh yes!” he said with conviction, or

perhaps it was the booze flowing through him. “I

can’t place him at the moment, but he is certainly

here.”

We said our adieus acknowledging that we

would probably run into each other again. I decided

to take a walk to the patio in the backyard. There

were people scattered around the garden, talking

and drinking. I strolled about carelessly enjoying

the atmosphere. The thought of Francesca crossed

my mind. If I were not pious I would have

professed my undying love for that woman. Some

people may have looked down on the fact that she

was nearly a servant catering to the employer’s

every request, but in my book she was royalty.

I could not rattle myself from the anguish of

not being able to share my love and adoration for

her openly. It occurred to me that if perhaps I spent

a moment in the guestroom I could resolve my

feelings from the place they originated. Not being

able to handle the siege of emotions I bolted

through the back door between clusters of people

talking. The staircase leading to the second floor

was dark and quiet, and there was no one around to

be suspicious of my intentions. I walked slowly up

the steps until I was out of view of the party, then I

darted to the door of the guestroom.

I stood there trying to clear my head with

the noise of the party below me. Turning the knob, I

pushed the door forward and noticed that the

bedroom light was on. Before my better sense could

direct me otherwise I opened it more to see Bishop

Thomas in bed groaning and Priscilla, who I had

just met, sitting on top, riding him like a pony. I

shut the door as swiftly as I could, but Priscilla’s

head turned, and our eyes met for a split second. I

completely panicked. Putting my hands to my face I

reached for composure. Walking as nonchalantly as

possible I returned to the party.

There were thousands of questions running

through my mind that were answered with the

certainty that what I had seen was not a

hallucination. It was positively Bishop Thomas,

half-naked, resting on a stack of pillows against the

headboard. There was absolutely no mistake that the

woman pulling those awful groans and faces from

him was Priscilla. She had pulled up her dress and

was grinding back and forth on the Bishop. At my

wit’s end, I sat down at a row of chairs that were

next to the bar with an empty glass in my hand. I

twirled the melting ice cubes in circles trying to

regain a grasp on everything.

“Priscilla is an intermediary in my business

endeavors,” William’s words reverberated in my

head. Was William using Priscilla for sex to score

business agreements? I felt sick to my stomach. I

could hardly fathom the possibility, but there was

no need. The puzzle pieces were right in front of

me. Not long after I sat there paralyzed in thought I

saw Priscilla walking around the party. I thought I

would be able to escape before she noticed me, but

in an instant she spotted me and walked to the bar.

“I have something very important to tell

you,” she said pouring herself another glass of

champagne. “Will you meet me at the park next to

the church tomorrow at noon?”

I just stared at her not saying anything, and

she quickly walked away. I thought another drink

might resolve my anxiety. Standing up, I dropped a

few ice cubes into my glass and grabbed the bottle

of aged scotch I had tried earlier. To my dismay, it

left a bad taste in my mouth. I took another sip, but

knew right then that more liquor was not the

answer. I walked slowly in giant circles trying to

think my way out of the situation. Passing numbly

by the attendants, I stumbled into the last person I

wanted to see: William.

“Josiah,” he pronounced my name slowly,

lengthening the syllables. “Enjoying the party?”

“It is like nothing I would have imagined,” I

responded truthfully.

“Excellent!” he said, and walked past me.

Frightened as I have ever been, I

immediately turned around, left my glass at the bar,

and walked out the door to look for a taxi. I knew I

didn’t have much money, but it was enough to get

me back to the church, a sanctuary regardless of

William’s affiliation. I had to walk a couple blocks

before I could flag down a taxi with its light on,

indicating it was in operation. Luckily for me,

Friday nights were good business for taxi services

and I didn’t have to wait long.

I still did not know the intersection where

the church was located. I just told him to take me to

the new church in downtown, and he knew what I

meant. He pulled away from the curb and sped into

the congested nightlife traffic. We arrived at the

church in good time. I was able to spare a small tip

for him on top of the payment. I ran up the stairs to

my bedroom, threw my clothes on the floor, and

hopped into bed, pulling the covers over my head.

In the darkness, the quiet stillness of night, I found

the peace that I needed and drifted off to sleep.

Chapter 7

I was awakened by a throbbing pain behind

my right eye. I sat up in bed and applied pressure

with the palm of my hand to the affected area,

hoping to release the tension. The more I

concentrated on the agitation; the throbbing

worsened, and extended along the right side of my

head to my neck. It was light outside, but I was

drained from exhaustion and felt as if I hadn’t slept

a wink. I stumbled out of bed, with my hand on my

aching head, moaning in agony, when I kicked my

pants and noticed my clothes were scattered on my

bedroom floor.

The memory of Priscilla and Bishop Thomas

hit me like a brick in the face and I instantly began

to sweat with anxiety. I made an attempt to

rationalize the whole event as a dream; I was so

drunk on whiskey I was completely out of my

senses and William paid for a taxi to take me to

back to the church. It was useless. I remembered

every detail of the shocking event as it had

progressed. The clarity with which the recollection

came to me actually brought back my emotional

turmoil.

I took a shower to wash off the sweat and

confusion, hoping it would foster an idea of what to

do. I stepped out smelling fresh, but my mind was

as soggy and waterlogged as it had been. Pulling the

towel across me, I looked at my bewildered

reflection in the mirror. It wasn’t until then that I

remembered what Priscilla said. She had something

very important to tell me, and to meet her at the

park at noon. I couldn’t imagine what she had to tell

me being anything other than what I scrutinized for

myself, but I decided to meet her, giving her the

benefit of the doubt.

Before any such meeting, it was necessary

that I immerse myself in prayer. I dressed, then

walked down to the lecture auditorium and lit

several prayer candles as I usually did, but this

morning I lit a few more for the repentance of the

sins I had witnessed. I knelt at the closest pew and

prayed to God to forgive the sins of Bishop

Thomas. I prayed in earnest for everyone I had met

at the party. I prayed for William and his family,

and everyone that I had met since I came to this

city. I prayed that they would be allowed passage

into the kingdom of Heaven and their sins be

forgiven no matter how grave and unsettling.

Midday was approaching, so I accordingly

blew out the candles and went to my bedroom for a

bite to eat. I took a large piece of bread dripping

with honey and crammed it into my mouth. I took a

drink of water from the bathroom sink, and then left

the church without hesitation.

The sky was overcast with gray clouds that

seemed to stretch for miles. A ray of sunshine and

blue sky would momentarily appear before being

swallowed by the consuming haziness. I made it to

the park with time to spare. There were a few

people strolling, but I didn’t see Priscilla anywhere.

I took a seat at my favorite bench under a large tree.

Today, it was not for shade, but for fear that it

would begin pouring rain. It was not long before I

saw the familiar figure of Priscilla walking along a

bridge connecting both sides of the park over a

small creek.

She was bracing the rail of the walking

bridge staring into the rushing water of the creek. I

stood up and walked towards her. Regardless of

how shallow she could have been after the events of

the previous night, she still appealed to me as a

gorgeous woman with a perfect body. She was

dressed in tight denim pants, a red jacket, and a pair

of black slippers with tall heels. She must have

heard me approaching because she looked up with a

crushing stare that pulverized me.

“Before you say anything, I want you to

know I’m not who you think I am,” she said with a

look of innocence.

“And who would that be?” I asked, perhaps

just to see what she’d say.

“A whore that William is pimping,” she said

sadly. “It is just that you seem genuine, someone I

can confide in, which is not easy to find in

Blackburn.”

“You can tell me anything. I will not judge

you, and whatever is said stays between us,” I

assured her. No matter what she could have done or

what situation she was in, I was still a priest and

honored her with respect.

“I could tell from the moment I met you that

you were not like the other men,” she began. “Just

like William, they are all greedy, lustful, cheating

sons of bitches. I don’t want to insult your

intelligence. I’m sure there were many things you

could deduce for yourself after what you saw last

night, but you may not know that William Franklin

is the ring leader of all of this. He is behind the

betrayal and corruption that is destroying this city

from within.”

“What does William have to gain by doing

this? He seems to be a successful business owner

that could make a fortune being an honest man,” I

said.

“It may appear that way, and, yes, it is

possible, but it is not the case with him,” she said.

“His home, his fortune, all of it has come from

being a petty, underhanded businessman. He

launders money through his accounting firm and

keeps people quiet by bribing them: politicians, the

internal revenue service, even local policemen.

They are all in his pocket.”

“How long has this been going on?” I asked.

“As long as I’ve known him, which is going

on five years, but I can only imagine he’s been

doing this ever since he learned to manipulate

people,” she said. “Sadly, knowing him, I would say

he’s been building up to this since childhood. So

greedy, he will do anything for money.”

“How did you get involved in this?” I asked,

seeing she was not that type of person.

“I moved to Blackburn after high school

from a small town to the south. Blackburn is a place

known for job opportunity. I thought that someday I

would be able to operate my own business

designing and manufacturing clothes. It had always

been my hobby.

“I took the first job I could find to afford my

living expenses. I was a waitress at one of the nicest

restaurants in the city. It was fast paced and kept me

busy, but it felt good making my own money. That

is where I met William. He was a regular and

known for his big tips so I would always try to wait

on him. After a while he even began to ask to be put

in my section. He would ask me about my life and

my plans, and I told him about my fashion business.

He said he had ties to all the right people and could

help me get the idea off the ground, and I bought it,

like the fool I am,” she said with tears in her eyes.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” I consoled

her. “Anyone would have done the same thing.

There was no way of knowing his true nature and

intentions.”

She put her head on my shoulder, bursting

into tears. She made an attempt to elucidate further,

but was unable to catch her breath between the sobs

of anguish.

“It’s alright,” I assured her. “Would you like

to go for a walk?”

“Yes,” she muttered. She lifted her head and

looked at me helplessly. Then she wiped the tears

from my shoulder, sadly laughing at herself.

We began to walk and she grabbed my hand,

squeezing it as if her life depended on it. She was

crumbling with despondency, but if she needed my

hand or shoulder for strength, it was nothing to me.

I felt just as foolish and perhaps I wanted a hand to

hold as much as she did.

“How did William manage to drag you into

this?” she asked.

“Just like you, I’m not from around here;

although, the small town which I came from is to

the north. I was taking a bus, making my way to

Mexico City where I planned to work as a

missionary. William swayed me with his kindness

and hospitality, giving me food and a place to sleep.

I was even introduced to his family, which treated

me with the same sincerity and respect.

I can see now that all of it was to put me in a

position that would make it difficult to refuse a job

he posed as a favor, but it wasn’t until after he had

done so much for me, and I was looking for a way

to pay him back, that he offered it to me. He

presented it as if he and his affiliates, the Bishops,

were in an honest bind that my services could

resolve,” I expounded.

“I identify with you completely,” she said.

“It was the same situation for me. That is why I felt

the need to tell you all of this, so you can leave

before you are up to your knees in guilt, shame, and

ultimately dependency.”

“What about yourself? Why didn’t you end

your involvement long ago?” I asked.

“It was not that simple. I had nowhere to

turn. My family believed I was fulfilling my dream,

and I couldn’t return with nothing. I was not going

to play on their heartstrings so that they would

support me. I’m supposed to be a grown woman

capable of making intelligent decisions. Not to

mention the promises I made to William so that he

would set me up with his ties to the business world.

By the time I knew what was going on I was

completely at his mercy,” she explained.

We were a few blocks from the park in the

opposite direction of the church when I felt water

dripping onto me. In seconds, it was pouring down

rain with unrelenting intensity.

“My apartment is not far from here. Come

on,” she said, pulling my hand.

We were both running, trying to deflect the

rain by holding our free arms above our faces. It

was less than a block before we were at her

apartment building. She quickly retrieved the key

and unlocked the door; and we dashed into the

lobby. A couple of people were standing there,

obviously apprehensive about venturing into the

onslaught of torrential rain.

“Let’s go to my apartment where we can

talk privately,” she said, opening the door to the

stairwell.

She ran up the steps shaking the water from

her drenched hair. It took all of my energy to stay

close behind her. She did not stop for five flights of

stairs. I thought I was going to collapse by the time

we reached her door. She unlocked it and signaled

me to follow her. I couldn’t see much because she

had thick curtains on the windows, not that the

storm permitted any natural light to shine through. I

blindly closed the door behind me and stood waiting

for my eyes to adjust to the darkness anyway.

A light turned on in the next room and I was

able to see my way around. It was a small

apartment, ideal for one person or a couple. I was

standing in the bedroom and the bed was decorated

in matching rose patterned comforter and pillow

shams. There was a table on the opposite side of the

bed with a small reading lamp. The illuminated

doorway appeared to lead to the kitchen.

“Would you like a cup of coffee?” Priscilla

asked from the next room.

“Yes, that would be wonderful,” I

responded.

“It should just be a minute,” she said.

She returned drying her hair with a towel.

She tossed me one and told me to dry myself off,

which I did happily. I said that I liked her

apartment, and she laughed saying it was William’s.

He didn’t have a key, but his name was on the lease

and he paid the rent monthly. She left the room

again and returned with two steaming cups of

coffee. She handed one of them to me with the

careful and delicate touch of someone who has been

a waitress.

“I didn’t put any sugar in it,” she said with a

look of hesitation. “That’s how I drink it, but would

you like some?”

“No, thank you,” I declined.

“I’m sorry I don’t have any chairs. Please,”

she signaled me to sit on the bed.

I sat on the edge of the bed, and she took a

seat about a foot from me sipping her coffee. Her

rain washed face dazzled with natural beauty, and

her hair, still slightly wet, hung with a subtle curl.

She smiled at me as I drank my coffee, but it was

her face that warmed me most of all. She was

wearing a gray shirt that had gotten wet in the

rainstorm, and I could see the straps of her bra

supporting her sizable breasts. I felt guilty gazing at

her and made an attempt at conversation.

“Excuse me if this is too intrusive, but with

what you were doing last night, do you ever worry

about becoming pregnant?” I asked, instantly

regretting what I had said.

“I am unable to have children,” she

explained. “The doctor said my ovaries had not

developed to the maturity needed to foster the

fertilization and growth of a child.”

“And William knows this?” I asked, more

rhetorically, knowing the answer.

“Yes, I made the mistake of telling him,”

she said. “Now, in all fairness, let me ask you a

personal question. Since you are a Catholic priest, I

understand you are not supposed to have sexual

intercourse. There was a time when you were not a

priest. Do you know what I’m asking?”

I sipped my coffee nervously, thinking how

to word what I was about to say.

“Women are not foreign to me. I had

relationships when I was younger, some more

passionate than others, but I did not have sexual

intercourse before,” I paused, “giving myself to the

church.”

“So you don’t know what it means to give

yourself to a woman completely?” she asked me,

moving a little closer.

I tried again to hide behind my cup of

coffee, but it was empty. She extended her hand for

my cup and I handed it to her. She rolled across the

bed and put both of our cups on the nightstand.

“I suppose I don’t in terms of unrestrained

physical relations,” I said.

“For every woman that disappointed you,

for every lying Bishop that put you in a

compromising position, for everyone like William

that scammed money from your services; I want

you to take me, Josiah.” She grabbed my shoulders,

pulling my lips to hers. “Take me.”

I kissed her like I have never kissed any

woman in my life. I wrapped my arms around her

body tightly and caressed her gorgeous figure. I

enveloped her with all of the passion that had been

bottling up within me. She attacked me with the

same ferociousness; unleashing her longing for

genuine companionship. She attached her hands to

the muscles of my upper arms, massaging them

with a sensual forcefulness. Slowly moving them to

my chest, she unbuttoned my shirt, one by one,

from the neck down with the tip of her thumb. She

threw me back onto the bed and pulled off her shirt

in one swift motion.

I was totally overwhelmed with elation. She

unsnapped her bra, slid it off, and threw it over the

side of the bed. She fell bare-breasted into my arms

and I could feel her stiff nipples rubbing against my

chest. She unzipped my pants and kicked them off

with her legs as I was holding her golden locks to

the back of her neck. I inched my hands down and

squeezed her voluptuous buttocks, then pulled her

pants over her narrow hips. She kicked them to the

side as she kissed my chest. She moved up my neck,

and licked the lobes of my ears. With both of us at

the peak of our arousal, we consummated as I

penetrated her softness, pulling her toward me.

She moaned with a low undulating howl

each time our hips met. I felt the peculiar sensation

of her wet, ribbed walls breathing against me. A

buzzing from my midsection ran up to my neck,

nearly choking me with excitement. She looked into

my eyes, and with a face of blankness, fell on top of

me momentarily with a quivering limpness. Her

body shuttered a few times before we returned to

our previous pace. We were both dripping with

sweat and our bodies made the smack of suction. I

felt a shock numb my legs and released a visceral

groan with an explosion of feeling.

We laid there panting for breath, and I was

filled with a new sense of invigoration. She finally

broke the silence by saying that very soon she

would have enough money saved to leave

Blackburn and William’s trap for good, and she

wanted me to go with her. I asked when, still unable

to formulate complex sentences under the fog of the

experience. She responded that William’s payroll

came in on Monday and he would bring her check

in the morning, as he always did.

I asked where she planned to go, unable to

take it all in. She said she was going to her

hometown to housesit her sister’s place while she

looked for employment. I asked by what means was

she leaving, and she told me that William had

purchased her a car some time ago. I told her I had

to think about it and would meet her at the park

Monday, same time. I put on my clothes and left

without another word.

Chapter 8

I was submerged in a deep sleep when a

tapping woke me. I was still disoriented, but the

repetitiveness of it finally caused me to open my

eyes and examine the situation. I was staring at my

pillow in the bedroom of the church when a voice

startled me.

“Father, service begins in one hour. Are you

feeling alright?”

I looked over to see an altar boy already

dressed in his gown, standing in the doorway.

“Yes, of course,” I muttered, and he walked

away.

As soon as he was out of sight I nervously

jumped to my feet. I could still smell the odor of sex

reeking from my body as I stood there, perplexed—

shaken to the core in my underwear. Grabbing my

ceremonial gown from the closet, I darted across the

hall to the bathroom. I flipped on the shower and

lathered up my body with soap, hoping with all of

my being it would eradicate that most pungent smell

from me. With no time to spare, I jumped out, threw

on the gown, quickly combed my hair, and headed

for the lecture hall.

Suddenly, the thought occurred to me that

something was drastically out of place. I looked

down to see I was standing on my bare feet. Putting

my hands to my face with a groan of despair, I

knew my mind was completely discombobulated. I

ran back to my room and scrambled to find my

socks and shoes when a roar in my stomach brought

to my attention that I hadn’t eaten in too long; and I

wouldn’t make it through mass in my current state. I

tied my shoelaces and took a couple handfuls of

peanuts, stuffing them in my mouth.

I tried to walk as calmly and casually as

possible, crunching on the overstuffed mouthful. I

choked, and coughed, sending a few peanuts flying

across the hall. Regaining my composure, I braced

myself against the wall with my hand and finished

chewing, covering my mouth with the other in case

of another fit of asphyxiation. Telling myself I

could do this, that there was no alternative, I

mustered up the courage to walk in the face of my

discomfort, down the stairs to the prayer hall.

People were already beginning to fill a

number of the pews. I smiled and nodded at those

who were aware of my presence, but for the most

part, I tried to make my way to the altar unnoticed.

The altar boy who had woken me was sitting with

another altar boy in a couple chairs stage left of the

crucifix. I reviewed the Bible and the marks I had

placed a few days earlier. Thankfully, they were

still in order. Approaching the altar boys, I made

every attempt to act as if my mind wasn’t terrible

preoccupied.

“I’m Father Josiah Guillaume,” I introduced

myself. “I usually preach at Sun Grove Catholic.

It’s a bit north of here.”

I asked them where they were from and how

long they had been helping with the church,

completely unable to register their responses. I

finally asked the question boiling in the forefront of

my mind.

“How much time do we have?”

“About twenty minutes,” one of the boys

responded.

I tried to hide my facial expression which

was riddled with uneasiness. Looking out into the

sea of faces with a forced smile, I saw William and

his family a couple rows from the front. William

waved and gestured to me with a nod, wearing a face

of pure confidence. Looking past them, several

people I had met at the party caught my eye. I

stretched my vision to the back of the church and

what I saw made my guts drop to the floor. It was

Priscilla; she was walking through the door. She

looked up and we made eye contact, and she smiled

with a look of acknowledgement.

Now, more than ever, I had a serious

internal struggle about my ability to proceed with

the service. I was paralyzed—stricken with panic.

My breathing accelerated and I actually felt a shiver

ripple through my body. Wobbling, I stepped

carefully to the podium, bracing my weight against

its slanted surface. Flipping the Bible to the first

passage I intended to read, I tried to memorize the

words, but my vision blurred the lines together. I

resigned to my feelings of inadequacy. I agreed

with the voice that told me I was unable to do this. I

decided I would leave that moment when the organ

started playing and everyone stood up to sing.

On impulse, I raised my right hand and led

them in singing the opening hymn. A level of

security returned to me as I was elevated by the

choir of voices. I even sang with all of the vigor and

intensity I always had, pocketed in the comfort they

provided me. By the end of the song, I had all of the

confidence I needed to proceed. I lowered my hand,

signaling them to have a seat. There was a moment

of absolute silence before I began to speak.

“I’d like to welcome everyone to the new

Blackburn Catholic church,” I began. “I am Father

Josiah Guillaume, and I will be leading this

Sunday’s service. When I was asked to preside at

the opening day of this new and undeniably grand

church to the city of Blackburn, I posed a question

to myself.

“Why me? What quality did I have that

made them believe I was capable and deserving of

the responsibility? I have had my share of

experience. I have been involved with the Catholic

church since before I can remember, thanks to my

parents. I have preached at Sun Grove Catholic for

twelve years, in a small town many miles from here,

but was that sufficient? The local Bishops believed

it was, and I have no intentions of disappointing

them or you.”

With a restored sense of worth, I looked

down at the marked passage and it returned to my

memory with ebullient clarity. I spouted it out,

captivating my audience with the robust tone of a

driven individual, something difficult to find among

the Catholic priests with whom I was familiar. I

looked at each and every one of them, bringing their

fullest attention to my words. The overall

expression on their faces was one of surprise. Many

of them even looked happy, which is hardly ever

seen on the solemn faces of devout Catholics.

As if on my cue, the organist began playing

the next tune as soon as I had ended my exposition.

Unable to hide my glee, I looked to my left at her

and beamed a smile, and she returned a toothy grin

to me, knowingly. Raising my right hand, everyone

came to a standing position, even the small children,

and the church was filled with song that poured

from our hearts. I loved my congregation, but the

giant room of people gave me a feeling I had never

received at Sun Grove Catholic.

We continued in this fashion for a few

rounds until I broke into the solitary hymn of the

Eucharist. I moved to the altar below the crucifix,

pulling the bread and wine from a lower shelf and

placing them on the counter. Blessing the bread as

the body of Christ, I broke off a section and placed

it on my tongue, and separated it into two bowls. I

then blessed the wine as the blood of Christ,

pouring it from the vase into two glasses, and took a

small drink. I wiped off the glass with a towel,

repeated the process for the altar boys, and waited

for the volunteers to approach.

Two couples walked up the center isle, and I

repeated the procedure for them. I handed the men

the bowls of bread and the women the glasses of

wine on top of the towels that were neatly folded.

They took their places and the organist began

playing a traditional song for the juncture of

service. I sang the words and several voices joined

in while the ushers signaled the first row of people

to stand. They filed in line as the organist played

every verse necessary until the last person had

returned to their seat.

I read my last marked passage, which was

centered around selflessness and the act of

performing for the whole of the community. It was

astonishing to see that no one had left early after

receiving the sacrament, which was common among

those with busy schedules that were pressed for

time. Afterwards, I thanked everyone that had

attended and said it would be appreciated if they

returned next week and brought a guest.

The ushers were sending contribution

baskets around beginning at the back of the church.

I acknowledged their actions by saying baskets

were being sent down the rows and any contribution

they could spare would go to the maintenance and

operation of the church and would be greatly

appreciated. I saw William waving something in his

hand. He pointed to the back of the church and two

men were standing by the door, each holding a stack

of papers. I presumed it to be the weekly newsletter

of church related events. I relayed that pamphlets

were being handed out at the back of the church,

and to take one as they were leaving.

The organist began playing and I raised my

right hand, asking them to join me in singing the

closing hymn. Everyone stood up and we joyously

began the chorus of one of my personal favorites.

We sang as if God himself had descended and was

listening to our praise and glory of everything he

had created. We sang all four verses and ended with

the chorus, rolling with a momentum that the sum

of our singular parts made possible. They gathered

their jackets and purses and left radiating with

smiles of deep pleasure and contentment. I followed

them to greet and shake hands on the steps of the

church with those who chose to stick around.

The doorway was jammed with people that

were waiting to receive a pamphlet before exiting.

Several nice faces turned to me saying things like

“Beautiful service, Father,” “It was a lovely mass,

Father,” and “We hope to see you next week.” I

smiled politely and thanked them graciously.

Finally making it beyond the doors of the church

where I had room to shake hands and talk at length,

the first person to approach me was none other than

the person that in my heart of hearts I wanted most

to see. Priscilla extended her hand, this time in the

tradition manner, but I grabbed her four fingers in

my hand and pulled her closer.

“That was a wonderful mass, Father,” she

said with a coy face, trying to bury her gorgeous

smile.

“You look breathtaking,” I said into her ear,

and she did. She was wearing a short turquoise

dress that looked like it was tailored for her, a

matching cross-stitched brimmed hat that shaded

her bright blue eyes and covered her golden hair

that was pulled up, and a pair of black high heels

that complemented her perfectly.

“It’s just for you,” she said, giggling like a

school girl. “Have you made a decision yet?”

“Give me one more night,” I told her. I

honestly hadn’t had a free moment to think it over.

“No problem,” she said, and waved

goodbye, stepping into the crowd of people.

I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned

around to see William. He shook my hand

powerfully, slowly turning his head from side to

side, and released his signature smile and chuckle.

“You did it,” he said. “I had confidence, but

I never believed a priest could captivate an audience

like that. They were in the palm of your hand every

step of the way. It was truly magnificent.”

“I really appreciate that, William,” I said, as

he was still shaking my hand.

“Are you free?” he asked. “Can I take you

out to lunch?”

I was still considerably hungry and happily

agreed to his offer. I told him to give me time so

that I could finish what I was doing and change into

more casual attire. He said he would be waiting

where he stood until I was ready to leave. I was

greeted by new faces and complimented by some of

the people I had met at William’s party. After the

majority of the crowd had dissipated, I walked

upstairs to get changed. I hung the gown back in the

closet to keep it free of wrinkles, then met William

on the steps of the church.

“Ready?” he asked, and I simply grazed my

hand down my shirt to my pants, signifying I had

changed into the proper dress, and smiled at him.

“Excellent,” he said. “My car is just up the

street.”

“Will Beth and Jennifer be joining us?” I

asked, following him.

“No. Unfortunately, they had other plans.

Sunday is their day for shopping. It’s a woman

thing. You understand,” he responded, “although, I

was able to talk Bishop Thomas and Bishop Reilly

into coming.”

I choked for a moment. “Splendid.”

“We’ll be going to the Pacific Steakhouse. It

is a favorite of the Bishops. I know you’ll love it,”

he told me.

“Are they meeting us there?” I asked,

wondering of their whereabouts.

He silently pointed in front of him. I

followed his finger and saw his car, and in the back

seat were two heads, unquestionably those of the

Bishops. He crossed me, walking to the driver’s

side, and I hopped in the passenger seat. The

Bishops greeted me warmly and congratulated my

performance that morning. They asked me if I

enjoyed William’s party. I responded that I had,

emphatically. They asked where I disappeared to so

early, and before I could answer William turned to

me posing the same question. I said I had been

really drunk and paid for a taxi back to the church

before I made a scene. From the look on their faces,

neither Bishop Thomas nor the other two knew

what I had seen.

We arrived at the steakhouse in no time at

all and there was already a table waiting. We were

seated and I was amazed to see a grill in the middle

of the table. A young Japanese woman came to see

what we would like to drink. William told her to

100

bring a bottle of the finest red wine, with which the

Bishops and I were surely satisfied. A man in a

chef’s hat arrived to ask us what we wanted.

William suggested I try the shrimp, and I went with

his recommendation. The woman returned while we

were still ordering. She filled our glasses and left

the bottle on the table.

The man in the chef’s hat returned quickly,

wheeling behind him a small cart. He proceeded to

cook our food in front of our eyes with the most

technique and precision I had ever witnessed. He

began by squirting oil from one corner of the grill to

the opposite in a zigzag design and then tossed on

our meat from the cart. Pushing the meat into the

center, he poured four plates of rice on the side,

flipping it numerous times. He then performed his

most remarkable trick by slicing two onions in half,

sliding them on the open side of the grill. He

stacked the layers into a standing structure with the

edge of his spatula, and with a splash of clear liquor

and the spark of a match, set them ablaze to a

sizzling tower.

When I thought his fancy display had ended,

he chopped off the tails of the shrimp and sent them

flying into the air, catching them in his hat and

pockets. My mouth hung gaping open as my eyes

were about to roll out of my head, I was caught in

such a mesmerizing stare. He dished up our food

and slid our plates to us, steaming and cooked to

perfection. We applauded his skilled and timely

accomplishment. I hadn’t even touched my wine. I

picked up my fork and took a bite of my shrimp

fried rice. It just melted.

101

“How did you like it?” William asked me

after we all had finished eating.

“My words wouldn’t do it justice,” I

responded in all honesty.

“Josiah,” Bishop Thomas addressed me, and

then paused. I could still see the groan of sexual

ecstasy superimposed on his face. “William, Bishop

Reilly, and I would like to provide an option for

you—a business opportunity. We would like to

make you a partner and equal member in a pyramid

of growth and development.”

“Josiah, you have a gift,” Bishop Reilly

interjected. “You have a gift of captivating the

hearts and attention of people, and pulling from

them their better half. We don’t want this to go to

waste, not for you or our community.”

“Josiah, I know we have already struck a

payment agreement,” William said. I began to feel

threatened, attacked from all possible angles. “We

can keep that implemented if that is what you wish.

The other option is that you receive a percentage of

what the church makes. The Bishops and I have

come up with a better way to operate and maintain

the church by investing the charitable contributions

in interest accruing channels.”

“This can only increase the profits for the

church, and if you choose, the payment for your

services,” Bishop Thomas spoke again. “It would be

an intelligent decision.”

“So at the time of my choosing I can opt for

a percentage of the weekly contributions instead of

receiving the prearranged sum of fifty dollars for

my services?” I asked, testing the waters of our

102

conversation.

“Precisely,” William responded. “If you

even retained the number of attendants from this

morning there would be an estimated increase of

twenty percent added to your salary.”

“I will certainly think about it,” I said, and it

was the last utterance of the subject.

William drove the Bishops and me back to

the church. We all took the same seats, but the

return trip was clouded with a miserable tension.

William said I could come to his office anytime

after ten in the morning to receive my payment. I

thanked him for lunch and the Bishops for their

company before I got out of the car. As I was

walking to the doors of the church I saw one of the

pamphlets William’s affiliates had handed out

laying on the ground. I opened it to see very vague

information about the church itself, but an entire

page of advertisements from the people I had met

through William. I felt disgusted.

103

Chapter 9

As I read the names of businesses on the

grid of advertisements, I had a vivid recollection of

the corporate heads I had met at William’s party.

Their faces were so ingrained in my memory that I

could place them, along with the brief conversation

of our interaction, in a matrix of simultaneous

observation. The puzzle of moments was coupled

with a layer of tones that ascended, then descended,

in a bath of countermelodies. I played with my

perception from this unique ability until it became

too intense and I was sucked into it, resulting in a

loss of individual cohesiveness; either that, or the

scenes leaped from the page of the pamphlet,

chasing me.

I woke up in my bed suffering from panic

and drenched in a cold sweat. With all of my

rationality, I knew that it had to have been a dream.

Although, I remembered picking up the pamphlet,

and had no clear memory of going to sleep. The

situation put me in the most awkward predicament.

Either it had been an intricately structured dream

revealing my deepest thoughts, worries, and

104

feelings, or I was losing my bearings on reality. I

kicked the sheets and took deep breaths to see if I

was still in the matrix. For all I could figure I was

awake and had experienced a quite realistic

nightmare.

After determining my physical position, I

moved on to the cause that had triggered my

psychological disassociation. Only one source came

to mind and with a blunt force: William. I made the

decision to leave Blackburn that morning.

Immediately, I gathered my possessions into my

valise, sat it next to my guitar, and continued

preparation for my journey. I straightened the rooms

so that they mirrored the orderliness preceding my

stay. Closing the double doors, I had the profound

impression that no sum of money was worth the

pressure and influence of William and the Bishops.

A steady wind was blowing. It cleared the

anxiety I had amassed after the dream, gently

dissolving my worries. It was still relatively early. I

stopped at one of the only places I felt I could

comfortably function—the park—to have a modest

breakfast. I took the bread and honey from my

valise and made a sandwich, enjoying it on my

favorite bench. I took a drink from a water fountain

when it seemed like the time to visit Franklin

Accounting. It was a bit of a walk, but I still wasn’t

sure if it had passed ten o’clock.

I left my things on the side of the building so

that I would not raise any suspicion in William.

When I entered I saw Jill, William’s secretary. She

must have remembered me because she just smiled,

waving me to walk into his office. He was behind

105

his desk looking through a pile of papers—

spreadsheets of account documentation. He looked

up and acknowledged my presence with his usual

display of unbridled happiness. I greeted him and

advanced toward his desk. He was rummaging

through a drawer when he pulled out an envelope.

“Fifty dollars, just as we had agreed, in

cash,” he said.

I thanked him repeatedly and shook his

hand.

“Now, don’t spend all of that in one place,”

William said jokingly as I was leaving.

“Don’t worry,” I assured him. “That

certainly isn’t my intention.”

I put the envelope in my pocket, picked up

my things where I had left them, and headed back to

the park to meet Priscilla. She was my ticket out of

a force that was pulling me mercilessly into its

clutches: a force of attraction. I could allow myself

to be sucked in and become an indivisible part of

that element, or I could resist its attraction and take

a higher path. Priscilla’s proposal allowed an

alternative that would lead me closer to my ultimate

destination. I was realigning, getting back on track

for the pressing task of volunteering as a

missionary.

I waited for Priscilla on the walking bridge

connecting the two halves of the park. Looking over

the side at the flowing water, I saw my reflection as

a continuously fluctuating image. Subtle leaps of

position departed from a concrete origin, revealing

hidden novelty. As I gazed intently, I sensed from

the tranquil air of the flowing water that, just like

106

the creek stones, I was a component subject to

erosion. I indulged my feeling of connectivity

further. My comparison to the bed of stones also

operated with a magnetic force: one that eroded

individuality and willingly returned to the source.

My concentration was broken when another

face entered the picture. I moved my head to the

side and was facing Priscilla. Her gorgeous golden

strands of hair danced in the breeze.

“Are you ready?” she asked.

“Let’s get out of this city,” I said.

With my guitar in one hand and my valise in

the other, I followed Priscilla to her car. She opened

the trunk of her luxurious ride so that I could store

my things. It was a four-door town car and an

obvious purchase from the palate of William

Franklin. We hopped in the front and pulled away. I

liked that she drove with the windows down,

circulating the air, which I found very invigorating.

I believe neither of us looked into the mirrors. Our

eyes were focused on the road ahead of us, the road

to change where possibility awaited.

There was a violet hue that painted the

clouds on the western horizon when we arrived in

Priscilla’s hometown. We got off of the highway as

a red-orange sun was disappearing behind the tree

line, driving past the town square before venturing

out into the countryside. Her sister owned a

beautiful cottage on a hilltop that overlooked the

surrounding farmland. Geometric plots of cultivated

pasture stretched for miles on end. She rolled the

car up the driveway and threw it in park.

“We’re here,” Priscilla said.

107

“I couldn’t have imagined it being so

lovely,” I commented.

“Wait until you see the inside of the place,”

she said, opening her door.

I took my things and followed her up the

steps of the porch. Flowerbeds of marigolds and

rose bushes scented the area with a mild fragrance.

We walked in the cottage that was dimly

illuminated through the half drawn window shades.

I placed my guitar and valise on the floor next to the

kitchen table as Priscilla was turning on a couple

lamps when I heard a familiar fluttering coming

from the other side of the house. My suspicion was

confirmed, seeing the commotion was the rustling

of birds against the walls of their cages. There were

three cages hooked to chains that hung from the

ceiling. Priscilla was feeding them and changing

their water, even talking to them, asking how they

were doing. They seemed to respond with chirps

and whistles.

“Why don’t you draw a bath,” Priscilla

suggested. “I’m going to cook supper.”

I conceded. Soaking in a warm bath sounded

extremely relaxing. I kissed her on the cheek for

mentioning the idea. Letting the water run until it

was steaming, I plugged the drain, filling the basin.

My toes caught the initial sting as I eased in the hot

tub slowly. I put a wet rag on my face which

evaporated any thoughts from my mind. The heat

massaged the surface of my body such that every bit

of tension was removed. I stood up and dried with a

towel feeling light as a feather.

My thin pair of socks resisted attempts to be

108

drawn over my damp skin after throwing on my

shirt and trousers so I tossed them to the wayside

and stepped barefoot out of the bathroom. I smelled

a sweet aroma that filled the house and walked into

the kitchen to find Priscilla in an apron. The sight

tickled a laugh out of me. A candle flame flickered

in the center of the table that was set with nice china

and champagne glasses.

“I didn’t expect all of this,” I giggled.

“The food should be ready shortly. Would

you like to pour us a drink?” she asked, gesturing to

a bottle.

I popped open the sparkling white wine with

a corkscrew and filled two glasses.

“To new beginnings,” I proposed, handing

her a glass.

“New beginnings,” she said raising it. We

tapped them in a toast—a celebration of our

liberation.

Priscilla had prepared a very special meal

for the occasion: salad with oil and vinegar, pasta in

an alfredo sauce, and steamed carrots and broccoli.

Along with having the face of an angel, her cooking

was devastatingly delicious. We reminisced for

hours about our involvement with William and the

tricks he played to keep us at bay. He had,

nonetheless, introduced me to the woman that

delivered me from all that. Looking into her eyes, I

was on fire with excitement as I reveled in the

passing moments.

“Do you know what would be delightful?”

she said rhetorically.

I submitted all of my attention, smiling in

109

silence, and waited to hear what was on her mind.

“Josiah, would you play the guitar for me?”

she asked sweetly. “Any song you would like.”

I pulled the guitar from its case and slid my

hand down the neck, trying to decide the

appropriate theme. Tuning the machine quickly

with harmonics, I began to pluck the strings,

moving around a traditional melody. I chose a song

that my grandfather had taught me, modifying it

slightly to produce the desired mood. Sweeping the

strings emphasized its South American origin

nicely, and adding down strokes in between

strengthened the rhythm. I allowed the cadence to

ring out, which ended it marvelously.

I looked up at Priscilla and the candle flame

was reflecting in her eyes, dancing with a fiery

unabashed passion. She stood, reaching across the

table to gather our dishes, and placed them in the

sink. I put my guitar, the counterpart to my

emotions on which I crafted music with harmonious

effectiveness, back in its case. Priscilla handed me

the half emptied bottle of champagne and then

picked up our glasses, one in each hand.

“You still haven’t seen the bedroom,” she

said, blowing out the candle with luscious puckered

lips.

She walked down the hall toward the other

end of the house. Her hips swayed as if the song I

played set free a natural rhythm in her step. She

walked alongside the bed and turned on a lamp that

sat on a nightstand. It was a fantastically decorated

room painted in a very calming russet, and the walls

were hung with paintings of prairies and dilapidated

110

barns, charming vineyards, and intriguing township

landmarks. Beyond the foot of the bed was a chest

of drawers with a large mirror that sat on top against

the wall.

She sat on the bed with her legs tucked

under her, motioning me to come join her. I filled

her glass first, then my own, and sat the bottle on

the nightstand.

“I propose a toast to the most gorgeous,

exciting, tender woman who mended my wings so I

could fly away from treachery. To you, Priscilla,” I

said raising my glass.

She laughed and hid her face in her arm. She

raised her glass, but then retracted it with a look of

reconsideration.

“I toast to the man that gave me courage to

be myself: a gentle, compassionate soul whose gaze

finds its home in my heart. To you, Josiah,” she

said, and tapped her glass against mine.

We drank to each other, and I felt like the

champagne, rising carbonation bubbling to the

surface and bursting with effervescent freedom. We

were both quietly giggling at ourselves in a childish

playfulness. She pulled me close to her and slowly

repeated her toast into my ear in a soft whisper, then

began to nibble on my earlobe. I felt a sensation

take hold of me and melted into her nurturing

affection. I moved my lips to hers and embraced

her with a passionate kiss. We were both trying to

put our glasses on the nightstand without breaking

our unity, fumbling, but landing them eventually.

She unbuttoned her blouse and her full

breasts were nearly coming out of her brassiere. She

111

slid her hands up the side of my body, effortlessly

taking off my shirt. I burrowed, with her in my

arms, into the pillows against the headboard. I

unzipped her pants, gently tugging them off of her

voluptuously long legs. She unsnapped her bra and

took it off with her blouse, tossing them to the side

of the bed. I yanked the corner of the comforter and

put us in between the silky sheets. I felt enraptured

against her naked skin.

Under the blankets, we rolled around

enveloped in each others arms, pecking kisses

hysterically. Her subdued moans set me on the edge

of my elation. I pushed her shoulders against the

pillows and looked deeply into her eyes. They held

the look of a wild animal, suggesting me to tame

their visceral urges. I removed my pants, kicking

them to the end of the bed, and tamed the beast of

our passion. Priscilla let out a shrill scream

bordering between pain and ecstasy.

We were engaged in sexual activity under

the precepts of our bodily reactions. Endless hours

of magnetic attraction ensued in blissful harmony.

Not a note of separation, not a tone changing

tendency: we were upon each other as a pair, a

union, an undivided force where query resolved

satisfaction. Never had I been so absorbed in

accordance with another in such a finely tuned

exposition. It was nearly a symbiotic relationship of

blanketed nourishment breathing life into dependant

impulses.

After we had both exhausted our energy,

through every pore sweating profusely, we resigned

to our halves of the bed. Not a thought assembled in

112

my head as I lay there. Breath was my only

cognizant function. Never number than from post-

coital sensation aroused through rhythmic pattern,

blackness took me into its slumber. With no other

space for my attention to wander under waning

sound of breaths rumbled, I tumbled into the quiet

arena of sleep.

113

Chapter 10

I felt the trembling of the mattress wave in

my direction. My body tottered like a boat rocking

at dock, anchored to the harbor. My eyes burned as

the sun infiltrated the cracked window of my vision,

but within the blinding harshness was a soothing

element. Widening my scope of sight, I saw

Priscilla propped up on her elbows. She smiled at

me while the sunrise cast a glorifying shell of

luminosity around her figure. I couldn’t hold back a

smile, feeling her warmth permeate throughout me.

“Good morning, Priscilla,” I said.

“It’s the best morning I can remember,” she

replied.

I was giggling under my breath, but was

unable to temper the toothy grin that was smeared

across my face. Her sentiment kindled the same

impression in me. I couldn’t remember a better

morning, or a warmer sensation than the feeling

rushing through me.

“Do you want breakfast?” she asked.

“Yes, that sounds wonderful,” I responded,

and began to sit up against the pillows.

114

“I agree,” Priscilla said, then jumped on my

lap and began kissing my neck.

I finally caught the meaning behind her

clever use of language, insinuating a bold start of

the day by knocking the headboard. I melted into

her affection, splashing like a puddle into the arms

of her discretion. She molded our position, and I

happily acquiesced without tension. She straddled

me, riding me senseless after I had awoken in a

cohesive state of mind after the draining session

from the previous night. Moaning, she buried her

head in my chest as ripples shook her body. The

mirror above the chest of drawers reflected our

doings in the light of day: a passion unobstructed

from the restraint of any hidden insecurities.

Afterwards, Priscilla actually cooked a nice

breakfast of eggs and toast with coffee. She still

looked amazing in her natural state of organic

demeanor, cooking in her underwear and a fitted

night shirt. We sat down to eat at the table, sipping

our coffee that was steaming hot. In between us, the

candle remained with melted wax dried in a well,

sprouting teardrops. I stared at it, eating my

scrambled eggs in a reverie of recent events.

Priscilla finished her breakfast before I

could and placed her dishes in the sink. She said she

was going to take a bath and then would go out

looking for a job. I was numb from the trance

inducing interplay of dawn companionship and just

smiled at her. I sat my cleaned plate in the sink on

top of hers, and the view from the kitchen window

caught my attention. Peering at the endless miles of

prairie, it was a wondrous view, but not a sensible

115

journey of leisurely walking. Trespassing was not

taken lightly on farms.

I humbly recoiled my ideas of roaming the

mound of vegetation for days. There was,

nonetheless, contentment within the walls of this

small house. I was filled with a contentment that

comes from fervor with an angelic agent of sensual

intoxication. The walls of my being, particularly,

were streaming with ecstatic reciprocation. The

likes of such a novelty was a pleasant contradiction

to the establishment I had built for myself and my

career. Breaking my rumination, the fluttering of

wing clinked birdcages aroused my detached

awareness.

I walked into the room that the birds

inhabited and kept a watchful eye from behind

metal bars. Priscilla was feeding them, and again,

talking in a maternal tone to their beaks with a

proper address of attention to each bird. She looked

stunning in a pastel yellow business suit and heels.

Her hair was wrapped into a remarkable bundle of

twisted strands save a few curls that only enhanced

her attractive appearance.

“I’m going out to look for a job,” Priscilla

said. “Did you want me to get you anything while

I’m in town?”

“No, I don’t need anything else,” I replied,

smiling bashfully.

“I’ll be home before sunset,” she said and

kissed me on the cheek before leaving.

“Good luck.”

“Talk to the birds if you aren’t busy because

they like the company. Bye,” she yelled before

116

walking out the door.

A feeling of dejection possessed me as the

door shut and latched. I walked up to the cages and

tried to talk to the largest bird, a colorfully exotic

looking bird, possibly from a tropical jungle. It just

rocked back and forth looking at its food dish in a

miserable hypnotism. The next cage housed two

smaller white birds with gray spots. They went wild

at my words, flying toward me and slamming into

the cage. In the third cage was a black bird with a

shimmering tinge of blue that reflected the sunlight

through the windows. He stared right into my eyes

and didn’t move a feather.

Thoroughly uncomfortable in my

conversational attempts with the birds, I retired to

the bedroom. I was still rather fatigued from the

night of physically exhausting and stamina draining

exercise. Laying my head on a pillow, I stared out

the window at the blue sky that stretched infinitely.

It was an ocean of free moving winds painted with

the shapes of clouds mounted into abstract figures

resembling animals. I drifted off to sleep

endeavoring distinction of each fluffy white mass.

I found myself in a light sleep and opened

my eyes expecting to see the window of discernable

cloud formations. To my surprise, Priscilla was

laying on the bed looking at me. She was talking,

but I was still too incoherent to understand her

words. I sat up against the pillows trying to marshal

my sobriety. Before my head was cleared Priscilla

jumped onto my lap and began kissing my neck,

tugging and moaning for a continuance of our

physical matrimony.

117

I acquiesced and melted into the affection

she was exposing. Placing my hands on her hips, I

pulled her onto me with a gentle thrust. Her voice

held a swelling tone that arose with a raspy

inflection. We rhythmically gave in to the other

with a magnetic attraction, contracting and

expanding the distance between us. She planted her

head in my chest and I could see our reflection in

the mirror across the room. I was frightened by the

sight of orange flames that fed off of our passion.

The flames grew and danced so gracefully that they

were almost speaking with a frequency of urgency,

although I felt no dangerous heat.

I woke up in bed in the same position that I

was in while admiring the clouds. Panic quickly

enveloped my faculty of comprehension. I had the

deepest confusion about the integration of my

senses and memories. The experience seemed so

real that it hardly could have been a dream.

Although, Priscilla was nowhere in sight, and I

hadn’t moved since distinguishing cloud shapes. I

must have dreamt the memory of us consummating

from earlier in the morning, but the orange flames

of passion were most certainly a new element.

A bath seemed like a soothing mode of

operation to restore my familiar sensibilities. I

climbed out of bed with an outer apprehension of

memory shifting so possible with increasing

infliction. I stepped into the hall looking for

Priscilla or any clue that might suggest another

dream imposing on my analytical interpretation of

stimuli. I flipped on the dim overhead light in the

bathroom and ran a warm bath. My reflection in the

118

mirror above the sink held an appalling picture of

sunken eyes and a pale face replacing a once

content and stabilized individual.

I slipped into the warm bath that instantly

cleared my head of any negative feelings. I was in

the womb of serenity with the steaming water

massaging my body. All of my worries simply

turned to mist and evaporated with the vapor before

me. I experimented with retaining my breath,

allowing a silent contemplation from which my

heartbeat was the reassuring melody of continuity. I

was nearly numb with relief as I stepped carefully

out of the tub, drying myself with a towel from a

pile on the shelf.

I walked to the other end of the house,

bypassing the room with the birdcages without the

slightest glance, where my guitar sat against the

wall on the kitchen floor. I removed the instrument

from its case and checked the tuning by strumming

a G Major chord. Every string resonated with a

frequency that was in harmony with the key, ringing

with a crisp wave of resonant pitch. My fingers

began to pluck in a rhythmical pattern that

suggested a waltz. Rolling with the melody, I

appropriately changed keys to the relative minor of

E, which symbolically matched the progression of

my emotions.

I played around with the tune for an

indefinite amount of time, completely immersed in

the changing of keys to represent my feelings

outwardly. Entering into a trance, I lost a sense of

my mechanical manipulation of the fret board and

observed the song from a point of detached

119

perception. It was a funny tune, almost trite, as a

Shakespearean play with the main theme bleeding

from every scene. There were no secrets, just the

musing of predicaments and the subsequent

deflation of the main character’s self-assurance.

Returning to my usual point of sensory

integration, I was bursting with an uncontrollable

laughter. I could not contain my giggles and had no

desire to suppress the mirth bubbling from within

me. I was shaking so intensely that I could no

longer play the guitar in my fit of merriment. The

guitar nearly shook out of my hands, but I managed

to catch it before it slipped out of my grip. I

returned the melodious apparatus back to the safety

of its case, ejaculating a few cackles from under my

breath.

I decided to take a walk outside, being

mindful not to surpass territorial boundaries. The

sun was burning bright at the apex of the sky when I

opened the front door. A few clouds glided in

chunks of cottony fluff, splashing, and continuing in

an eastward direction. The air that filled my lungs

was scented with the fragrance of sweet flowers and

pollen. The sunlight bounced off of verdant foliage

bloomed with colored petals that attracted bees and

butterflies. The buzzing of insects enveloped my

attention with its wispy fluttering of tiny wings,

tickling me through auditory reception.

Behind the house was a humble private

garden amid the miles of crops and vineyards

surrounding. There was a clothesline tied to posts

that separated the charming garden from the house.

I walked to the end of the property marked by a

120

barbed wire fence. A massive blackberry bush with

thorny stems branched from the yard over the fence,

thickly clad with spines and berries. I rather enjoyed

the sweet taste of fresh blackberries and picked a

handful, staining my hand with its bluish juice. I

savored the flavor of the succulent berries,

dissolving them in my mouth.

I walked around the house and sat down on

the steps of the front porch. It was approaching

evening rapidly as the sun cascaded along the

western slopes of sky: gradient mountains of

billowed precipitation reflecting an orange rinse.

The treetops were cast with crimson, flickering

amidst leafy clusters that moved smoothly in the

soft wind as I gazed intently. Priscilla pulled into

the driveway behind the wheel of the luxurious

town car. I stood up to greet her as she opened the

car door, swinging her gorgeous legs out and

walking in a mesmerizing stride.

“Did your efforts yield promise?” I asked,

alluding to her attempt at finding employment.

“I made several acquaintances with some

potential, but nothing certain,” she responded.

“There’s always tomorrow,” I assured her

and kissed her on the cheek.

We walked into the house together, holding

hands in reunion of our separated affection. I felt

her pleasant essence affect my comprehension,

sensitively hanging onto her emotion. Completely at

ease, I listened to her account of searching for

employment. I followed her to the room with the

birdcages, and she asked if I spent my day

entertaining the lonely birds. I said I talked to them,

121

but I didn’t quite possess her attunement with the

feathered friends. She asked what I had done the

entire time she was gone. The warm bath, the walk

to the garden and the fresh blackberries were my

response instead of relaying my disturbing dream.

For supper, Priscilla made a delicious

vegetable minestrone with celery, zucchini,

potatoes, peas, carrots, macaroni and the subtle

flavor of parmesan cheese and parsley. She also

baked an Italian bread with basil and sun-dried

tomatoes that overflowed with a flavorful aroma.

Priscilla lit the candle in the center of the table and I

poured us a couple glasses of champagne. We sat

down to eat as the sun was setting, casting a

magenta tint on the clouds that passed by the

kitchen window. Between the fuchsine sunset and

our candlelit meal, the kitchen was filled with a

warm and heavenly light.

After we had finished eating the exquisite

cuisine we retired to the bedroom with our glasses

in hand. I bumped into the wall along the dim

corridor following Priscilla to our chamber of

intimacy. I sat on the mattress, trying not to spill my

champagne in my tipsy condition. Priscilla took off

her blazer and lay on the bed with her exposed

breasts in the focus of my visual cortex. She rolled

on top of me and we began a passionate endearment

of lip smacking. Unbuttoning my shirt from the top

to the bottom, and then unzipping my pants, she

moved her mouth down my body, kissing my chest

and ending with her face on my lap.

A tingling sensation rippled throughout my

legs and feet, especially my toes, which twitched

122

with elated spasms. Far from composure, I toiled in

position trying to find a comfort zone that allowed

the influx of euphoria. The sensation climbed to my

chest in rolling waves of numbing tremors that

interfered with my breathing and created a raspy

wheezing. I grabbed a pillow and squeezed it with

all of my strength, even biting the corner hoping it

would stabilize the enraptured feelings of ecstasy I

was experiencing.

What followed was a night of debauchery

starring a once sanctified priest gone from morality

for the resolution of sensual pleasure. The

arrangement of our limbs switched every so often to

accommodate a change of whim. Inverted positions

of contortion enabled excitement to surge from all

sides of the body. I learned Priscilla’s physical form

like a studied sculptor becomes one with his

artwork. Prodding her points of exultation, I worked

toward our mutual gratification until we were spent

of energy and fell asleep in each other’s arms.

123

Chapter 11

I woke up the next morning with my mouth

open, suctioning my pillow like a vacuum cleaner.

My dry throat choked and sent me into a fit of

coughs. I rolled over to see if Priscilla was still in

bed, posing an unexpected prowling posture, but

she was nowhere in sight. I could hear the clank of

pans and smell the sweet aromas exuding from the

kitchen. Getting out of bed, I felt a grainy sensation

on the tip of my tongue. I walked into the bathroom

to see what had crawled into my web of an open

mouth.

Stretching out my tongue at my reflection in

the mirror, I saw a ring of golden thread upon it. I

pulled it off to see that it was one of Priscilla’s hairs

that I had almost swallowed in our passionate

nocturnal somersaulting. My arms and legs were

sore as if I had been climbing a mountain for a

fortnight. I washed my swollen face in the sink and

dried my hands on a towel that hung nearby.

Following the pleasant smells, I walked into the

kitchen to see Priscilla over the stove making eggs.

“You’re too kind, my dear,” I told her and

124

kissed her cheek.

“You’re too sweet to deny affection, my

prince,” she responded with a thoughtful look in

her eyes and kissed me on the lips.

Priscilla had made fresh squeezed orange

juice that was refreshingly delicious: tart for an

instant, but then balanced by the naturally

saccharine undercurrent. We sat down together to a

breakfast of toast and fried eggs cooked over-easy.

I felt a sense of comfort set in while I ate in the

presence of her angelic majesty whose objective

was to create a pleasing atmosphere for us to enjoy.

Through the half-drawn window shades were the

murky clouds looming in a gray sunless cover.

As Priscilla readied herself for the job

searching expedition, I finished my breakfast and

listened to a solitary song of a bird outside. I knew

immediately that it was not one of the caged birds’

chirps. Its sentimental tune stirred a soup of

emotions within me. Approaching the window, I

tried to spot the songbird, and as if on my cue, the

bird flew atop the close line. It seemed to be

directing its song to me: a story a lovers, a tragedy,

the saddest song that had ever played on my

heartstrings. I looked on entranced until the little

bird chirped adieu and flew out of my frame of

sight.

The clouds that stretched beyond the horizon

looked like they were going to burst into showers

any moment. The expectancy of rain dampened my

hopes of returning to the blackberry patch for

another handful of juicy, vine-ripened fruit. I

reclined on the couch in the living room, feeling the

125

fullness exuding from my stomach. I closed my

eyes and could still see the landscape of pastures

meeting the sky from the kitchen window.

Recollecting a section of its composition, I

pondered the possible message that songbird may

have been conveying to me with its crestfallen,

warbled melody.

“I’m leaving, Josiah,” Priscilla said as she

stood above me.

“If you get restless you can always come

home early,” I said endearingly.

“I won’t be too long, my sweet,” she said

and pressed her lips to mine. “I’ve already fed the

birds, but talk to them if you get bored,” she said,

walking out the door.

“Goodbye, darling,” I said before she

latched it closed.

The roar of thunder tore across the sky only

minutes after Priscilla pulled out of the drive.

Blankets of rain beat down on the house with a

dynamic intensity. The forceful downpour danced

on the roof in toe to heel footsteps shuffling in

choreographed movements. The slow, soft pelting

of drops falling was followed by a flash of lightning

and another violent surge of showers. I lay under

the tumultuous rainfall in a silent observation of its

rhythmic tendencies until it occurred to me that

such a pattern could serve as a musical backbone.

I retrieved my guitar and sat back on the

couch under the percussive meter of precipitation. I

swept the strings with the swing of my arm, holding

the position for a major chord that rung out in a

pulsating wave of intonation. I listened while it

126

melted into the rhythm of the rain drumming above

me. Finding the cadence, I began strumming in

triple time with an accent on the first beat, which

gave it the feel of a waltz. The chord progression

reflected the mood projected by the weather in

windblown branches and fluttering leaves. I

envisioned the surrounding trees curtsying, and then

exchanging partners in the swaying accompaniment.

The music dissolved the outer rigidity of

my being. I was a warm ball of enjoyment,

changing with the chords, drumming with the rain,

and dancing with the wind. As frequencies came to

me, or I went to them, I felt the sensation of

floating. It was as if I were at sea, sailing through

the colorful waves of sound. As I stood starboard,

facing the oncoming waves flashing with rhythmic

bursts of color, I realized I was outside of the

vessel. I was looking all around and could see my

body next to me. I then perceived going through a

wall of the house and walking around the yard,

dancing in the rain with the trees.

When I was near the blackberry patch, a

shock of fright overwhelmed me as the depth of the

situation finally settled into my mind. I could

clearly see the blackberries and the thorny branches

splashed with the falling raindrops. I stopped

playing guitar and my senses returned to a

centralized operating station. Looking around

apprehensively, investigating my body and

surroundings, I came to the conclusion that the

music must have distorted my consciousness to

view the blackberry patch. It could not have been a

memory because it was not raining when I visited

127

the shrub, and the crystalline vision was hardly my

active imagination fooling me.

I put my guitar back in its case, not wanting

to disturb the supernatural forces omnipresent and

germinated for engagement. Walking to the window

in the kitchen, I looked behind the house at the

blackberry patch stretched along the fence at the

end of the yard. I could pinpoint the location where

I assembled the vision. It was near the place I had

stood when visiting the thorny bush for the first

time, at a thick bundle of aggregate drupelets. I

must have triggered a psychological confluence of

energy fields that registered a non-local stimulus

from a position known to my consciousness.

This remote viewing sent shivers down my

spine with the eerie sentiment that my rationality

was slipping away. The bathtub had been a haven

for my boggled disjointedness. I quickly scurried to

the bathroom and filled the basin with warm water

that would surely rinse my perturbed mind into a

placid state. I dropped my clothes and hopped into

the hot pool, which sizzled against my body,

creating effervescent bubbles that rose to the

surface. Closing my eyes, I entered a deeply

pleasurable level of relaxation and slowly breathed

with full lung capacity.

I lay in the tub with my arms resting on the

porcelain rim without a single thought formulating.

My skin felt as if it had been removed by a solvent

from every pore in my body, from my chest to my

feet, which had become pruned by the scolding

water. I pulled a bar of rosemary soap across my

body that was sweating, even while submerged,

128

scenting me with the natural fragrance of flowers.

Feeling as though I had bathed longer than human

skin can withstand, I stepped out and dried my

dripping body with a towel.

Looking at my reflection in the bathroom

mirror, my eyes were shifty and unfocused, my face

was flushed a deep pink, and my general expression

was a lethargic fatigue drained of energy. I decided

I could use a bout of recovery sleep to restore an

echelon of vitality to my being. I retired to the

bedroom and collapsed on the mattress, burying my

head in a mound of pillows. I was able to see the

window out of the corner of my eye. Winds still

raged, bringing rain cascading in sheets under the

gray cloud cover. I shut my eyelids and fell asleep

immediately.

Waking up in the same position in which I

had fallen asleep, I noticed the storm had subsided.

I shook off the residual exhaustion and rolled out of

bed. Birds chirped outside the bedroom window in

the cast of passing clouds and the orange rinse of

the setting sun. I walked to the other end of the

house and opened the front door to get a panoramic

view of the scenery. The surrounding landscape was

a wonderland teeming with birdsongs, the buzz of

insects, and the sweet smell of rain washed flowers.

The sight was picturesque and actually looked like

it would be found framed within the house.

I closed the door, and with the click of the

latch, Priscilla’s words returned to me. She had

already fed the birds, but talk to them if I got bored.

I was certainly unoccupied and figured it was worth

the attempt to communicate with the feathered

129

friends again. Walking into their room, the pair of

love birds began chirping and fluttering spastically.

The tropical bird was enjoying its dish of food

pellets, and the black bird just stared out the

window in an unbroken gaze. I walked in between

the window and its cage, but the bird looked right

through me, as if it were still admiring the serene

freedom of open skies.

“Hey, little guy,” I began, half embarrassed

to be talking to the bird. “Were you looking

outside? Do you remember being out there, flying

unreservedly?”

I moved out of the way and turned my head

so that we were both staring out the window. I felt a

wave of sadness engulf me. The horizon seemed

like an endless stream of prairie and blue sky that

dipped and swiveled as far as the eye could see. The

assertion that no life was meant to be caged, or

more properly, that life should not be kept from the

open range of experience: roaming freely among

nature’s creation. The quiet bird slowly turned

around and took a couple drinks of water, as if it

was too depressing to bear. Sharing the same

sentiments, I stood up and walked out of the room

unable to handle the contemplation of setting the

birds free, and myself to a similar degree.

I started walking to the kitchen, but knew

I’d just look out the window at the saddening

skyline, intensifying the feeling; then, the living

room, and the bathroom, but neither would satisfy

my current mood of emptiness. I walked into the

bedroom and knelt against the bed in devotional

prayer. Folding my hands with my elbows on the

130

mattress, I lowered my head and confessed to God

that I had no idea what I was doing. I did not feel

that my actions reflected my inner conscience, but

felt like an impostor cornered by his decisions. The

likeness of an animal caught in a trap, waiting to be

eaten by the hunter mirrored my vulnerability.

I dropped all preconceived notions of

motivation and asked for a path to be laid for me. I

was irreparably lost and prayed for guidance.

Surrendering to the bottomless depths of my heart’s

sincerity, I asked for a sign, a direction, a way to

reclaim a feeling of integrity. I peered into the

blackness of my eyelids looking for a light, a

glimmering image, a message from God that never

appeared. After hours of waiting, hanging on to my

plea with no answers granted, I stood up and walked

to the kitchen to see what was in the liquor cabinet.

In the cabinet next to the refrigerator were

three bottles of champagne, two bottles of red wine,

a bottle of vodka, and one of Virginian whiskey. I

grabbed the whiskey and examined it closer. It had

been aged in oak barrels, smelled rich and heavy,

and had already been opened. I took a glass from

the cabinet above the sink and poured a little of the

viscous oil. It went down smoothly, blasting my

senses with its tangy aroma, and leaving a sweet

aftertaste on the tongue.

Filling the glass to the rim with the delicious

liquor, I placed the whiskey back in the cabinet and

walked to the living room. I stretched out on the

couch, careful not to spill my whiskey companion,

and submerged by worries, hopes, and dreams in the

amber liquid. A few sips into it and I absolved my

131

apprehensions. By the time it was half empty, I felt

waves of its intoxication pumping through my body

in numbing wafts paralyzing emotion. It eventually

isolated a pleasantly eroded feeling like the ocean

tide turns a rocky shore into a sandy beach.

Sitting in silence except for the slurps of

liquor I pulled from the tipped glass, I relaxed

unperturbed by extraordinary sensory feats. The

slow wheezing of my breath, the hum of the

refrigerator, and the chirps of birds in the sunny

aftermath of showers were the only sounds that

echoed in my auditory perception. I polished off the

glass and sat it on the coffee table next to the couch.

Reclining against the armrest, I filtered the room

through the haziness of my eyesight when the

doorknob turned and Priscilla walked into my view.

“I’m back. Did you enjoy your day?” she

asked.

“It was nice. I talked to the birds,” I

stammered.

“The rain finally settled down,” she said,

walking towards me.

“Did you have any luck today?” I managed

to enunciate.

“I think so, but I have to go back tomorrow

for an interview.” She knelt beside me and gave me

a kiss. “Have you been drinking, Josiah?” She could

obviously taste the whiskey on my breath.

“Oh, I just tried some of the whiskey that

was in the liquor cabinet,” I said.

“So, what do you think?” she asked with an

inquisitive look.

“It has a rich flavor,” I said, looking over at

132

the empty glass that was nearly overflowing an hour

ago.

She laughed with a gentle giggle and asked

if I was hungry. I had to ponder the question for a

moment, traveling through my sensations with the

sluggish awareness of bodily functions under the

alcohol influence. I found an emptiness in the pit of

my stomach and relayed to her that I could eat

something. She said she would have dinner cooked

before I knew it and ran her fingers through my

hair. I had no skepticism in her assertion. I wasn’t

cognizant of too much, but everything seemed to

pass rather smoothly.

I didn’t move from the couch or even shift

positions while Priscilla cooked dinner, but listened

to the music of pans and utensils clanging together.

I just felt the pull of her fingers through my hair

again when she had finished, and I saw an angelic

image glowing before me saying it was time to eat.

I shook off my drunk and stood up, wobbling

initially, but stabilizing, and sat down at the table to

a plate of meatloaf and green beans. She had also

poured me a glass of champagne that I could have

done without, but accepted it graciously.

My food was gone before I realized I had

eaten it, and my glass was empty without

remembering taking a sip, but I felt refreshed—

rejuvenation accomplished. Priscilla took my plate

and glass from the table and placed them in the sink

along with her dishes. Standing next to her, I felt

passion rush through my veins for her beautiful

being. I picked her up and gently laid her on the

kitchen table and sweetly climbed on top of her.

133

Kissing her neck while rubbing my hands across her

body, she moaned with pleasure and I became more

aggressive.

Only a future reflection could bring to light

the dastardly deeds we were committing on the

table used for eating. Wiping its surface with our

bodily oils, we engaged in exhilarating carnal sex

and primal orgasms. The energy we released was a

regenerative fuel pumping through us as the

compulsive force of action. We had found ecstasy

in the bounds of our union. Our animalistic display

of emotion shook the glass in the cabinets until I

was no longer capable of continuing in the manner

and retired to the bed to sleep off the alcohol.

134

135

Chapter 12

I woke up alone on the bed, surrounded by

pillows and blankets piled around my body to the

edge of the mattress. Lifting my head I noticed that

the room was different. Upon further examination

of the walls and structural positions, it occurred that

I was in the room where the bird cages had been.

Without any feathered friends to communicate with

or share a view of the vast landscape, I walked to

the window to admire the scenery and saw that it

was barricaded by bars. I rushed to the door and

saw what I feared most. The doorway was covered

with the same floor to ceiling bars. I sat on the

mattress and pondered my escape.

Looking out the window between the iron

bars, I peered at the blue sky that stretched

endlessly with not a cloud obscuring its

magnificence. From the left side of the frame flew a

chain of eight birds ascending the ocean of freedom

and disappearing beyond my field of entrapped

vision. Behind me, I heard the sweet voice of

Priscilla talking. I turned around to see her placing

bowls of food and water into my cage. I pleaded for

136

her to let me out of this constructed prison, but she

just smiled and continued to talk as if nothing were

out of place. She walked away, ignoring my pleas,

and I stared at the bowl of food at my feet.

Surrendering to my fate, I lay down with my

face in a pillow against the mattress. I felt like

crying, but I knew there was no use. I would be held

captive until the end of my days and kept alive with

meager portions of food and water. My resignation

of the situation lightened my burden and I began to

feel feathery. Floating in a sea of indifference, I

lifted my head to see I was in bed with Priscilla in

the main bedroom. My movement must have

awoken her from slumber and she inhaled deeply,

opening her eyes and smiling at me. I smiled back,

not knowing if I were dreaming and puzzled about

my transportation from the cage to the bed.

“Did you sleep well?” Her words stifled my

inward contemplation.

“As soundly as ever,” I responded

“Would you like me to make breakfast?”

She asked, looking innocent as ever.

“Yes, that would be marvelous,” I told her.

She hopped out of bed with a lively

vibrancy, kissing me on the cheek before leaving

the room. I had reached a pinnacle in my anxiety

and wondered how I could be freed from my feeling

of captivity. The only solution that came to me was

that I must leave this house, Priscilla, and a feeling

of contentment for the open encounter of adventure.

I made the decision to be on my way to Mexico

City after Priscilla had left for her interview.

After we had breakfast of eggs and toast

137

with fresh blueberries, Priscilla took her morning

shower. I was scouring my mind for a devisable

plan to escape the clutches of my own dependency

reeling me away from freedom. I sipped my coffee

in a deep concentration, waiting for a sign or a

direction to channel my hopeless abandon to a

pacified destination. Looking out the kitchen

window at the cultivated fields, I saw a truck pull

out of a pasture, most likely a labor hand.

The idea came to mind like a war strategy

revelation to a battered army. The spark lit ablaze

my means of escape from the house to the town

train station. I had seen several farm aides in the

recent days traveling from the fields to buy

supplies. I would walk down the street leading to

the house, past several farms, and wait patiently for

my free ride of urban salvation to arrive. As

thoughts raced, I was chased by the memory of the

dream I had. I couldn’t leave those birds in cages

while I escaped from mine. When Priscilla left I

would let them fly the endless sky they have been

missing and resume my noble journey.

I sat on the couch, drinking my coffee while

Priscilla prepared herself for the interview.

Presenting a calm and indifferent appearance, I

adjusted my secret scheme in calculated steps to

ensure my timely departure from this place of

captivity. Priscilla said goodbye to me and gave me

a kiss before leaving. She looked stunning, but I

would not fall into my feeble dependence again.

Wishing her off with a pleasant demeanor, I held

the face of complete relaxation as if it were my

destiny to remain sitting in that house.

138

“Best of luck,” I told her. “I hope the

interview goes well.”

“Thank you,” she said. “I’ll see you later.

Enjoy your day.”

“Most certainly,” I responded.

As soon as the doorknob caught the frame

and locked in position, I put down my coffee on the

table in front of me. Creeping to the window, I

peeked from behind the shades to see Priscilla pull

out of the driveway and disappear around the bend.

I quickly gathered my things and placed them next

to the door, but before I could leave I needed to

release caged hearts to limitless freedom. Opening

the window in the birds’ room, a breeze stimulated

their excitement as they flapped their wings. I

unlatched each cage and watched them ascend and

fly away.

Standing in the room with the window open

and the breeze blowing, I felt as though I could

have spread wings and flapped to liberation as a

sensation of pleasure saturated my soul. I left the

window and cages unlocked for the wind to cleanse

the stagnant memories of captivity within the walls

of the containment camp. Walking out the front

door with a sense of salvaged esteem for my

purpose of being, I enjoyed each step, stretching my

happiness to encompass appreciation for everything

in my perception.

The tall grass bowed over my feet as I

trekked through the front lawn of the property. The

morning dew beads that had collected on the blades

bounced on to me, covering my shoes and pants in

condensation droplets. I stepped on the road so I

139

would not be soaked by the time I reached the train

station. It was a gorgeous day and the sun was

rising behind an array of color rinsed clouds

amassing with precipitation. The air was so fresh

and invigorating that I wanted to swear I would

never remain penned behind walls for an extended

period, but my brain was mounting the

encapsulation chamber of the day’s train.

I made my way down the slope leading to

the house of Priscilla’s sister as I let my legs carry

me without adding resistance. I walked past a few

farms before my legs were tired and posted against

a fence to rest for a minute. Putting down my guitar

and valise to release the tension from my shoulders

and knees, I leaned on the fence pole and smelled

the aroma of wildflowers windblown from pastures.

As I relaxed, a truck pulled around the corner and

began to pass. Waving my hand as a nice gesture,

thinking he would speed away not noticing me, the

truck stopped and a man hopped out to let me put

my things in the bed.

The man closed the gate to the truck bed

after I had set my things on the hay scattered feed

trailer. I got in the passenger seat and the man

climbed behind the wheel. He was a Mexican

immigrant that stumbled over his limited English,

but I was able to convey that I wanted to go to the

train station. His auburn skin and jet black hair

complemented his stunted stature. We rode down

the country roads as I gazed out the window at the

rolling scenes of green grass, cultivated crops, and

fruit trees.

In my merriment of abandon at having left

140

Priscilla’s influence, I felt weightlessly indifferent. I

soaked up every possible reason to increase my

happiness so that I had no bounds of resistance. We

floated over the hills as the driver took advantage of

his feathery load, not having pounds of hay and oats

to keep us fastened to the road. We finally pulled

out of the countryside and entered the marketplace

along a row businesses advertising stock feed and

groceries. He stopped the truck in front of the train

station before I realized we had arrived and helped

me retrieve my items from the trailer. I thanked him

for the lift, and he wished me well in his broken,

hybrid language.

The train station was a musty, run down,

establishment with a faded sign that read Oxley

Station in obscurely visible letters. I walked up to

the schedule of departures and looked for the most

southerly location. The train to Harlingen, Texas

wasn’t leaving for another forty minutes so I walked

across the street to buy some food. I was fortunate

to be conveniently delayed enough time to acquire

the proper staples to maintain nourishment on my

journey.

At the first fruit stand I visited, where the

items were stacked in crates, creating a maze of

ripened reproductive bodies of seed bearing plants, I

bought a couple apples and pears and moved down

the sidewalk. Next, I stumbled upon a treasure-trove

of exotic and seasonal produce where I uncovered

the grail of oranges, berries, grapes, and bananas.

Before crossing the road, I purchased an assortment

of nuts and sunflower seeds. Looking both ways, I

walked back to the station with a quickened pace as

141

the valise of food and guitar gave me an awkward

gait.

I opened the door and approached the ticket

office. A portly younger man with brown hair

working behind the counter was helping a

gentleman. It occurred to me that I had not ridden

on a train since I left Mexico City to preach at Sun

Grove Catholic. It was only appropriate that I took

the same means of transportation to return to the

city of innocence and pestilence, the embodiment of

opposites. The gentleman in front of me purchased

his ticket, picked up his luggage and walked off.

“Can I help you?” asked the young man.

“Yes,” I said. “I would like to buy a one-

way ticket to Harlingen, Texas.”

“That will be seven dollars, please,” the

young man said smiling.

I handed him a twenty dollar bill, and he

ripped me off a one-way ticket to Harlingen. My

train was not leaving for another ten minutes

according to the station clock. The young man

handed me my change and asked me to stamp my

ticket in a machine before boarding. He pointed to a

gray box that was attached to a wall along the

corridor towards the platforms. I thanked him and

walked over to the mechanism, inserting my ticket,

listening while the stamp clicked the impression of

the time and date next to the destination.

Looking at my ticket for reference, the train

I was supposed to catch was already at rest in the

second terminal. I took the stairs that ran

underneath the tracks of the first terminal to the

platform where I could board my train. I pulled the

142

handle gently and the double doors slid open. I

walked into the cabin and sat my baggage on the

rack above my seat. I fingered through my change

and noticed that the ticket official shorted me five

dollars, but if I attempted to detrain and haggle with

him I would surely miss my train and render my

ticket entirely useless.

I relaxed against the headrest and looked out

the window at a house in the distance. There were

chickens behind a chain linked fence pecking at the

trough of feed. The scene reminded me of the dream

I had. I shuttered to recollect the events of that

frightening experience. I extended my sympathy to

the chickens and their destiny. Unbeknownst to

them, their fate would most likely lead to the dinner

plate of the same people that raised them. The train

began to pull away and the chickens faded from my

field of vision.

Exhaustion quickly set into my muscles and

I felt drunk from over stimulation of my body and

mind. I closed my eyes and glided blindly through

the waves of memory rippling through my

consciousness. Finding a level of detachment, I

recuperated in the black thoughtlessness that

pervaded me. Sleep swept me up like dust in a

breeze, carrying me beyond the prison of my

physical existence and towards the freedom of life

force manifesting. I analyzed my person from an

objective reality, critiquing and agreeing with

individual components.

I was woken by the train whistle blowing

from the conductor’s room of the engine which

traveled to the passenger car where I was seated. It

143

was not the sound I associated with modern

locomotives. Instead of a horn piercing my sensitive

eardrums, the whistle was a muffled horn likened to

the wind bending around branches in a musical

forest. I had to lend my attention to capture the

presence of the long sustained song of railed

transportation.

Opening my eyes to the blurry visions of fog

billowing outside of my window, I held the image

in my awareness, mesmerized by highlights that

generally evaded my sight, then watched it roll by

in fractal formation, spinning around spheres in a

reflected matrix. I noticed I was not only watching

the smoke of the engine, but was analyzing the

depth of my comprehension. In an instant, as if fine

tuning the focus of a camera, the smoke dissipated

and I was staring at the chimney from which it was

pouring.

Rejecting the ability to see beyond the

physical apparatus of sense perception, I returned to

the limits of my cognition within the rationality of

human experience. I was seated, safely and

comfortably on the cushion I had chosen when

boarding the locomotive. Reorienting my thoughts

with my physical location I became aware of a

woman in uniform meandering towards me. She

was checking the tickets of each passenger to ensure

no stowaway had boarded without receipt. I fished

through my pockets, feeling the rectangular paper as

she approached me.

“Tickets please,” she said sweetly with the

matching cap of her uniform tilted to one side

slightly.

144

I retrieved it quickly and gently raised it for

her to see. She extended her hand and I placed the

ticket in her palm, grazing her fingertips as my

reach retracted. She stamped it with a mechanical

clamp, issuing it invalid thereafter. I asked her

about the possibility of being compensated for the

ignorance or pettiness of the official that

shortchanged me, but she just smiled kindly and

said it was out of her jurisdiction as she simply

validated the tickets. I thanked her for her pleasant

and appreciative way of conducting business.

Pondering the length of time that I had been

immersed in dream traveling, dragging my eyes

along the sea of seats looking for a schedule

signifying our present distance from my destination,

I dropped my anchor in the presence of a man

sitting not but two seats from me. The savvy lad

dressed in business attire plaid was checking the

hands of his pocket watch connected with a silver

chain to the lining of his jacket. I speculated he had

some estimation as to our current location and the

time I’d waste away mindlessly before arranging in

Harlingen.

“I beg your pardon, my good man,” I said as

I tapped his shoulder draped in a casual appearance.

“Would you happen to have any idea of the time it

will take for this train to reach Harlingen, Texas?”

He turned to me pleasantly, not disturbed by

my inquiry and even seemed almost giddy that I had

chosen to ask him over any other passenger.

Smiling with his mustached lip, he pulled a neatly

folded syllabus of the train’s daily destinations out

of his pocket.

145

“We are in between the third and fourth

stops of seven to be taken. Harlingen is at the end of

the tracks, the last opportunity to detrain before the

night conductor and cleaning crew bring it back.

We are at half past the third hour afternoon. You

have more than seven hours to relax before you

reach your destination,” he said pointing to the

arrival time next to Harlingen, Texas that read a

quarter till eleven post meridian.

I thanked him for his generous display of

information and reclined in my cushioned benched

seat—a bottomless pit of comfort allowing me to

drift into sleep effortlessly. I closed my eyes and

felt my body tingle with fatigue and quickly entered

the gates of dream.

146

147

Chapter 13

A nudge on the shoulder abruptly awoke me

from my numb slumber. When my eyes opened, my

vision was directed to the seat in front of me. In this

state of confusion, nearly forgetting the sequence of

events that brought me to that moment, I heard an

indecipherable murmur which seemed to be

originating to the right of me. My head shifted

positions so that the linguistic construction

resonating in my auditory faculty aligned with the

sight of a railroad official.

“This is the last stop. You must leave at

once,” the official was saying to me, a thin bearded

man shaking my arm quite forcefully.

“I am sorry. I must have been sleeping

deeply. Yes, let me grab my things and I’ll be on

my way.”

He seemed pleased at this and walked away.

I gathered my bearings and steadied myself in a

standing position, taking the valise in one hand and

my sweet melody maker in the other. I stumbled

towards the door, guided by the lights that lined the

veiling of the passenger car, and threw it open with

148

the hand that gripped my baggage of apples,

oranges, nuts and seeds—crammed full of food, a

change of clothes, and my remaining money. As I

stepped off of the train I saw a sign that read

Harlingen. A sense of relief encompassed my mind

and body.

I followed the dusty road that led from the

train station to brilliantly bright lights of olden tyme

saloons in the black of night. I took a piece of fruit

and a handful of nuts from my bag to satisfy the

demands of my aching hunger pains, balancing the

sweetness of a pear with the chalkiness of walnuts

in the cool desert air. An occasional gust of wind

would thrust a bit of sand onto the juicy half-eaten

pear I held in my hand, but my unrelenting hunger

cared none, devouring the nuts and sand speckled

pear to the core.

As I approached the row of hotels, homes

boarded up with eviction notices, antique shops

closed as the waxing moon rose, and the swinging

doors of rundown saloons hinged on a tilted axis,

western theme songs bellowed in an automated

sequence. I was a bit parched from my supper of

dust covered fruit and nuts and decided to stop in

the nearest saloon for a drink to quench my dry

palate. Pushing open the miniature double doors

made of wooden slats to vent the elevated

temperature of the scorching days of summer, I

pulled up a stool to the counter and signaled the

bartender.

“What’ll it be, partner?” the lad in plaid

elegance asked, bowtied and mustached.

“A scotch on the rocks if you can do it,” I

149

responded.

“That’ll be three dollars.”

I rummaged through my pockets, locating

the crumpled ones and straightening them for the

gentleman. I poured the iced liquor down my throat

in a couple gulps, and took from my pocket the

amount of cash for another. Waving the dollars and

pointing to my empty glass, the bartender promptly

filled me up a second chilled caramel scotch to the

brim of the stout and faithful whiskey glass that I

hammered down like the first. After examining the

situation, I came to the conclusion that I much

rather preferred my glass full and asked him the

price of a bottle. Fifteen dollars sounded reasonable

so I took it from my valise and handed it to him

happily.

I could already feel the sweet Tennessee

aged whiskey sending ripples of ecstasy through my

body after the second drink, but I was miles from

any tangible responsibility and was certainly

overdue for a proper celebration. I had, after all,

come that much closer to my ultimate destination—

Mexico City. Filling my glass slowly, I watched

tiny bubbles form and disperse into smaller ones

around the ice cubes, swirling from desert

temperatures to the chilled nectar waiting to coat

my dry, scratchy throat. Taking a drink and letting it

sit in my mouth for a minute, its flavor unfolded to

an almost fruit-resembling combination of tropical

citrus with a woody aftertaste.

I drank a fourth and a fifth, and even poured

another, although, at this point, it was difficult to

bring the glass to my lips. It seemed like a good

150

decision to rent a hotel room to sober myself up a

little before wandering into the roads of Mexico. I

asked the bartender if he could point me in the

direction of a room to rent, maybe for a day or two.

He smiled kindly and said this was actually both a

saloon and hotel combined and I could rent a room

if I wanted. The convenience astounded my then

inebriated reflection and I gleefully asked for the

damage.

“Twelve dollars a night,” he told me.

A very respectable fee, I thought, handing

him the money. He flipped through the bills and

returned shortly with a key. The tag on it said room

03. It was beginning to be nearly impossible to see

under the influence of the whiskey that was

intensely distorting my vision. He said it would be

the second door on the left after the stairs, and

pointed to the stairwell that ran along the side of the

room. The programmed piano had just finished

playing its last tune and I appropriately grabbed my

half-empty bottle of scotch, retiring to room 03,

reading the tag again to refresh my memory.

I stumbled up the steps, gripping my bottle

of scotch in the same hand as the valise. I was

swaying side to side against the banister for support

and knocking my cased guitar into the wall, causing

the strings to ring. I was singing the theme of some

drunk priest not in need of assistance, staggering in

solitary merriment to the beat of the sloshing

alcoholic drink. I found myself staring at room 03,

tracing the numbers with my shortened attention

span again and again, continually forgetting them.

After gaining a level of confidence, reassuring

151

myself that I was where I should be, I inserted the

key into the handle and swung it open in a drunken

stupor out-lashing.

Flinging the door shut behind me, I set down

my things and opened up my bottle of scotch,

drinking from the butterscotch flavored glass rim of

goodness. Each swig was like an injection of

vitality into my bloodstream. I lay on the bed with

the bottle nestled beside my head, reminding me of

the finer quality of living. Occasionally, I’d lift my

lips to the tilted bottle for another drink. The

memory of guzzling the last drop of the scotch was

all that separated my drunken Harlingen experience

with black recovery sleep.

Morning was a regretful tide of images of

me taking my celebration a few drinks beyond

necessity. I recollected the experience of emptying

the bottle of scotch as a disembodied energy

funneling into me. Each drink was in its own bubble

of perception I could see pouring in my mouth

simultaneously. The taste now permeated my senses

as a pulsating headache came into my

acknowledgement. I rolled over in agony, smacking

my face on the empty scotch bottle that was lying

next to me, which added another layer of feeling for

me to observe curiously.

I remained still for as long as possible,

trying not to awaken the furious dragon that was my

enflamed awareness. The room was spinning

around me, and echoing the conversations I had

with individuals the days preceding. The bedspread

on which I was lying was checkered yellow and red,

and the chest of drawers in the corner seemed to be

152

made of a lighter colored wood, potentially ash. I

had flipped on the lamp that set on a nightstand next

to the bed when coming in. Its dismal bulb flickered

a dull illumination in the windowless construction.

After the tension subsided, the crippling

sensation diminishing in intensity, it seemed like a

splendid notion to explore Harlingen. The city

appealed to many types of people, all of whom

wanted the experience of a pre-modernized

civilization, a taste of the wild west where the token

villain could nearly be seen robbing the town bank

on the dusty horizon. I also craved the satisfaction,

attaching to the thrilling fantasy of being portrayed

on a movie screen as some heavy drinking sheriff

saving the day whenever the simple folk are in

need.

Slowly, I motivated myself to get out of bed,

rolling to the edge and only attempting to stand

when both feet were securely planted. I picked up

my empty scotch bottle and tossed it in the garbage

can next to the nightstand. Turning off the lamp

with my guitar and valise in hand, I left the room

the way it had been, not even the bed needed a

change of sheets—the crease still crisp and neat.

Walking down the stairs, I handed the bartender my

key. He thanked me and wished me a pleasant day.

No place on Earth is quite like Harlingen, Texas.

I swung open the miniature double doors as

the glorious sunlight rained down on me in sheets,

rejuvenating a sense of vitality that cascaded

through my awareness. The air was quite warm, but

the breeze trickled coolness up my pants and

sleeves, occasionally spitting bits of sand in my

153

face. I squinted my eyes to lessen the blinding glare

of the morning light, as the sun had risen well above

the eastern horizon. Thinking perhaps southwest

was a good direction to meander, I walked with my

shadow cast as a friendly companion ahead and to

the right of each one of my steps.

The barren land held a specific beauty of

unimaginable simplicity, possibly intangible to the

individual sheltered by the convenience of city

living. There weren’t even roads. The path was laid

as each footprint or horse-drawn carriage left its

impression, just to be covered by the next gust of

wind in blankets of sand. There was a certain calm I

associated with the desert brought about by no other

landscape of my familiarity. I was enraptured by the

magnificence captured in each inhalation of my

sense perception with the experience.

The dreamy scene encapsulated me

completely. I actually questioned if I could still be

asleep, dragging my feet across the comforter of the

musty room 03 in drunken delirium. Giggling from

the prospect of my imagination, I embraced it with

sheer interest of where my sandy trail led.

Confident I would run into an element of magnetic

attraction, regardless of person or cactus, within a

dream or waking reality, my body responded to an

agenda hidden from me. The rambling of my

contemplative mentality ended when the silence

was broken by wind chimes in the distance.

I followed the resonating clang that carried

in the wind to a row of buildings shimmering in the

golden sunshine. Navigating through the sea of

noises coming from the businesses—the hammering

154

of soles from a shoemaker, the rattle of a

tambourine from a music shop, the quintessential

western tune from the automated piano of a

saloon—I was able to recognize the distinct wind

chimes that had attracted me. The metal bars that

hung in shortened lengths consecutively around a

glass disk played the melodic theme for Roy’s Rare

and Unique Antiques.

I walked up the wooden steps leading to the

open and inviting entrance. My attention was

immediately drawn to a piece of jewelry beyond a

junkyard of Roy’s questionable collection. Passing

carved wooden chairs, clocks that tick-tocked in

different rhythms, various cabinets and kitchen

utensils, I came upon the item radiating peace and

commanded my energy. My body simply floated to

the stunning turquoise necklace that exuded a

soothing vibration. I was distracted when a rather

startling gentleman approached me.

“Anything strike your fancy?” The man

asked with one magnifying lens muscled into his

eye socket.

“This necklace: the turquoise one,” I said,

pointing to it. “Can you tell me where it

originated?”

“That is a very sacred piece of jewelry from

one of the preexisting Indian nations that once

inhabited this land.”

“It is very appealing. How much are you

asking?”

“For you,” he paused, eyeing me and

hobbling closer for a more detailed inspection of my

person. “Thirteen dollars. I simply cannot go any

155

lower, and I assure you it’s worth the money. It is

the necklace of a medicine woman, used in

ceremonial healings.”

I hesitated, debating the costly expenditure,

but without coming to any clear decision I took the

money from my valise and handed it to him. He

smiled sweetly, as only a homely man can, and

thanked me for my business. I carefully picked up

the fascinating beaded piece of jewelry with an

intricately hand-carved turquoise medallion and

placed it gently around my neck. Putting it under

my shirt as to not attract attention to such a

magnetic artifact of potential demand, I began to

walk out of the store when the hunchbacked

proprietor cleared his throat to say something.

“That particular item will bring you much

good fortune,” he said with that crooked-toothed

smile of his.

Waving in a pleasant gesture with my valise

in hand, I just chuckled off the old man’s

foolishness, but thanked him for his assistance. I

had the feeling that my journey was culminating

into epic proportions as I stepped down from the

ledge of the antique shop’s entrance. Feeling thirsty

and in need of a drink, I walked across the dirt street

to the saloon playing a classic jingle from my

childhood memories. I swung open the wooden slat

constructed miniature double doors nearly mirroring

the ones from the saloon I left earlier.

This saloon was more lively and more to my

liking. Men and women sat chatting and laughing

over glasses of wine or whiskey. Feeling embraced

from the beginning, I wanted to be immersed in the

156

culture, part of the conversation, a source of

comedic relief, but most of all, I wanted these

people to desire those qualities from me. I walked

attentively through the faces exploding with

personality, listening to the stories they were

sharing. Needing a mask for this costume party, I

approached the bar to order a drink. Sitting down

my valise, I lifted my finger suavely, nodding with

a careless expression to get the bartender’s

attention.

“What’s your poison, my good man?” asked

a young fellow beaming a pearly grin.

“Tell me. What’s been a popular drink

today?” I asked curiously.

“I’ve poured quite a few glasses of gin in the

recent hours. Would you like a dry gin?”

“Let’s do it,” I responded.

He grabbed a glass from the cabinet behind

him, filling it with gin and setting it on the counter

in front of me with a square white paper napkin

under it. I extracted the payment of four dollars

from my valise as effortlessly as I could. Then, I

thanked him for his service and took a seat at an

empty table, hoping some people would accompany

me. Drinking that glass of gin slower than any

alcoholic beverage I had ever ingested while

extending smiles and chuckles to any kind or jovial

face that looked my way, I remained a single

drinker at a round table surrounded by three vacant

chairs. As the last drop rolled off the tip of the glass

rim onto my lips, I decided I should once again start

walking in a southerly direction.

I picked up my things and began walking

157

out of the saloon, raising my guitar so that I

wouldn’t knock one of these happy drinkers in the

head accidentally. Pushing open the swinging

double doors with the end of my guitar case, I

realized it had been nearly a day since I last ate. I

made my way south from the compass of the setting

sun, estimating the time to be five o’clock from its

position. A meal seemed like it would heal my

wounded feelings of worthlessness. I saw a rock

that would be the perfect spot to rest my fatigued

body while I ate some of the food I brought along

with me.

Pulling a banana from my valise, I peeled

back the yellow sleeve, slowing feasting on the

delicacy. After that, I grabbed an orange, examining

its spherical physique. I decided to eat only half of

it at first, but after removing the rind and throwing

it beside me on top of the banana peel, I savored the

irresistible tropical fruit to the last juicy citrus

wedge. Next, I began snacking on the grapes and

berries I had purchased, and incorporated some

assorted nuts to even the sweetness. Lastly,

rummaging through my valise for the perfect food

to conclude the meal, I found a golden speckled

green apple for my dessert.

I bit into the well balanced sweet and sour

fruit, easily edible on the move, and stood to

continue my evening journey. The sun was now

being devoured by the land, and an array of colors

erupted from an invisible realm. The sky exploded

with magenta and pink on the eastern rim as pale

blue melted into yellow and orange to the west. I

examined the spectrum of vibrant light after each

158

bite of the apple. By the time I had finished it, a

calming violet extended to encompass my field of

vision. It even seemed to be reflected in the endless

mirror of sand in all directions.

Feeling apprehensive about walking longer

without my solar compass, it seemed wise on my

part to get a night of sleep before backtracking. I

could see a patch of buildings that most likely

contained a hotel. While there was enough light to

guide me, I walked with a quickened pace as any

discernible trace of the buildings were being

swallowed in the darkness. After running full

speed, pretty much exhausting my energy, swinging

my guitar and valise as my open stride kicked up

dust behind me, I arrived and was pleased to be

standing at the entrance of a hotel conveniently

housed within a saloon.

Taking a moment to catch my breath, I

walked through the saloon’s miniature double doors

projecting the most calm and collected appearance

possible. Wanting to unwind and in dire need of a

drink, I approached the bar where the bartender

greeted me. He was a muscular man, perhaps in his

forties, cleaning a glass with a rag while sucking the

beer froth from his thick mustache. The thought

entered my mind that I should watch my spending, I

heeded the message, buying a bottle of whiskey for

sixteen, instead of a few separately for three or four

dollars each.

I poured drink after drink into the glass he

handed me. After the fourth drained into my belly,

igniting every cell in my body with the fiery spirit

of whiskey, I remembered my purpose of coming to

159

this building and fished through my valise for the

hotel money. I couldn’t find a single dollar as a

wave of panic engulfed me. I checked all of my

pockets, but they were empty. I looked around

helplessly for assistance. This time I was paying for

my mistakes, and no one was going to save me.

How could I have spent my money so

irresponsibly? I was days, maybe weeks from

Mexico City, and didn’t have a penny to support my

journey. I picked up my guitar and valise, along

with my newly purchased bottle of whiskey and

walked out of the saloon, and began running, not

knowing the direction and not caring. I surrendered

to my ignorance and resigned myself to death. Tripping

over my own feet and eating a mouthful of dirt, I

closed my eyes, sobbing, and waited for death to

claim me.

160

161

Book Two:

162

163

164

165

Chapter 1

A mesmerizing fire dazzled before me. The

wood and underbrush gave way to luscious waves

of yellow and orange flames, flickering red at the

ends. Green and blue shimmered like a shower of

diamonds on it as violet smoke rose, swirling

inward like seashells, then bursting forth from a

radiant center that merged with the light produced

from the fire. Inside my gaze emerged a face taking

shape, a powerful image created in the pattern of the

violet spinning fractals. The resemblance to myriad

earthly archetypes of the animal kingdom exploded

from its features as the figure expanded, first arms

and a midsection, then legs that danced him around

the flames in a wondrous display.

With each movement of the dance, the fire

undulated in rhythmic union. As his limbs flowed in

syncopated motion, the gestures were evocative of

animal characteristics. On the first pass he made

around the pit of golden flames, he held the likeness

to a snake slithering in the sand with liquid dance

steps. Next, coming from the regeneration of fiery

reconstruction, he exhibited a caribou moving its

166

crown of antlers delicately between trees. I was

caught in a trance as he circled the fire again with a

different dance. This one reflected a coyote strutting

with unparalleled prowess. The fourth time he did

this, his movements allowed him to levitate with the

rotation, stretching wings and soaring proudly like

an eagle.

The stare he gave me from behind the rising

flames penetrated any resistance I built against his

magic. Some strange and unfamiliar changes were

taking place in my mind and body. A burning

sensation attracted my attention to my stomach. I

moaned in agony as the churning feeling became

excruciating. The tingling expanded from my

midsection throughout my arms, legs, neck, and

head. Losing awareness of my bodily functions, I

put my faith in the mystical creature of the fire. My

vision elevated and I was looking down at my body

propped against a rock, glowing with an intense

illumination.

Focusing my sight on the ball of light that

radiated from inside my stomach, I noticed a

blockage restricting the stream of energy to the rest

of my body. Lending my awareness to the webbed

membrane covering the luminous sphere, I could

see that within the spaces between the magnetic

lines of the energetic net were patterns. Delving

further, searching for the backdoor in order to

release the floodgate damming the full capacity

wishing to be unleashed, I realized the key for

opening was to dance in rhythmic union with the

undulating flame. My motion needed to be as liquid

as the shape-shifting creature of the fire.

167

Once I adapted to the waves of energy, I

sailed inward on a counter-clockwise spiral. As I

rode the golden river primarily composed of orange

and yellow, bubbles rose into my perception.

Instead of avoiding the floating particles, I merged

with them one by one. Within each bubble that I

held in my attention was a scene exploding from my

memory. These were not recollections of which I

was particularly proud, but regardless of my

negative reflection, I owned those actions and their

consequences.

The first set of bubbles with which I

interacted consisted of my memories of drinking

alcohol. The bottles and glasses of whiskey, scotch,

wine, and gin that I had recently ingested reflected

in my awareness instantaneously. From draining my

funds with the last bottle of whiskey I purchased to

the swigs of bourbon following Robert’s eulogy.

Each situation stimulated a comprehension of my

desire to be complete and my attempt to satisfy that

longing with alcoholic beverages.

Furthermore, my awareness was a

correlating split screen of mind and body. To the

right of my memories I noticed my physical health

and energy level deteriorating as the alcohol

suppressed my inherent motivation naturally housed

within me. On the left side of the objective movie

scene were the effects received mentally. Every

time that I drank alcohol my thinking was dulled. It

actually slowed down my ability to process

information. My attention was essentially damaged

each time I ingested it. I was less receptive to

vibrations interpreted by the cognitive system of my

168

senses.

I noticed that when I wasn’t drunk I feared

my own emotions. I was afraid to experience the

sadness that often arises when one feels separated

from everything else. I wished to be in loving union

with people and the places where I met them. I

wanted to be one with all of nature’s creatures—the

offspring and parents of my library of knowledge. It

was my purpose to refresh my connection, to

acknowledge my preexisting matrix of being. I

chose that moment to embrace every person, place,

and thing with unconditional love. After making the

decree I was pulled along a golden thread, the

electric resonance reestablishing my severed

totality.

Again, I was in the position where bubbles

of past events were recollected. These were the

expressions of lust in my actions. Every instance in

which I treated Pricilla and every woman before her

with sexual hunger in an attempt to satisfy an

unfulfilled quality within me came into my

perception in a projected hologram. I felt the pain I

had inflicted on women with my perverted motives,

the disgrace I placed of their pure and beautiful

nature reverberating through me.

On the right side of the memories, my

consciousness was directed at the aftershock of

emotional trauma caused by my exhibit of

animalistic instincts, the repercussion from the

degrading way I behaved with women. To the left

were the energetic attachments my soul accrued

through using feminine energy to satisfy a craving. I

even saw that as I lusted over women increasingly,

169

the direction of my life would be carried into ever

worsening situations, like I had been stricken with

bad luck.

The perspective I gained from observing my

acts of selfish disrespect toward women revealed

that my true desire, the void I had been trying to fill

incorrectly, was only my insecurity of sharing my

love with a woman. I wanted to be in the best

relations not only with females, but with the plants,

rivers, animals, and stones because every one of my

actions affected them. I chose that my role in life

was to give as much respect to women as the power

of heaven since feminine energy held the holy

aspect of divine embodiment.

After that decision I was once again in the

ocean of bubbles. This set of memories seemed to

be the moment in which I greedily accepted more

than necessary. I had always been provided, even

when I’d try to deny it, with spiritual gifts I needed

to live. Life is a blessing and I had been treating it

as if it were a curse imposed on my freedom from

which I pined for salvation. The salvation had

finally come to me. It was the realization that my

purpose in life was to find balance between those

things I needed to be healthy and happy and

heeding the spiritual calling in each moment.

As the self-reflective projections arranged in

an archetypal spectrum, I saw my unfortunate

mistakes with room to improve. To the right of my

memories were residual burdens from my negative

decisions. These were like magnets that attracted

my spirit to interact with negative energy. On the

left side of the objective viewing screen were

170

chances to heal that pain with mindfulness. If my

life were operating in a respectful manner, I never

would have created those situations. I noticed the

ways in which I was becoming equally as heartless

and self-centered as William and everything I had

preached against.

I wanted to fulfill my spiritual potential. I

wished to be in union with the holy aspect available

every moment. It was my duty to merge with the

positive essence contained in the people, animals,

and plants, even the rocks, dirt, rivers, and

mountains, with the moon, sun, stars, and

emptiness. I chose to align with the divine spirit that

was all-pervasive. Seeing the damage I had brought

to everything around me, the unnecessary injury, I

had an advantage. I had the opportunity to cleanse

negativity and leave in its place the seed to blossom

into the acknowledgement of this spiritual gift.

Selecting this disposition, I entered the

center of an infinite reflection. Immersed in the

singularity, my energy was in an indissoluble union

with every element that used to seem foreign. No

transitory comfort compares to the awareness of

interconnectedness: the oneness with the smallest

particle and the vastest ocean of cosmic

nothingness, the dark seas for information to cross

and the life force traveling the limits of

consciousness instantly. The impact of the past and

present were seamlessly interwoven with future

coordinates in a simultaneous integration, delicately

evolving with the influence of intent from

awakened perceivers.

My body became the universe functioning.

171

My cells became the mechanical components of

suns radiating and the blank canvas of space being

painted with magic in geometric configurations of

constellations. The building blocks composing me

were solar systems of planets revolving around the

cosmic nucleus. My awareness was the satellite

reflecting light in the dark night of egotistic

ignorance. My soul rotated counter-clockwise like

the winds from the west. My life force ascended in

the opposite direction from the receptive star seed

of fertile land.

Traveling from above and falling into my

physical vessel, I awoke within my sensory

apparatus beholding the dazzling energetic

resonance dancing magically from one object to the

next. A new ability was incorporated into my being.

Colorful electricity, musical vibrations, an array of

tastes and aromas, and pulsating waves emanated

from anything positioned around me, intersecting

my cognitive system. My perception had been

enhanced by inconceivable proportions. My

awareness merged with objects of my oversoul

matrix when and where it was directed.

The fire in front of me had diminished to a

few smoldering kindles, smoke rolling from the red

hot coals partially masked with ash. Following the

illuminated stream rising from the fire pit made

from an arrangement of stones, my eyes met the

thin ripples of cloud cover blanketing the full moon.

Behind it, stars shined brightly in the distance

between pockets of blackness. My back slipped off

of the rock supporting me. I lay on my back staring

at the interconnected magnificence until I fell

172

asleep.

173

Chapter 2

Listening to the sifting sand transform the

landscape, moving dunes to valleys in a wind driven

rearrangement, I heard a sound that was too heavy

to be a stone toppling in the windstorm. It was too

consistent to be a cactus scooting through the desert

by force of wind gusts. The shuffling noise cast a

shadow on everything else I was sensing. A wave of

fear passed through me when the image of an

animal came to mind as an explanation for the

systematic footsteps. I opened my eyes and slowly

shifted until my body was directed at the origin of

what I expected to be a hungry coyote stalking the

smell of meat.

Instead of a mangy sack of fur over a canine

skeleton, growling feverishly at the prospect of

eating, I saw the character of night, the savior of

light, the creature of the fire walking to my side. I

was astonished to see him clearly—a red skinned

Native American with black hair that danced on the

breeze. He wore a single piece of animal skin

around his waist that came to the top of his knees.

He had cactus, dried and shaped, to shoe his bare

174

feet with string tying them to his toes and ankles.

The same string that held the cactus skins in place

had been weaved into a strap he had over one

shoulder that was attached to a pouch on the

opposite hip.

He raised his wrist, palm open, then

contracted his digits as a gesture for me to follow. I

sat up. Immediately, I felt nauseous. Cautiously, I

pulled my feet under me, taking several deep

breaths as I scanned the surrounding, and rose

slowly until I was facing him. He simply turned

around and started walking. Still disoriented from

my psychological tsunami and corresponding bio-

electric attunement, I struggled to grasp a sense of

familiarity. Seeing my valise within reach, I

snatched it up and clutched it tightly.

I tried to find my guitar, dragging my eyes

across the desert seeing nothing except a few cacti,

the rock which I sat against, the fire pit, and my

guide disappearing in the distance. Taking off

quickly to catch up with the magnetic stranger, I

caught the distinct image of the tuning keys

twinkling moonlight from the fire pit. Releasing any

sentiments I had for the instrument occurred

instantly. I chased after the man passionately. I

wanted to know what drives an individual to

surprise me in the night, and why I was so eager to

be led.

His movements were very canine-like,

trotting powerfully to the beat of anticipation for

morning revelation. He was essentially a courier,

just as all decent dogs are—a rabbit catching, scent

sniffing, trail following, newspaper retrieving

175

bloodhound—piloting the journey into unknown

territory. I wholeheartedly trusted him to guide me

into otherworldly circumstances. He kept his fingers

extended and separated as if he were harnessing the

wind to power his liquid advancement across the

austere desert. I was directly behind him as the sun

colorfully hatched from its shell of darkness to the

east of us.

The diamond of fire bled red sheets

transversely with magenta and orange ends filling

the circumference of my vision, resting delicately

like pillows on the beds of sand. There was a patch

of green growth in the distance offset from the

encircling brown and tan composition of the land. It

appeared that we were headed straight for it. From

my perspective, it would intermittently be framed

by my guide, above his shoulder and the side of his

head. I was beginning to get winded. A breathless

panic crept into my awareness as I examined my

mystical visitor’s resistance to exhaustion.

He slowed his gait a couple paces from the

oasis and bend down on one knee, pointing at the

ground and looking at me. I advanced towards him

and knelt to see the object of his interest. It was a

well of water no larger than a footprint. The Native

American man dipped his cupped hand into the pool

of water and threw it down his throat quickly. I

followed his lead, bringing my right hand to my

face and pouring the groundwater into my mouth.

Surprisingly, it was the best water I had ever

tasted—bar none. The fresh spring water

replenished my energy, endowing me with long

absent strength and vigor.

176

My guide slowly redirected his vision over

his shoulder to the garden beside him. I traced the

impressions left from the upwelling spring which

branched and extended to the patch of green leaves.

The Native American gently rose to his feet and

walked to the plants. They all seemed to be

reproduced from the same strain, three feet tall

stalks with limbs covered in five-fingered leaves.

They also had the most unusual flowers. The sea

green knotted fibers with orange hairs smelled as

fragrant as lavender and as sweet as raspberries with

a hint of honey. I felt an immense connection to the

plants instantly.

I watched as he pulled the sticky bud from

the top of the stalks. He placed each handful that he

carefully picked in a bowl he pulled out of the

pouch that hung on his hip. Once the dish was filled

to the brim, he delicately separated the stems and

seeds from bud, leaving only finely minced

blossoms. Next, I watched as he removed leaves

respectfully from the plants, laying them

individually in the palm of his hand in a precise

arrangement. His placement of jagged edges

connecting layers of leaves created a sheet of

foliage. Pouring the ground flowers on top of it, he

twisted up a cigarette in one quick motion and

proceeded to tie a strand of fibers from a branch

around one end, spiraling in a clockwise direction

and tying it at the other tip.

He placed the cigarette in his porous basket

weaved from yucca leaves along with the bowl he

used in the process of constructing it. I stared with

deep intensity indubitably exuding through me as

177

the man began walking in my direction. Startled, I

stumbled, tumbling over my own feet and falling on

the ground behind me. He was unaffected by my

clumsiness and kept the procession moving ahead

without a glance or the slightest acknowledgement.

I picked myself up and followed in his footsteps.

We were retracing the same path we had taken to

the field of plants marked by their atypical five-

fingered green leaves.

As we glided like wind over the sun kissed

land, I thought of the man I had been: a priest, and

who I had become: that which cannot be named. I

became the essence of love residing in everything. I

became empty the moment I left my previous

predilection, but this emptiness would be the clean

slate for me to paint a new identity. I was coloring

the mural that was blackened with disrespect and

self-centeredness with the hues of beauty and grace.

Taking advantage of the vantage point with which I

had been anointed, I was slowly flowering into a

continuum of love—erasing fear and hate, and

replacing those energy waves with unconditional

compassion.

I sat up as the moon was thrust from the

scene with daylight, replacing the memory of my

final alcoholic indulgence—the last lucid moment

in my recollection—with my current sensory

awareness. I slowly noticed the immense distance

linearly between these perceptions, yet a relative

proximity was present. A vague awareness of my

experience resuscitated me from containment. I had

been given three gifts, individually occurring during

a day of their own. On the first wave of daylight, I

178

was given the hindsight wisdom of my excessive

tendency, then, the knowledge of my ill mannered

behavior towards femininity, and lastly, as I

watched the sunrise for the third day, I merged with

the singularity—freed from greed.

Situating my feet underneath me, I stood as

the sun was beginning to peak over the easterly

horizon. Crimson rays stretched over the rippled

mounds of sand as the sun painted the clouds and

land in a similar fashion. My valise was laying a

few paces from me. I picked it up, wondering where

my guitar could have gone, not seeing it in the

three-hundred-and-sixty degree radius of my vision.

I began walking when a glimmering reflection

caught my attention. It was the tuning key of my

trusty melody maker. Only the hardware remained

amid ashes in the fire pit constructed with stones in

a circular arrangement.

I stated walking with the rising sun to my

left, the carroty heart beating a layer of orange over

the magenta pocketed depths. The determination to

arrive in Mexico City lit up in my blood as a wave

of intensity, pumping the will and strength

throughout my body. I suddenly saw in the distance

a patch of plants, their green image offset from the

fiery complexion. A sense of déjà vu flooded me;

the memory of a Native American that had led me

to this very area of plant life was traced with my

awareness. It was as if I were stepping into his

footprint, mirroring his intent of environmental

symbiosis.

Approaching the waist high family of plants,

I noticed a well of water that flowed from the earth

179

just as it had in my dream and savored the satisfying

drink. I remembered the method of collecting the

bud into a cup. Trying to think of a proper container

for the occasion, scanning the surrounding

carefully, I saw a fallen cactus in the golden sand.

Walking roughly thirty feet, I came upon the

remains of a once thriving American southwest

spine cactus. It had been torn into by an animal for

food by the look of the section missing from its

general form. The uppermost piece was hanging

onto the rest of the cactus by a thread. I gently

removed the bowl shaped portion that would

perfectly serve my current purpose.

Most of the bristles had dropped off either

from its animal attacker or due to weather

conditions, and I detached the lingering needles

with ease. Picking the green flowers off the stalks of

the aromatic plants, I accumulated a generous

amount of bud needed to construct the cigarette. I

finely minced the leaf and fiber into the sufficient

consistency, then placed the five-fingered ornate

leaves in the palm of my hand in a strategic

arrangement. Pouring the ground bud into the paper

constructed of a foliage weave, I rolled in one

motion a perfect cigarette as if I had done it by

habit.

Holding it delicately between my thumb and

forefinger, I removed a strand of fibers from the

branch of a plant and tied it from one end of the

cigarette to the other tip, spiraling in a clockwise

direction. I placed the cigarette in the bowl and

pocketed it between the belongings I had in my

valise, zipping it up to prevent damage or loss. I

180

thought of the shoulder strap the Indian had on his

pouch and pondered its usefulness. Feeling daringly

creative, I decided to make a shoulder strap for my

handbag. I ripped off the left sleeve from the shirt I

was wearing, then removed the opposing ends of

the handles, and tied it together.

I took a step backward to admire the

shoulder strap while feeling a pleasurable breeze

cascading over my exposed skin. Enjoying the

sensation, I removed the other sleeve from the shirt

I was wearing and wrapped it around my newly

constructed satchel for decoration. With

incomparable confidence at rolling my first

cigarette and redesigning my valise, I began

walking south using the sun as my compass. No

worries could attach to me. I aligned with my intent

to arrive in Mexico City. An eagle flew from behind

me, releasing an empowering squawk. My body

twisted as giggles rose from the pit of my stomach.

It must have been an omen verifying my thought

process foreshadowed in the Native American’s fire

dance.

My feet pulled me across the barren land in

unconscious advancement. It seemed as if I could

catch the wind between the fingers on each hand,

paddling through the sea of elements. I was

observing my thoughts and actions from a detached

awareness, and the ritual of repetition created a

continuum—a time dilation that allowed me to step

outside of the sensory prison I perhaps would have

experienced in the rigid weather conditions. The sun

blanketed the sand as light particles compacted

before my vision. The desert was rich in minerals—

181

a veritable goldmine of nutrients not yet exploited.

I walked until my legs refused to comply

with my command. Their composition deteriorated

and my skeleton turned to dust, spiraling downward

like an hourglass devours grains of sands into a

settlement. I collapsed, breathless, without the

strength to even panic. Glancing towards the sun, it

appeared to be descending to a westerly disposition.

As I shut my eyes, my energy was directed to the

center of my abdomen. My solar awareness was

setting to the lower levels of comfort. My ability to

perceive consciously was diminishing, but I thought

I caught a glimpse of dusk as orange bands of

clouds turned red, then pink.

A gust of wind cut through me like a stream

following a torrential downpour, sweeping my body

empty of feelings. I awoke to my bones aching from

the cold, pulsating in rhythm with the beat of my

heart. The breeze was numbing my face so I turned

away from it. An immediate sense of salvation

overcame me. I raised my eyelids slightly only to

see the illusive Native American instantly breaking

his gaze with me and walking with his

quintessential accelerated gait. I jumped to my feet,

placed the strap of my valise over my shoulder and

trailed his lead. I had to keep a steady pace so the

encompassing darkness wouldn’t swallow him.

I noticed his body arching every several

yards, then resuming its fluid advancement over the

sand which ordinarily caused resistance against

each step. I was floating as unrestricted as my

Indian guide, and began to notice he was leaning

over to pick up branches and twigs—all of the

182

underbrush blowing in the wind. We finally stopped

at the base of a tree, most likely the generator of

kindling he was holding. He released his load of

firewood in a pile a safe distance from the tree and

gathered stones that he arranged around the fire pit.

We sat beside it as he laid two twigs across the pit.

He then began to rub another stick between the two

he held in place. Astonishingly, the twigs started

sparking after a moment and a fire ignited.

He pulled the cigarette out of his pouch and

unraveled the thread he had tied around it. He

placed the finely rolled olive colored herb smoke

stick behind his ear and moved his body so that the

light from the fire illuminated the nearby tree. My

eyes were attracted to a cluster of whitish stems

growing at its base. He walked to the strange

creation and I was close behind with heightened

interest in them. We both lay on our stomachs and

admired the mushrooms that had sprouted in this

arid land. He picked three of the largest ones,

breaking them off at the foundation.

He delicately tied the thread that had been

wrapped around the cigarette over the stem and

golden cap of each mushroom. Then, he gently tied

the strand around his neck. It sparkled under the

starlight like diamonds reflecting the face of the

sun. He removed a dry branch from the top of the

tree and walked to the fire which was now burning

evenly and producing a modicum of heat. Holding

the branch over the flames, catching a tiny fire at

the tip, he placed the cigarette in his mouth and lit

it. He puffed on it to level the cherry on the end,

then inhaled with every bit of lung capacity he

183

could muster, retained the fragrant smelling smoke

for a moment, and blew the cloud at me.

Disoriented, I giggled at its beauty and fell asleep.

184

185

Chapter 3

I was awoken by the uncompromisingly cold

desert night stripping me of body heat and a will to

prolong my inactivity. A chill surged up my spine

as the wind bit the end of my allocation of

tolerability and I jumped to my feet alert and keen,

but the memory of a dream was piecing itself into a

cohesive vision. I slowly remembered my visit by

the Indian spirit—where he had led me. A sense of

trust settled my anxiety. I had no conceptual idea of

who the individual was, or what he wanted from

me, but he gave me the attention and compassion

that would be given to a son by his father, to a man

by God.

A strong gust of wind nudged me as if it was

my spirit guide instructing me to walk my divine

path confidently. Using my body as a sail, I glided

over the sand using my will as my navigational

control. A twig glimmered like a starfish at the

bottom of an ocean composed of stars twinkling

with the ebb and flow of eternity. I bent at the waist

and snatched it up as gracefully as a ballerina

curtsying and continued on my path with not one

186

step out of unison. By the time I reached the tree I

had seen in my dream, I had collected an armload of

flammable sticks, dried cactus skin, and other

underbrush that was tumbling in the breeze.

I dropped the kindling in a pile several paces

from the lone tree and searched the area for rocks to

arrange in a protective ring. Placing two sticks over

the pit and holding them together, I rubbed another

stick in the middle of them. The friction quickly

produced enough heat for a flame to jump into the

underbrush, sparking the cactus needles and dried

leaves, then growing to devour the cactus skin and

branches. I removed the cigarette I had stored in my

valise and unraveled the thread tied around it.

A feeling of incompletion festered behind

me, but after a moment’s indulgence I remembered

what was growing at the base of the tree. Placing

the cigarette behind my ear, I crawled on my hands

and knees until I was head to head with the group of

mushrooms. The three largest ones in the cluster

resonated with my sense of ownership as if they

were asking me to feel at ease with picking them. I

broke each one off at the base and tied the thread

from the cigarette I had constructed around the cap

and stem. I stood up and took a lifeless branch from

the top of the tree. Taking a fireside seat, I paused

in silence for a moment before commencing.

I roasted the tip of the branch until a flame

danced onto it, then lifted it to the end of the

cigarette and puffed until my lungs could not inhale

any longer. I noticed that I could breathe the smoke

deeply without irritation to my air passage. When I

exhaled, I felt a wave of energy spiral up my body. I

187

drew from the cigarette again—lavender citrus

aroma permeating through me. Maneuvering my

body into a sitting cross-legged posture with my

spine erect, I molded the sand to form my figure.

My awareness merged with the earth. The base of

my backbone began tingling and the sensation

slowly coiled itself around my body.

My vision seemed to be on the surface of

my skin. I could vividly detect changes in the

atmosphere around me—the elements of the fire,

the wind that fed it, the ground beneath me, and the

outcome of there interaction: ashes. As I continued

to smoke the olive green cigarette, I felt the smoke

from the fire pit rising, collecting moisture as I

eased from the heat. A feeling of balance and

equanimity was pervasive in everything I was

sensing. My throat began tingling in the same

fashion that the base of my spine had. I closed my

eyes and directed my awareness to a red light that

flickered in the distance of my visual continuum.

The bubble floated closer until I could

discern the images depicted. A clockwise spiral

rippled over the vision like a sunset reflected over a

lake, giving way to repetitious waves from a

neighborly wind. I could see a man younger than

me. He was crawling on his hands and knees in a

patch of red flowers that resembled California

poppies. The individual appeared to be searching

for something, an intangible aspect of himself,

which he had misplaced in the garden. I then saw

him pull from his pocket a pipe with a long

chamber.

Deliriously, he began removing the

188

gorgeous red petals from the flowers and hurriedly

packed the black hearts in the bowl of his elongated

pipe, leaving the center vacant for adequate suction.

Then, he removed from his pocket several sticks

coated in a crimson substance. Lying on his

stomach with his pipe beside his head, he repeatedly

rubbed a couple of the sticks together until they

began sparking. Once they were aflame, he held

them together in one hand, brought the pipe to his

lips, and lit the dark tarry flower essence. A bluish

smoke rose as the man’s eyes rolled back in his

head. He found what he was missing.

The spiral took precedence and the image

melted to a similar occurrence with the same

individual. The scene played continuously, only the

scenery changing around the central theme of

smoking the dark tar. Other memories began to be

incorporated in the recollection. First, a woman

vanished as the character left his teary-eyed lover.

Next, his place of business evaporated with his

decision to smoke the alluring plant essence. Lastly,

a scene of his family bidding him good fortune in

his journeys and a flash of his upbringing played on

the viewing screen. The dreaming gate closed and

the bubble floated to its place of origination. I

opened my eyes and immediately felt a burning

sensation in my neck.

I pondered the meaning of the dream I had

received in a waking state, the position of my body

unchanged. The butt of the green cigarette I was

smoking was lying alongside my knee. I tossed it in

the fire, petrified by the extraordinary weed. The

fire had died down and now only a few embers

189

burned—thin trails of smoke rising from the orange

glow peaking underneath the ashes. Feeling drawn

to another source of energy, I mechanically poured

a handful of dirt over the embers and scrambled to

my feet. I was dizzy. Stumbling and blinded by a

strange blue that was projected onto everything in

my vision, I walked into the tree, but persisted

regardless.

A feeling of weightlessness elevated my

nomadic presence as I floated like a magnet to its

polar attractor. My throat was pulsating, and with

each ripple of energy it was sending I was more

cognizant of the sea of influences in my

surrounding. I saw this moment, clearer than I ever

had in the past, that I was a reflection of my

environment. I was the sand and wind—a process of

transformation and becoming. I was following the

path of least resistance. I found myself to be a

stream of consciousness feeding into the cosmic

ocean.

In the same instant that the revelation

occupied my awareness, the tip of my shoe got

caught in a hole, causing me to topple onto the cold

and damp sand. It took a second for me to realize I

had fallen into an oasis. Small plants had sprouted

from the life-giving water and a vivacious ambiance

emitted from it. I dipped my hand into the well and

brought it to my lips. Shivers ran up my spine and

limbs as the icy liquid coated my throat. I felt

completely rejuvenated, but drank a few more

handfuls to relish in the terrestrial resonance

between water and all creations on Earth.

I gave thanks to the spirit of water that is

190

beautifully integrated into human existence. Such

soul is the quintessence of majestic glacial caps,

river washed stone baths, oceanic masses and

seasonal downpours, upwelling teary eyes, the

sacramental offering, and the titanic waves of

conscious interconnectedness embedded in the lives

of plants, animals, and people alike. I took a step

back to admire the spring as a breeze blew a veil of

dust across the magnificent image I witnessed. My

body splashed onto the ground in an evanescent

dance, tucking my legs under me while contorting

my hands in a cavernous trance.

I felt the medallion I had bought in

Harlingen bounce against my chest. What seemed

like ages had passed since I had been attracted to

the auspicious pendant. I pulled the turquoise

masterpiece up from under my shirt and held it in

front of my face. Intricately carved shapes of

squares, circles, and triangles had peculiar markings

that lined the geometrical figures and a small hole

in the middle. I put the sacred center to my right eye

as if I were a sailor at sea looking through a

magnification lens for a long lost island. I suddenly

saw, in my turquoise rimmed vision, the Indian

man, appearing from a depression in the land.

When I lifted the lens away from my eye

and gazed at the place I had seen the mystical

character I saw nothing but a sand speckled gust of

wind. When I put the pendant against my eye again

the man emerged from a valley, advancing with an

unbroken determination. I wanted him to notice me

looking at him. I wanted this old friend to remember

our connection. At that moment, while staring

191

intently through the blessed geometric opening in

the antique necklace, the solemn Native American

raised his hand and waved for me to follow him. I

was shaken to the core by my surreal encounter, but

scrambled to my feet.

With the valise draped over my shoulder I

barreled in the direction I had last glimpsed the

illusive Indian. At each point of apprehensiveness

while tracking him I would put the magical

medallion to my eye and scan the surrounding,

honing my focus of his fleeting image across the

porous landscape. Eventually, just as the sun was

rising over the easterly hills of my golden desert

reverie, I came closer and closer to the disappearing

entity until I was virtually walking on his heels.

When I was within reach of the magician the orange

morning sun reflected its brilliance on the glassy

scenery. He turned to mist and dissipated as I was

looking through the reliable eyepiece.

Exhausted, I walked to the approximate

location where my guide escaped me. In my

breathless confusion I looked upon a cactus in the

distance and immediately knew that the Godly

magnet of a man had attracted me to the place of his

dematerialization so that I could catch the wondrous

vision of the multicolored bristled flora for an

elevation of my confidence. I had restored my faith

in the path I was walking. My needs were taken

care of. I was mercifully pampered in the nectar of

life—the love of all time being granted and me

accepting the gracious extension of benevolence.

I approached the ribbed blue-green

extravagancy with benediction—vines intertwining

192

around the pointed arms of the cactus like an

energetic grid interwoven into my own physical

vehicle. I felt admiration and gratitude pulsing

through me with each heartbeat under the spell of

the purple flowers blooming in teacup formation

from the vines that sparkled under the sun. At one,

an ocean of cognition balanced in my awareness, I

streamed to the light and heat lover, my mother, my

Earth: her gentle sands breaking my collapse into

rapturenaptime lullaby ever after.

193

Chapter 4

“Define the boundary between the

individual and the whole.

Derive the meaning of connection by

analyzing applications.

Dissolve the illusion of fragmentation for a

unified essence.

Draw distinctions only when appreciating

specific characteristics.

Diminish the influence of processes that

propagate ignorance.

Dive into the ocean from which no

beginning nor end exist.”

These were the last thoughts that floated

through my mind as I lay with my face buried at the

base of the cactus painted with the warm colors of

twilight. I lifted my head and glimpsed the sun as it

descended behind the horizon. I contemplated the

riddles posed to me by a personality that seemed so

oddly familiar, like statements my grandfather

would have made, but never did. With whom was I

in communication, and in what direction was I

194

being led? I quieted my queries and listened

patiently for an answer.

I closed my eyes and breathed deeply. Each

exhalation took with it ideas I had reinforced since

childhood. I felt apologetic for resorting to

programs that limited genuine interaction with

foreign entities. Wishing to take every opportunity

to learn from beings far wiser than me, I put my

hands in the sandy Earth and burned the bridge that

separated us with all of my energy. My heart guided

me, and my stomach provided the means. My

awareness melted into the surrounding and sailed

like wind through bottomless canyons—mediating

consciousness between stars and planets.

I looked up and recognized while staring at

the flower covered cactus the emissary of my

dream, the influence in my thought process—the

resonance of my present perception. I felt a cord of

electricity connecting my lower abdomen to the

energetic field of the turquoise branched cactus. The

burning sensation around my waist commanded my

attention. Orange emitted from the cactus, and I got

the impression that I should sit on my heels. The

deep bluish-violet sky swallowed me as I had my

hands to my knees, focusing on the cactus.

This beautiful creature formed patterns of

energy that my physiology emulated with tactical

musing. We were both, at the core of our nature, no

worse or no better than any other configuration of

organic emanations. Infinite reflection was the

essence we shared. A hologram, an invisible pair, a

light, limitless: we embodied immortal freedom

roaming the landscape of pitfalls and mishaps,

195

catastrophe and calamity. Our mother matrix,

proprietor of spirit whom we owed our last breath,

demanded so little in comparison to the pillaging

we, the heart beat of the planet, received with

ungratefulness.

“Feast on the giver of intelligence, example

of excellent, exposition of wisdom, cyclic defiance:

the element of intent worn around your neck.”

The thought emitted from an objective

location whose displacement originated in the

vacuum between the cactus and me, quite possibly

from the mushroomed entities. I pulled the strand

over my head and palmed the benign bearers of

cosmic consciousness, admiring their dark orange

crowns and light blue bodies. Carefully, I untied

each one of the space-travelers from the band I

fashioned from the stalk of one of the five-fingered

budded plant. I chewed them slowly and swallowed

with gratitude. My sense of loneliness evaporated as

a patch of clouds dissipated above me, unveiling a

breathtaking waning moon.

Observing the heightened awareness

directing me, I felt the release of unnecessary

behaviors from my reservoir of energy, a renovation

of the temple housing the courses by which my

thoughts and actions passed. Memories buried in the

cavern of my being like stones in flowerbeds that

had to be removed for spiritual fertility surfaced one

by one in my nighttime moonlit vigil. I took the

minerals suppressed in my psyche, the misdeeds of

my life projected on the transgression tablet of my

196

spirit, and cast them with my full attention back to

the ocean from which every moment is manifested.

I reordered the misalignments that would

have plagued me throughout my existence this

incarnation with further misfortunes by weighing

my judgments in the realm of self-centeredness. But

this moment would not be a pearl for the world’s

death necklace, not an episode in the galactic series

of stagnant ignorance. I fully intended to rid myself

of lower nature pestilence. I made a promise to use

the experience I had to learn from previous

indulgence in actions that have destructive

consequences: a plea reverberating in every cell of

my body to deny the enticement of transitory

stimulation.

I opened the gate of unconditional love,

letting it pour from me like revolution in the streets

of societal tyranny. I allowed the light from the

stars in the heavens to mend my compassion,

weaving intent with the will to bring fourth from the

darkness the acceptance of love in the hearts and

minds of universal sentience. The face I saw in the

wind rippled waters of contemplation was balance,

a vortex cleansing heartless thoughts before they

domino through impressionable vessels in a cycle of

refusal to be in union with the highest

principle—the corner of the triangular eye of

perception crying life.

Regardless of whether or not my vision was

obscured by my eyelids was of no consequence on

either end. The focus from which my spirit

processed was a reverie I consciously perceived.

The depiction of thoughts and their subsequent

197

emotions left impressions on which my imagination

elaborated with compassionate deduction: the

resultant always being the reduction from a syntax

of sustenance to that of selfless love. I opened my

soul to the greatest intention of tending to the needs

of the planet, seeing my own existence as the

culmination of wildlife in its many personifications.

Orange like the morning celestial father

vibrating in angled relation with the atmospheric

layers of our oxygenated mother, a bubble of ultra

red frequency in a mental corridor danced toward

my cognitive discernment. The tiny world swirled

like a snake coiling into an attack position as the

jaws opened, swallowing me into a bottomless wave

of images. Scenes of star speckled skies alternating

between sunrises cascaded in an endless procession

from the perspective of a cactus. The traits and

habits of the patient cactus were assimilated in my

awareness. Essentially, it became my own history.

I remembered the hardship of the arid

climate, the struggle from which beautifully

chiseled features strengthened. But the unforgiving

heat and moisture-absent environment was not the

only threat to the ongoing growth of the succulent

family. Animals and humans too found ways to

penetrate the protective skin for the saturated

insides, a thirst-quenching remedy for the parched

desert wanderer. There was another practice,

fundamentally animalistic in its purpose and

destructive to the spirit: the fermentation of a

cactus. A branch of man detached from love brewed

the disorienting concoction.

The name “Mezcal” slowly came to me like

198

the pitter-pattering of raindrops preceding the

steady beat of a rainstorm windowsill symphony,

the pronunciation emblazoned from now on in my

auditory remembrance. A once honest, unique, and

loving member of the cactus family became a soul-

sucking beast, an addictive twist in an overall

untainted society. It was no different than the

illusion of a dream disassociating the schizophrenic

from consensus reality. It was the monster hiding in

the shadow of a light shining. A supporting element,

one can only hope its grips claimed the lives of the

retched and the weak like a forest fire clearing for

the strong and healthy.

My lower abdomen remained stimulated

along the tract of my intestines, but as the flame of a

candle flickers in darkness or the water level of an

irrigation system fluctuates with the changing stages

of annual precipitation, it never quite remained in

one place. A sling-shot snap cracked me back to the

root of my logical compilation of information. The

area behind my forehead ignited a cauldron that

bubbled with insight. The sensation pulsated

intensely. It was beyond my ability to control the

pressure. I likened it to a dam complying with the

demand of an unrestricted river raging, paying no

attention to the measly blockade.

I put my awareness on the intestinal pressure

again. The orange sphere glowed so pristinely that I

couldn’t resist embracing it. It was the harvest

moon reflected in me, a lake, a body of water, fluid

in nature, acquiescent. With a closer examination of

the orange lunar mirror, I noticed a deep purple

shimmer around its outer edge. Intuitively, I

199

understood the correlation between the bluish-violet

ring and the orange sensation in my lower abdomen.

A deep breath cleared my mind of the puzzle of

interrelation between the elements and with it, the

two colors separated.

Two balls of light spun before me. They

aligned vertically as the orange ball dropped like an

insoluble solution submerged in the blue-violet

ocean. It was the stimulus of cognition: an interstate

by which messages passed from one to the next in

sections, fragmentations of the resonance infinitely

reflecting. There was equilibrium. A power

emanated from the orange sphere housed below my

stomach and a blue-violet point of awareness

received the capacity for expansion within my

cranium, equations of which spirit both expressed

and acknowledged. It seemed as if I were playing

tricks on myself, feigning ignorance just to awaken

wisdom latent.

The howl of a coyote caught my attention,

redirecting my thought process. I looked around

awestricken, swiveling my head for a panoramic

portrait of the environment in which I was

embedded. Tearing one bead for the appreciation I

had so long now pushed out, the knowledge of

union, trickling down my cheek like the landslide of

my fruitless threads of awareness released to the

valley of garbage to be recycled by the fires of the

brightest light. I thanked the cactus. I thanked the

Native American mystic. My thankfulness extended

to the furthest star above me and the nearest grain of

sand below me. I lay on my back and stared at the

waning moon in peace.

200

201

Chapter 5

A nudge budged me from my restful

slumber. My awareness shot through the barrel of a

temporal whole projected from conception in

darkness to a golden light of fulfillment. I opened

my eyes to glimpse the face of the sun reflected

against the blond sand stretching across the

landscape offset by pockets of dimness in valleys. A

figure was silhouetted by the brilliance of the

smiling dawn. It was the warmth of my Native

American guide extending his hand. I clasped it,

and he gently pulled me to my feet. We shared a

moment of silent veneration for each other’s

company, the sun, and the naked terrain.

He stood entranced before me by the pale

violet teacup blossoms on the vine tied around the

turquoise cactus. A soft breeze shook the flowers in

a rhythmic motion. Watching wind roll over leaves

and buds, I observed a pattern emerge. It was more

than a frequency my familiarity acknowledged. I

opened my perception to its fullest capacity. The

waves of the vibration were short and repeated

quickly, almost like the stride of a horse but more

202

swiftly. I focused on the tide of energy floating

from the vine in dance step cadence onto me until I

reflected its plan of integration. The colorful tones

painted our canvases with the flower‘s palette.

The pale violet blossoms communicated

their intent to unify all things fragmented with

grace. Maybe, on the surface, their aim was too

broad and incapable of universal amalgamation, but

with the waterfall of patience, love, and acceptance

washing over every cell in my body, I too

surrendered my doubt and resistance to the breath of

awareness. The symbiosis of us: the perceivers and

the flowers—cosmic teachers—brought knowledge

to the three-dimensional reality imposed on the

inhabitants of the planet. The magnetic attraction

between positive and negative were sent through the

ground wire of our celestial navigation in the

translucent mirror moment of lucid participation.

“Grind the dry seeds on the vine into a fine

powder and eat the mixture.”

The message unfolded from the blossoms

like a record amplified with the needle’s point of

my attention. A gut instinct eliminated any

uncertainty about the information I had received.

Furthermore, I looked at my Native American guide

for reassurance to see him soaring on the same

frequency in aerodynamic eagle-beaked agreement.

I was reviewing a dialogue between my human

cognition and a flower’s plea. The only veil of

illusion was my disbelief, and I was drawing the

curtain to a crystal clear comprehension of

203

interconnectedness.

A flash of light ended the dream sequence of

the Native American and his childlike elation at the

union of human cognition and the vine’s vibration.

My eyes slowly adjusted to the radiance of the

golden sun sitting on the throne of morning. The

king crowned with solar emissions sent impulses to

the grains of sand that reflected every bit of

sentience the patriarch exhibited. My perception of

this holographic spectrum was corroborated with

the shadows that supported illumination in the

valleys ahead of me. I felt the warmth of my soul

burning with the friction of an unstable crystalline

edifice.

The concept was becoming more lucida

fusion of polarities within the domain of infinity.

This suggested that the tenant was not separate from

the dwelling. Such a mind-boggling and atypical

frame of thinking was a challenge around which I

attempted to wrap my reason. The most puzzling

portion of the conundrum was the dilation of

attention one needed to transcend logical constructs

of determinism. I sat cross-legged in front of the

blossoms and pondered the configuration of

energetic transference. An insight ignited like a

photographic image on magnetic film. Space was

the living breath of knowledge passed in

reverberations of organic density.

The ebb and flow of the universe, a tug and

shove of cosmic illumination was but an exchange

oscillating in a perceptual timeframe. Each

inhalation was an impression of energetic

configurations. Each retention unlocked the magic

204

upon reflection of intuitive ideas and their

usefulness. Each exhalation was an opportunity for

the application of new information or the repetition

of ancient programs. This was the rise and fall of

countless stars and their story of triumph. Burn

bright for the dark of night that refrains from the

glory of radiance, but remains interconnected in a

quantum projection of opposites—two halves in

union no matter which way you slice it.

I was receiving new patterns of interaction

from an interconnected intelligence. Without having

to ask myself where it had originated, my awareness

landed on the pale-violet blossoms in front of me.

Locked in a firm concentration with them, my

attention began spinning in an astral bubble of face-

to-face interrelated reciprocatory exchange within a

spectrum of consciousness. The purple flowers

wedged a pocket of energy in front of my feet

serving as a stair step decision, an alignment with

destiny. I wanted to be uplifted, included, an active

member of cosmic sentience, one with infinity, so

like the grasshopper, I leapt blindly.

Next, I was formless awareness at the desk

of knowledge. I connected webbed archetypes of

communication between my intuition and this

plant’s vibration with my single-pointed attention

like constellations weaved into a diamond. This was

me, expanded—my ideas complemented by the

wisdom of the sagely succulent—and I was

pulsating with intent to bridge my terrestrial

subsistence with the endless bastion of ultimate

freedom. I was answering the cosmic question:

Shall thou enter the Garden of Eden? My response

205

was a resounding “Yes.” Two eyes in the head of a

saint conjoined at the brow in diamond agreement.

I came back to my senses with instructions

that I didn’t attempt to conceptualize. The library of

knowledge would have shot my cognitive vessel

back into the cocktail of interdimensional reality if I

hadn’t promised to sail on a path of reinforced

spiritual selflessness. I approached the vine and

opened the dried seed pods—usually collecting four

seeds from each one—and placed the loose seeds in

my pants’ pockets. After I had gathered every seed

on that vine, I navigated to others nearby. I was

thoughtlessly being a clear channel for a greater

purpose. My consciousness was to be the vortex

that would send currents of unconditional love and

acceptance to bands of light that resembled my own

configuration of social and genetic imprints—a

vacuum of healing intent.

My actions were poetry in motion. Every

joint bent, muscle tightened and area of flesh that

molded around them was an involuntary action in

the sense that it was intended from a higher nature

than I had previously and more consistently been

associated in my own perspective. Collecting the

dry seeds from the vine of teacup violet blossoms, I

directed my energy in accordance with the

configuration of my intuition and the vine’s

vibrations in the sacred moment of philosophical

discussion. My body was magnetically attracted to

the dried seed pods along the vine that

intermittently emerged within a vast circumference.

By the time the sun had reached its greatest

ascent in the cloudless bubble of my momentary

206

perceptual glimpse into my cognitive condition, my

pockets were filled to the brim with the dried seeds

of the gloriously transpiring budded plant. Without

reservation, I approached a family of stones

congregated at a place of astoundingly pure energy.

I sat in a meditative posture and emptied the seeds

from my pockets onto the ground beside me.

Uninterruptedly, I removed the bowl—the head of a

cactus transfigured by an animal—from my valise

and sat it ahead of my feet.

Then, in small numbers, I dusted off the

seeds and placed them on a large shoveled rock,

grinding them into a fine powder with a smaller and

more controllable stone. I swept the chocolate

remnants into the cactus skin bowl and repeated the

process. This must have consumed a fair potion of

daylight, but the retention of my own behavioral

modes evaporated like rain from a bucket. I arrived,

hundreds of seeds later, at the acknowledgement

that I was holding a bowl of powder from the seeds

I had collected. I connected with the dream I had

the night proceeding, to the words: eat the mixture.

Once again, there was no hesitation in my action.

The first wave that flowed from the seeds of

the purple flowers, ground and now coursing

through my veins, was a discomfort residing in my

midsection. My awareness was no less present than

the wind blowing against my face or the rain—

absent from this arid climate—that I traced in my

memory as clearly as it was yesterday: irreducible

elements of my worldly perception framed in

picturesque quintessence. Suddenly, I remembered

my grandfather smoking tobacco from a corncob

207

pipe, but then his face melted into that of a Native

American man puffing away similarly, and the

image was gone, like a dream upon awakening. The

agitation lessened when dragging my feet through

the golden sand, so, to diminish the fiery frenzy

boiling in my abdomen, I began walking in a

southern direction. The sun was portraying my

feelings in the silver sky, stage left, diving behind

the horizon—two celestial bodies colliding and I

was in the thick of it.

With each step, the sensation in my solar

plexus was increasing in subtlety until it went

unnoticed, but, in direct flux of proportion, the very

tip of my head lit up like the wick of a candlestick.

My salivary glands were working overtime,

producing the lubrication necessary for the

digestion of the seeds I had mashed and then eaten.

A chemical reaction was occurring within me. The

consequent was the expansion of my awareness,

filling my senses and intuition with a surge of

energy. It was déjà vu—the feeling of recollection

without remembering a specific fragment of

information.

The sky had transpired into the deep blue-

black of nights past. It was the very same shade

witnessed at the birth of Jesus. It was the exact

darkness that encompassed the star of Bethlehem

that the three wise men followed to reach the holy

manger. My body lay on the hay colored sand, a

landscape of perpetual motion. Although I was

walking, I was aware there’s no distance to be

crossed, and no time to be lost. Lifting my head, I

admired the fallen kings above me, those men and

208

women who had retained their individuality and

now radiated eternally as far as the eye could see. I

thought, “This is true consciousness—the light

within me reflecting those astral crystals,” and then

captured the whim in a moment of analysis as an

echo of a greater, mythic memory.

The temple of my body was the temple of

God: the temple that spawned Jesus Christ, that

birthed worlds, and that created all that is. This was

“the moment” I thought, and chased the whisper to

its origin. Where I ended up was where the universe

began, the friction between light and darkness:

cosmic consciousness. A thought arose like the blue

moon. “I am a frequency of chaos, a creative

thought, seemingly a different expression, but at the

core, the light that illuminates my spirit is the light

of Jesus.” I became a constellation, then the solar

system, then the sun, then the planet, the fire, the

wind, the ocean, an island, my parents, and the

mystical Native American. I was an illusion

dissolving, a waking dream, a thought thinking, a

thread of awareness connecting pieces of infinity,

ending where the beginning finds its footing.

209

Chapter 6

I gazed into the center of the sun. Its yellow

glow wavered with trepidation. The path of action

delineated by rays of sunlight was guided by a

luminosity far less restricted in rarefaction.

Burdened not by cyclic tendency mechanistically

ruling thought and movement of dormant

consciousness, there was a thin layer of purple

surrounding the yellow sphere. It flickered

immeasurably quicker, but the flashes were

choreographed with a message of selflessness. This

was the level of electricity that bridged all organic

entities to infinity.

Yellow was a symbol for strength; and

violet, its counter element, was the direction, laying

out the course of motion. I felt the yellow flames

breathing in correlation with my solar plexus. Then,

the sensation rose up my spine to the top of my

head and exploded out of my crown in violet

showers of vibration. Sparks ignited the kindling of

my attention with fireworks that rained on the

nightscape. I listened to the whisper of the

electromagnetic symphony. The scene faded as my

210

awareness navigated to my physical vessel anchored

in sensory discernment.

I rubbed my eyes and peeked between my

fingers to see the yellow sun blazing above me. I

quickly squeezed my eyes shut, but a violet

impression of the ball of fire remained in my visual

continuum. I recollected the dream sequence that

preceded this waking experience, but then

questioned my thought process. Perhaps, everything

I had associated with reality was the dream lagging

behind a superconscious perception of which I had

only caught glimpses; if so, this was my awakening.

To operate off of judgments based on sensory

stimuli was foolish. This dense wavelength was but

a verification of an overmatrix.

I sat up and contemplated the thoughts that

were drifting through my mind like an enemy fleet

surrounding the barricaded haven of my old world

view. The notion intrigued me, but I needed a

model from which I could extract knowledge. I felt

compelled to place my left ankle on top of my right

knee. This seemed to increase the flow of creative

thought within me. I began by arranging my

experiences of late with my intuition.

I had smoked the buds of a fragrant plant

and felt two sensations—one at the base of my

spine that I associated with the color red and one in

my throat that I related to blue. Next, I ate

mushrooms that had dehydrated around my neck

and felt a pulsation in my lower abdomen that was

orange. Then, the feeling traveled to the center of

my head where it was bluish-violet. My most recent

memory was grinding the seeds of a vine, and after

211

eating them I experienced a vibration in my

stomach that I acknowledged as yellow. My

awareness navigated to the top of my head. There, I

linked the feeling with purple.

The most perplexing and disturbing was the

sensation at the base of my spine. With my eyes

half-closed, I traced a counterclockwise spiral

toward a red light in the distance. My concentration

on the hue led to a sensation at the base of my

spine, burning intensely. I began thinking about the

transitory pleasure that had ruled my actions in the

past. I focused sharply on the light and noticed that

the shade of red was a curtain. The veil was

composed of crimson diamonds tightly fit against

one another. White light bled through the cracks.

The diamonds resisted the influence of the white

light because with it came a nearly diametric set of

feelings. The red veil strived for isolation and its

influence was to satisfy the needs of the

few—maybe one or two individuals—and avoid

involvement with the many.

As I continued to place my unbending

attention on the white light, the diamonds turned

orange and distanced themselves from one another.

The sensation at the base of my spine had been

relieved while a pulsation with a more rhythmic

wavelength tingled in my lower abdomen. As I

focused on the image in my mental projection, I

noticed a destructive tendency. The amount of white

light had increased from the red blanket of

diamonds, but the orange veil appeared to be fueled

by the white energy. It was creatively defending a

sense of ownership. This hostility was only a

212

childish expression of a desire for integration

without the intelligence for its manifestation. Anger

was one energetic avenue for the orange diamonds.

Patience was a very different avenue for the orange

curtain. I decided to indulge in the more pleasant of

the two and patiently waited for the white light to

guide me.

The crystals became more elongated in

shape, and their more vertical configuration of

placement allowed for the addition of white light.

The diamonds changed from orange to yellow and

were more willing to cooperate with the white light.

The pulsation in my lower abdomen was gone;

instead, I felt a vibration behind my stomach. There

was an inherent symbiosis of the diamonds and the

light. They supported the existence of one another.

Unnecessary individualism was discarded at this

level of awareness. This realm of consciousness was

related to the material reality. It was the will for the

physical body to encounter any essential danger in

the process of integration with the light. The yellow

diamonds represented the strength to bring a less

selfish agenda into the interconnected

consciousness on the planet.

The diamonds broadened into a powerfully

uniform shape and separated from one another,

creating a greater space for white light to infiltrate.

The color of the crystals changed from yellow to

green. At the same time, the vibration that had been

near my stomach was replaced by a melodic feeling

behind my chest. The light flowed through the

green energy sheet freely. The diamonds accepted

responsibility for channeling the light to the other

213

end of the spectrum and weren’t disturbed in the

slightest. This perspective was aligned with a high

set of values. No longer would the crystals exhibit

disadvantageous tendencies in hopes of integrating

the light. It was no longer necessary. Instead, the

diamonds simply reflected the light as a means of

balancing universal energy. In lieu of operating with

a close-minded agenda, the green diamonds

sacrificed old knowledge for the guidance of light

that is ever-present.

The shape of the crystals shifted to resemble

the dimensions of the red diamonds with a greater

amount of distance than even the green diamonds

had between one another. Their color changed from

a shade of green to a vibrant blue. This correlated to

the cessation of the feeling behind my chest, and in

its absence I felt a sensation in the back of my

throat. The sentiment of the engagement between

white light and the blue energy field was an internal

alignment between the well-being of the individual

and the community. The impulsive response to the

energetic continuum of continuous experience was

to choose an option that meets the necessity of

positivity in life without leaving the rest of the fish

in the sea to swim about aimlessly. It was

characterized by the communication needed to

adopt higher values in the communityvalues that

traded fear driven decisions for a more selfless,

gentle agenda.

The diamonds rearranged to allow an

increase of white light between them as the shape

transformed to mirror the measurements of the

orange crystals. The blue hue changed to include a

214

hint of violet. Simultaneously, the feeling I had

been experiencing in the back of my throat ended

and a harmonious pulsation began in the center of

my head. My eyes turned slightly inward to better

focus on the information stemming from the bluish-

violet pattern of electricity interacting with the

white light. This level of consciousness dissolved

the boundary between the individual and infinity. It

incorporated emotions as a guidance system to

mindfully direct energy with the intellect. It was the

reduction of tension with the purpose of cohesion.

The tendency was to choose virtuous decisions

instead of a short-lived happiness granted from

immature modes of behavior. It was the expression

of intuition within a predetermined set of values

necessary in spreading the light.

The crystals became more slender,

emulating the shape of the yellow crystals, and

arranged themselves such that there was the same

amount of distance between each one as there was

within each one. The light actually penetrated the

crystals and all that remained were the purple

contours of diamonds reflecting white light. As I

was watching this, the pulsation in the center of my

head was alleviated, but the crown of my head

began vibrating. My tongue involuntarily lifted and

pressed its tip to the uppermost place in my mouth.

Here, the frequency projected—more than any other

energetic configuration—the practicality of weeding

out unnecessary patterns for the focus of purpose

used in an interaction with a higher light to diamond

relationship. This level of consciousness was

committed to viewing situations without bias. The

215

disposition of the crystals was compatible with the

values of forgiveness in infinite light.

My awareness exited my physical vessel. I

was looking down at my body and all around it, but

it was not the image I had come to acknowledge as

me. I was a rainbow housed in a humanoid shape.

Each color was a round wheel spinning energy from

the dark end of the spectrum towards the almighty

white light of infinity. Same token, they were

drilling the darkness with the uncontainable

luminosity of infinity. This was my soul, and in the

middle was the green energy center. It was very

close to my heart and released its energy with a

preexisting beat. I was listening to the rhythm of the

planet—the earth drum. As I watched my body

breathing, I began to take notice of an energetic

cocoon surrounding my entire form. It was

translucent initially, but the more I concentrated on

it, a pinkish hue became dominant. I thought, “This

is the knowledge of the universal octave reflected in

my awareness,” and then, for a verification of my

experience, placed my awareness back in my

senses.

I opened my eyes completely and let out a

sigh of relief with a deep and cathartic exhalation,

admiring the bare chest of mother earth’s desert that

looked of flesh in the sunset. Every color vibrated

with cosmic knowledge of a secret resonance, the

unity of creation, a chapter long forgotten,

misplaced in the ages. The sky was bold, noble. The

breath of God, the song of Adam in the heavenly

Garden of Eden was an ocean at low tide as the sun

drug the day away. Constellations brightened as the

216

daylight dimmed, accenting the twinkle of stars,

islands in the galactic sea serving as landmarks for

the astral traveler.

The moon was absent in the nighttime sky.

Orbiting in the earth shadow, it was invisible from

my point of view. Soon, its luminescence would

grace this corner of the planet, catching a bit of the

sun’s radiance and reflecting a nightlight of security

from the blackness that was now darker than I could

ever remember. In between stages of activity, the

lunar mirror was reflecting the undoing necessary

for its existence, the foundation upon which the

moon cycle revolves the translucent body of

knowledge. The moon knew all along—the dragon

protecting its pearl of wisdom. The most accurate

reflection of universal light was formless

awareness. I had seen my true consciousness, a

clear bridge amid polar opposites. I lay down on my

back and let the ebb and flow of cosmic electricity

put me to sleep.

217

Chapter 7

Silver ripples of sonic vibration echoed

toward my point of awareness that was suspended

in weightlessness. This energetic dialogue was

prolonged by my interest in the ghostly message. I

gave my full attention to the voice speaking in

words of electricity, a lyrical intention that came in

waves of predictability. I was caught in the exhaust,

captive in a suggestive web of impulses, but this

house had rooms of varying dimensions. I noticed

the fleeting reflection of a white light so untainted

that its purity soothed my scattered mentality. The

chaotic activity convened into a shimmering focal

structure resembling a beetle with golden wings

fluttering verbal syllables. I deciphered it as, “Wake

up, Josiah. Your assistance is needed,” which it

repeated until I heeded its plea.

My eyelids snapped open like a rubber band

releasing tension, and the deep violet morning sky

poured into my visual continuum. The beetle’s

words reverberated in my remembrance. I dawdled

not, and put my sluggish muscles into motion. Rays

of light swept across the land as the sun emerged

218

from the eastern end of my scenic recognition. By

contrast, a shadow’s emphasis intersected the corner

of my field of vision. I sat up, startled by its

movement, to see a beetle trotting patiently,

evidently on its way to a place where it was needed;

as its passing by me was timely, my assistance was

also necessary. I jumped to my feet, tossed the cloth

strap of my valise over the opposite shoulder to the

hip on which the pouch rested, and took off like

lightning flashes, a wave crashes, or rain splashes

after its long descent—an instantaneous burst of

action.

I ran like my life depended on it. No pocket

of sand impeded my desert advancement. No gust

of wind slowed my electric sprint. In essence, I

opened a gate of power that allowed a near endless

endurance. I cut through the air like a tornado,

producing a sound like the howl of a coyote. I

didn’t even blink, just kept my eyelids low enough

to shield my sight from dust blowing in the breeze.

My palms were open and fingers separated. It

permitted me to anchor my awareness in the energy

ahead of me and to pull myself along a cord of

destiny. I didn’t know my destination, but I trusted

my instincts, following my nose that would lead me

to the location where my spirit’s assistance was

needed.

My vision blurred and the only two

processes I acknowledged were my heartbeat and

my breath. A ringing resonated in my auditory

gamut until I slowed my pace enough to evaluate

my environment. There were adobe and wooden

buildings as well as tanned skin, dark haired men

219

and women. I was in a Mexican township. Walking

slowly, consciously decreasing my rate of breath

and heartbeat, I tried to divert unnecessary attention

to me. There was an abstract quality that I sensed

around these people, completely unfamiliar to me. It

was a storm of energy. Men, women, and children

were wearing shells of luminosity. Colors ranged

from the rainbow bands around children to strong

yellows and oranges that emanated from the adult

population. One aura stood out in the distance, a

dark charcoal gray-black surrounding an elderly

gentleman.

At the moment I locked my eyes on the man,

the crowd separated and we were connected by a

golden thread. I floated toward him, not feeling the

ground beneath my feet or the sun beating down on

me, just the need to assist this man that was, without

a doubt, dying rapidly. I approached him slowly and

took a knee. He looked at me with a sad face,

unable to speak. A shadow of black energy spiraled

downward, claiming his life force that was so weak

that the greatest doctor on earth couldn’t save him.

The idea occurred to me that the most precious gift I

could offer him was peaceful company. I held his

right hand in my left, and unconsciously removed

the turquoise medallion around my neck with my

right, holding it to his chest. Automatically, his

muscles relaxed and the spin of his energy reversed

its polarity.

A shade of pink rippled through the two of

us. It turned golden, then silver, and an infinite

white light absorbed everything in our atmosphere.

We were honoring the pulse of life, the cosmic

220

heartbeat, the rise and fall of creative consciousness

reflected in our energy—respecting the sacred space

of our unity. He nodded his head slightly, signifying

he was ready to leave, moving his spirit from the

vessel of flesh to the land of love and light, the tide

of soul, led by Archangel Michael to the

reformulation of awareness within this solar system.

We returned to the attention of our community

setting as his body went limp and his spirit escaped

through the tip of his head and ascended the

staircase of heaven. I followed with my eyes the

winged body of light that smiled at me before flying

into the sky. I lost the image where it intersected

with the golden sun above. Two doves flew into my

field of vision simultaneously—the quintessence of

a life lived fully, coming to a proper end.

I placed both of his hands over his heart,

with the Native American medicine woman’s

pendant between his palms and chest. I took a deep

breath and stood, snapping a panoramic view of my

surrounding. My feet began walking and my body

consequentially was led by them. No pedestrians

were bothered by the man’s death. These were

Mexicans, generally used to tragedy. As I was

leaving the scene, the ringing I had heard earlier

returned. I saw a woman approaching me through

the sea of people milling.

“I make good love to you, two hours, do

anything, just fifteen American money,” the poor,

but gorgeous lady propositioned me. She had a red

curtain of energy around her. She was afraid the

same fate of the dying man would befall her. I

couldn’t imagine giving this woman money in

221

exchange for two hours of sexual intercourse.

“Why do you do this?” I asked. “Why are

you selling your body?”

“I am hungry. I need to eat,” she responded

honestly.

My hand involuntarily started digging

through the contents of my valise until I wrapped

my fingers around an object and pulled it out before

I could second guess my reflex. It was a shiny red

apple. I hadn’t thought to check for it in the period I

had been wandering through the barren land with an

empty stomach. I put it in her hand.

“Take this. It’s all I have. Open your heart

instead of selling your body and you shall have

plenty,” I said, and walked away before she had a

chance to thank or curse me—gone like moisture in

this arid climate.

I would continue living without food in my

belly for the time being, but my dehydration was of

dire urgency. I walked down the town streets

looking for a place to accommodate my

circumstance. A man staggered flat drunk from a

building and I knew immediately the tavern would

be able to provide me with a drink for nourishment.

Approaching the swinging saloon style double

doors, I became strangely hesitant, bothered by a

pulsation in my lower abdomen, but walked in

regardless. There were a few men sitting at tables,

drinking rum and whiskey. Their heads swiveled

like wheels on their axis to look at the ragged,

filthy, and penniless image of me walking, eyes

fixed on the bartender, unconcerned by the stares of

Mexican alcoholics.

222

“Please sir, could I trouble you for some

water? It has been days since I’ve had anything to

drink. I am so very thirsty,” I asked, holding my

hands together in a prayer position, begging for his

mercy.

“You in here, you buy a drink: whiskey,

tequila, uh?” he responded. His left eye had been

blackened, as well as his soul so it seemed, an

orange veil of energy enveloping him.

“Please sir, I haven’t any money.” I begged

of him.

“You leave,” he said, waving me out of the

place. “Want water? Drink with the horse out

front,” he said, referring to the muddy trough

reserved for horses and mules. The men in the bar

snickered and laughed more heartily as I exited the

building.

There was a black horse with a white mane

tied to the post above the tub of brown water. It

stamped its feet angrily at each person that walked

by. As I came toward it, I knew with certainty that

this horse had kicked the bartender in the face.

Turning to the front window of the saloon, I saw the

childish faces of the drunks, waiting for the same

incident to occur with me. My steps were gentle.

My breath was even. My mind was clear,

unperturbed by the immature behavior of those

drinking inside that looked on for my harm or

demise. There was no difference between me and

the horse, and we both knew it. He breathed

heavily, watching my every movement.

“I’m your friend,” I said to him. “I’m going

to share your water. You’re not going to hurt me.

223

I’m not going to hurt you.”

I kept eye contact as I dipped my hand that

was cupped into the water. I brought it to his mouth

first. He drank calmly, and I petted his coat with my

other hand. I looked in the window. Jaws dropped

open. They were dumbfounded and astounded.

They too could be treated decently from this

temperamental horse if only they gave it the

compassion that they themselves searched for in a

bottle of liquor. I brought a few handfuls of water to

my face and drank. It wasn’t the purest, but it was

water and my body responded rather well to it. I

brushed the coat of the friendly horse before

walking away. His tail waved, pleased to finally

have been treated as an equal.

Walking down the congested streets of

endless surprises, my body was replenished and

thoughts collected when I felt a vibration half-way

up my spine, behind my stomach. I pondered what

could have been the cause of it. My vision was

skewed by a yellow tinge, a hint of the sun’s

radiance reflected in the people and houses of the

Mexican township. Suddenly, I got the distinct

feeling that I was under surveillance, trailed by a

silent agent stalking me with a hidden agenda. I

stopped cold in my tracks, pivoted on my heels,

turning around completely and spotting him

immediately. Cloaked in a blanket of yellow

energy, he jumped, startled, but quickly relaxed his

tense neck and shoulders, smiling at ease.

“I’ve been watching you since you arrived,”

the old man said.

“What business do you have following me?”

224

I asked him bluntly.

“You helped Juan enter the pearly gates, did

you not? You are a holy man, are you not?”

“Was that his name? Juan?”

He nodded in affirmation.

“I used to be a Catholic priest, but that was

in my past life,” I responded.

“Then what would you call yourself?” He

asked, wearing an inquisitive expression.

“If anything, I am a bridge to an indivisible

end, a waking transformation, a conscious whim.

That is, if I am anything at all beyond your

reflection.”

“Sir,” he paused. “Do you have a place to

stay?”

“I’m not here to stay. I’m on my way to

Mexico City,” I said, answering his query.

“I can see you haven’t eaten. You could stay

at my house this evening. I would provide you with

a nice meal, a soft bed, and pleasant company.”

“Why would you open your home to a

stranger? What do you want from me?”

“Please,” he said, placing his hands over his

chest, signifying his sincerity. “Juan was a friend of

mine. Seeing you help him die happily changed

something in me. Honestly, I only want to have a

conversation, and to provide you with a decent meal

and a good night’s sleep before you resume your

journey.”

I trusted his story and asked him to lead me.

He was extremely courteous and spoke English

flawlessly. We walked through the town square as

he pointed out government buildings and a number

225

of Catholic churches. He made several clever

comments in passing, lightening the mood of the

afternoon. He asked my name well into the

conversation, and told me his, Omar, shaking my

hand; but evening the formality he patted me on the

back, chuckling like only such a carefree individual

could. I was happy to have met him, ecstatic. It felt

wonderful laughing and learning about this foreign

city of Miguel Hidalgo. The sun was low as we

approached his home that was nestled in the

outermost neighborhood and built with very

impressive construction.

He gave me a tour of his home. It was

expansive in comparison to the one room adobe

houses I had seen during my migration from the

opposite end of the city, accompanied by Omar’s

knowledge of both the interior and exterior of

structures and the individuals occupying them. His

home was different. Although similar in some

aspects of the compositional dimensions with the

more elegant buildings we had passed. The energy

was amazing, balanced to a “T.” The sun was

escaping under the blanket of darkness as we

concluded the final round through his house. He

prepared me the most generous meal of corn

tortillas, cheese, rice, and pinto beans, served with a

salsa made of peppers, tomatoes, and onions. After

we had eaten, he showed me to my private

bedroom. We exchanged goodnights as he was

closing the door. My life had been a string of

fortunate events. Meeting Omar was one more for

the list.

226

227

Chapter 8

The orange morning sun illuminated the

room through the easterly window. I sat up in bed,

taking in the furniture and décor surrounding me. I

was lying in the home of Omar, awakening in the

spare bedroom in which I had fallen asleep, but

there was an incongruence that was unsettling. My

eyes were fixed on a painting hanging on the

adjacent wall. It was the exact water-color portrait

of prairies and dilapidated barns along charming

vineyards that hung on the wall in the bedroom

belonging to Priscilla’s sister. Furthermore, the

comforter I was lying under was the same yellow

and red checkered bedspread from the hotel room in

Harlingen, Texas. An even more shocking element

was the light fixture on the ceiling—the very same

bulb and socket from my apartment at Sun Grove

Catholic, flickering its dismal light with an identical

tendency.

There was a knock on the door. Before I

could articulate a simple, “come in,” the door

opened and, to my astonishment, there stood

William, the crooked accountant from Blackburn.

228

Frightened, I saw his figure morph into that of the

hunchback clerk of the antique shop where I bought

the turquoise necklace. Next, his image shifted into

that of the Native American mystic, looking at me

intently. I felt a cord of electricity rising up my

spine as his lips mouthed the words, “Good

morning, Josiah.”

The syllables bubbled from his throat and

trickled out of his mouth in a silver liquid stair step

motion until reaching me. We both began to vibrate

intensely. I heard the sound of a door opening

beside me. I blinked and focused my eyes in

confusion when I saw Omar standing before me. He

saw that I was awake and chuckled as only he could

and said, “Good morning, Josiah.” I responded,

“Good morning.” It had all been a dream. I felt a

wave of relief pass through my body.

“Why don’t you come into the other room

and talk with me before you leave?” Omar asked

me.

I got out of bed and followed him. We

walked into the living room where he had sitting

two steaming cups of tea on a table separating two

cushioned seats. He gestured me to have my

druthers of the two. I was attracted to the seat closer

to the corner of the room. There stood a beautiful

maple nylon string guitar. Omar saw that I was

momentarily caught in a stare with the natural finish

six-string.

“You play?” His question was softly spoken.

“I did.”

“Please,” he said, waving his hand as a

gesticulation that I should pick it up and give it a

229

strum.

I lifted it gently and set the body on my right

thigh, gripping the neck with my left hand. At that

moment, I realized I couldn’t remember how to play

any one piece of music, yet my fundamental

understanding of music had been increased beyond

measurement. Feeling the vibration of the dawn

conversation in the home of this generous man, my

hands automatically formed the shape for a B minor

chord. The sound that followed was a shuffle of

improvised melody. With each triad transition, I

created a greater harmonic quality. It was a

reflection of the emotional current flowing between

Omar and me.

“That was amazing,” he said as I concluded

with the cadence.

“It plays wonderfully,” I told him honestly.

“It is yours. I insist. I have never had an

inclination for it. It is only furniture in this room. It

would be of use with you.” Before I could refuse

the gracious gift, he placed his hand on the table

and looked at me. “Please. I want you to have it.”

“I will treat it tenderly.”

“Actually, if you are evenly remotely

interested in bathing this morning, I can run warm

water into the tub and provide you with a change of

clothes. And, so you know, you are welcome here

as long as it is necessary. I enjoy company and you

are a very pleasant guest.”

“No, thank you. When I feel I need a shower

I will ask the clouds to produce rain. When my

clothes fall apart, then I will seek a different outfit. I

will be on my way to Mexico City when the sun is

230

at the highest point in the sky—half-day,” I

responded as kindly as possible while sticking to

my convictions.

“This will be my sixty-fourth year this

autumn. Like the years, my life has passed in

seasons. Once, I was a young man just as you:

passionate, able-bodied—a carpenter at that time. I

helped build this city. Put my sweat and soul into

every house and building I constructed, but what I

didn’t notice, what I managed to overlook in my

youth, was that I was building a network,

strengthening the community through

communication, service, and patience. Yes, it made

me the financial means off of which I am now

living, but the greatest constructions were the

relationships between me and the fine people of this

city.”

As he was talking, the yellow light that

surrounded him turned green. I could see that he

had so much love for the people of Miguel Hidalgo,

strangers he befriended—family extended.

“There is only one aspect that I regret,” he

continued. “I was too busy contracting the next job,

and before I knew it, my hands couldn’t grip

another hammer. My back was too weak to lift any

building materials. My face had wrinkled and my

hair turned white. I didn’t make time to court a nice

young lady and start a family. Now, my time has

passed. My joints are stripped, muscles stiff. I live

alone in this big house, occupied only by the images

I paint while reflecting on an opportunity lost. I

regret not sacrificing my ideas of self, the illusion of

independence for the love of a woman.

231

As the roof is in juxtaposition with the

foundation, and walls illustrate the stabilizing

infrastructure, as the seed is enveloped by the soil,

providing the darkness and heat for sprouting, as the

radiance of the sun takes precedence at day and the

luminescence of the moon illuminates with a soft

light at night, like lightning ignites the sky and the

sea grounds its electricity, harmony is reached when

the external masculine is in balance with the

internal feminine—both rooted in the womb of

fabrication.

The male is a symbol of an instrument, and

the female is a symbol of expression.

Characteristics of cosmic man are power,

knowledge, and compassion, as emotion, wisdom,

and intelligence represent cosmic woman. Scholarly

and rational perspectives are only possible in

contrast with ecstatic enthusiasm, but both schools

of philosophy are merely branches of the same tree.

Jesus Christ sacrificed his life so that our sins may

be forgiven, while his mother, Mary, the Virgin of

Guadeloupe, abstained from committing sins.

Regardless of the biblical parable or pragmatic

observation, it is obvious that life is dependent on

both the masculine and feminine energy for

identifying functional needs of a working society.”

He took a break from speaking to take a

drink of tea, and I followed his lead, lifting the red

mug up to my lips. With each sip, I noticed the

black tea had flavors of apricot and cinnamon, and

the bitterness was balanced with a hint of honey.

“What do you know about Miguel

Hidalgo?” Omar asked.

232

“I only know the information I have

gathered from our conversations while walking

through the city.”

“No,” he said, chuckling. “I mean the

legend, after which the city is named, the one man

army, the leader of the Mexican revolution, the

excommunicated Catholic Priest.”

“I know I use to hold resentment against his

actions, and now I feel oddly akin to him,” I

responded.

“I predict you will do for the minds of

Mexicans that which mister Miguel Hidalgo did for

their bodies and spirits. You will align their

intellect, their thought process, simply by living

exemplary, with infinite and boundless freedom.

Josiah, you are the fox of this generation. Wear

your colors proudly. Step with confidence. This is a

moment of responsibility, grace, and forgiveness.

Act forcefully, but with single-pointed mindfulness

on importance, for your words will set the mold that

Americans and Mexicans especially will fill,

coming into their totality, finding their footing for

the next era on the planet.”

“How do you know this?” I asked him.

“Soon, your thoughtlessness will yield

visions of an organic transformation from our

modern predicament to a Heavenly solution of

monolithic proportion. Set your intent on the

children of Earth, the worth of breath and pulse in

creative reconstruction, and align your will with the

impressions that flow from it, and Spirit will take

care of the rest.”

In amazement, I looked down at the red

233

coffee cups on the table and noticed an energetic

field around them. A blue resonance emitted from

the red rims. Even these dense, seemingly inanimate

objects shared the pulse of the planet, and they too

shared the electric breath of heaven. There wasn’t

the slightest fragmentation in my awareness. I was

completely whole—immersed in the singularity.

They vibrated as if they were telling me something.

I then had a vision of the sun above me.

“It is half-day. I must be going, my good

friend,” I said.

“I know it is, but I have a gift I have been

meaning to give you since I first saw your soul

illuminate this empty city. Please wait, I will be

back in an instant,” he said, rushing from the table.

He returned quickly, holding a painting in

his left hand and a cylindrical barrel approximately

of the same length in this right. I knew from the

stories I heard while working as a missionary that

Miguel Hidalgo was executed by firing squad. He

placed his hand over his chest, and asked the men to

aim for it. Omar had taken that narrative to another

dimension by painting the scene from the

perspective of the gunmen, taking aim at the

courageous superhuman Hidalgo. The beauty of it

brought a tear to my eye, but I stifled my emotions

before they began flowing.

“Your painting speaks like poetry,

expressing the heart and mind of a selfless

revolutionary,” I told him in all honesty.

“It is yours now,” he said. He rolled it up,

placed it in the cylinder, and handed it to me.

“Allow me to show you out.”

234

“I greatly appreciate all that you have done

for me. I find much peace in your company,” I told

him as we stood on the steps of the front porch.

“You are my friend. Stop by whenever you

like. My home is always open to you,” he said.

I extended my hand for him to shake. He

took it in his and pulled me closer, patting me on

the back and chuckling. Walking from the house

with the guitar fastened across my back and the

fabric strap of my valise over the opposing

shoulder, a thought occurred to me. I turned to see if

Omar was still standing at his doorstep. He smiled

and waved at me.

“How long would it take someone to walk

from the United States border to this city?” I asked

him.

“The person would have to cross the Rio

Grande. I would guess well over a month, and that

is if they didn’t stop to eat or sleep, but only Jesus

Christ could accomplish such a feat.”

I waved to him, turned around, and resumed

my high noon journey to Mexico City. I thought of

the forty days and nights Jesus spent in the desert

without food or water. Could I have possibly altered

my consciousness under the influence of the plants I

ingested so much that my time perception was

nearly erased? Regardless, I had made it to Miguel

Hidalgo and helped Juan, a lost soul, find his spirit

before the dangerous passage to the next world

swallowed him. Now, I was on my way to my final

destination, replenished with food in my stomach,

love in my heart, and confidence in my mind.

Feeling creative and desiring a foundation

235

for elaboration, I pulled the guitar around and began

strumming a D Major 7 in a common time rhythm.

Transitioning from the cadence, I stumbled upon a

melodic thought process. A clear body of

knowledge could be created from sources of books

and conversation, but unless the information aligns

with the spirit, information becomes an obstruction,

blinding the spiritual vehicle with associations and

interpretations. Chemical catalysts for this case of

misinformation would be substances such as the

black tarry flower essence, causing a dependence on

an external source, diving reality and inducing

disassociated states. Although, with substances such

as the bud from the green plant I smoked, a

paradigm shift may occur, but it is not a cure, just

an objective experience providing the opportunity

for realignment of thought and action.

Naturally changing the key of the song I was

playing, a new tone arose in my mentality. For

knowledge to be an external matrix is simply

preposterous. A clear body of knowledge is

inherent. All that is needed is a stimulus of the

information, a reminder, the cultivation of sprouts

already planted. Certain characteristics often

acquired from society or a child’s parents such as

anger and hatred direct the awareness with a useless

set of precepts. Chemical catalysts for this

misdirection would be substances such as alcohol,

causing a fixation on destruction. Although,

substances such as the mushrooms I ingested may

shift awareness. The perspective is transitory unless

the individual chooses to direct thoughts and actions

so that they align with spirit.

236

Again, my hands moved along the neck of

the guitar, changing the cadence of the chord

progression, and a new set of thoughts were

integrated into my perception. A clear body of

knowledge has no impedance, no beginning or end

blocking the flow of polar energies—a formless and

infinite thread of awareness. Once the intent to

dissolve boundaries—the illusion of separation—is

decided, the will arises to animate desires not yet

manifested. By leading the individual into situations

that allow growth, gates of power are opened,

supplying the spirit with a selfless agenda.

Chemical catalysts for a separate perspective of the

human condition would be substances such as

tobacco. While eating the seeds of the desert vine

may temporarily align the individual’s will with the

universal intent, each thought and action would

need to be grounded in an interconnection with

every breath.

Finally, I returned to the original

progression that initiated my creative flow of

thought, aligning my action with the cosmic

rhythm. The thought of a clear body of knowledge

was an insight that thoughts have density. Ideas are

worlds within themselves. All the individual can be

is a mirror of truth, reflecting biblical characters,

embodying the spectral personality—an organic

pattern compatible with the eternal moment. This

was my universal blink of a perpetual eye-opening.

The only catalyst for reinforcing a perspective of

balance without growth is attachment to a comfort

zone. Catalysts for awakening the totality of being

are love and appreciation of every fragmented

237

mirror of existence.

The spirit is infinite. The eight-circuit model

is but one model of reality—tentative in our ever-

evolving comprehension. The next global model of

reality will be the thirteen-circuit model, signaled by

Earth’s alignment with the galactic astral-

intellectual center. The twelve apostles of Christ

represent character traits inherent in everyone, as

well as dominant tendencies. Jesus represents the

thirteenth, all-encompassing consciousness.

Knowledge of the thirteen energy wheels will allow

the individual to heal on a cellular level, treating

imbalance from the spirit. Flesh molds around the

soul just as sickness molds around the imprint for it.

Humanity is beginning its transition from the syntax

of strife and pain to a language of unconditional

love and union with extraterrestrial consciousness—

just a crest in the wave. Our time has come to jump

onto the cosmic enlightenment bandwagon.

Before growth, energetic balance is

necessary. The myriad things are a composite of

masculine and feminine polarities. Man and woman

have more than a sexual connection. They have a

spiritual relation. Listening to Omar verified the

abstract notion within me. He believed that the

marriage between a man and a woman can be a

balanced equation for love and a path away from

the illusion of independence. My spiritual freedom

is very possibly dependent on the love of a woman,

the willingness to settle down, have a child, and be

an active and positive member of the community. I

heard a ringing in my ears. I looked west toward the

sunset and saw a cloud of dust. The distinct sound

238

of an automobile engine roared in the periphery. I

realized I was walking on a gravel highway and a

green car was approaching quickly.

Slowing my pace to an even gait, I released

my grip from the guitar. Suddenly, watching the sun

meet the westerly horizon, I saw the mystical

Native American dancing around a fire in the

distance. I was mesmerized by his liquid

movements, mimicking animalistic mannerisms. I

stopped walking in awe of the scene—my guide

surrounded by a cloud of pink that was interweaved

in the golden sand that stretched for an

immeasurable distance. The car parked next to me.

Only inches from standing in the road, fixated on

the sunset and my vision of the Indian, I was in a

trance when a beautiful woman rolled down her

window to address me.

“Where are you headed?” She said with the

warmest voice I had ever heard.

Her hair was the color of a tree truck, the

bark of it reflected in a pond rippled by a slight

wind and illuminated by the quarter moon’s

nightlight. Chocolate—it was dark brown

shimmering with mirrors of light. The sunset caught

my eye. Again, I saw him, the divine Native

American of pure spirit, but the glimmer in her

shiny hair brought my attention back to the

conversation.

“I am walking to Mexico City,” I said

simply.

“Funny,” she said, laughing. “I’m actually

driving to Mexico City. Would you like to hitch a

ride with me?”

239

She was genuine and her intentions were

golden. Her smile settled my heightened vibration. I

was taken by her, enveloped in the beauty she

exuded, drowning with excitation, but grounded,

bound to her question. Would I like to hitch a ride?

I knew in the depths of my heart, in the back of my

mind, that I wanted to be alongside her energy.

Happiness like this, the feeling of safety and

completion, absolute attunement, had never entered

my awareness as it did in the presence of this

gorgeous stranger, an unfamiliar reflection of my

psyche, the missing piece. The setting sun caught

my attention once again. He was dancing circles

around a fire on the horizon. His movements were

mesmerizing, but not enough to make me forget

about her, my counter energy, my ship to

redemption, my path to balance. I thought of Omar

and his poetic expression of love as growth

dependent on both masculine and feminine. I was

tired of chasing an illusion. My soul was aligned

with hers, like stars with an electric resonance—a

prayer answered.

“Yes, I would love to ride with you.”

“Excellent. Get in,” she said, smiling

pleasantly.

I walked around the front of the green sedan,

opened the back door on the passenger side, laying

the guitar down carefully, and shut it. As I gripped

the handle to the passenger door a shock ran up my

spine. It was a signal from my mother matrix, a

message from my home planet, softly leading me

toward my destiny. I lifted the silver hinge and the

door swung open. I sat down with my valise on my

240

lap, and in my heart, a sense of relief. I looked into

her brown eyes. They reminded me of the mystical

Indian that had guided me to her, but there was a

freedom in hers unparalleled by his eyes or any I

had witnessed. She cracked a smile, blushing, and I

did the same, feeling a boyish fondness for her on

all levels. I wished for guidance and it had fallen

from above when I least expected it—the cosmos

blowing me a healing kiss.

“My name is Renée,” she said. “Renée

Mellis.”

“My name is Josiah Guillaume, and I am

flattered to make your acquaintance.”

She put her foot on the acceleration and

began driving. We were both floating, sharing each

breath and each heartbeat.

“What draws you to Mexico City?” I wanted

to learn all about her.

“I am taking herbs to sick children. In my

spare time, any opportunity I get, I visit

underprivileged kids and provide them with the

natural equivalent of medicines their parents are too

poor to afford. I work with the churches. Although,

I am not Catholic, I can recognize the importance of

the faith for the Mexican population, and their

tendency to attend church in hopes that God will

have pity on their condition; but, I feel at least, that

the almighty exists in all of us, and it is our

responsibility to have a hand in the recuperation of

our ill brothers and sisters.”

She was an angel and I felt honored to ride

with her. I could tell by her voice that she most

likely lived in the west.

241

“Where are you coming from?” I asked with

sincere curiosity.

“I live in Arizona where I am the art director

for a studio that shows works of local artists, giving

them a chance to exhibit their talents to the public,

but I am traveling from Texas where I buy

medicinal herbs.”

I unzipped my valise and pulled out the

cardboard cylinder that Omar had given to me.

Renée looked over as I slid the canvas gently into

my hand, unrolling it for her to see.

“Perhaps you would be interested in

showing the work of this artist,” I said, holding the

painting.

“That is magnificent—utterly breathtaking.

Do you know the painter?”

“Yes, I am friends with him. He deserves

exposure and recognition,” I said.

“You know where he lives?” She asked in

amazement.

“I can take you there after Mexico City if

you wish.”

“Josiah, what were you doing in the middle

of nowhere?”

“It’s a long story,” I told her. “It begins at a

Catholic church in the midwestern United States

where I presided.”

“You are a Catholic priest?”

“No, I used to be. I no longer received

fulfillment from it so I left. I quite literally took a

bus the morning after reading a eulogy. My

intention was to be a missionary in Mexico City, but

I encountered so many transforming events on my

242

journey that the idea of being a priest seems

ridiculous. I still feel the need to be a means for the

public to cleanse their negative thoughts and actions

and influence them to project love in every

situation. I just feel the church confines my spirit. I

may have less financial security than I did when

representing the Catholic religion, but my faith in

love has guided me to find peace in my heart and to

the wonderful people I meet. I desire to be an

integral member of society. I will work any

constructive job for money, but I would also like to

write and speak for spiritual satisfaction. I am also

attracted to the idea of having children.”

“What attracts you to the idea of having

kids?” Renée asked me.

“I think there are more ways to be fulfilled

emotionally and spiritually than there can ever be

counted, but I think my particular path to growth

and balance will come from dedicating my love and

energy to a woman, raising a family, being a

positive role model in the community, influencing

society, my wife, and children to be themselves

without reservation since life is too short to miss out

on love blooming from all things—a love that is

waiting to be embraced.”

I thought about the thirteen-circuit model of

reality. There are twelve calendar months that have

unique characteristics. There are twelve hours to

each day and twelve to each night that exhibit

different densities of darkness and sunlight.

Acknowledging this pattern of modality and

transformation brings great insight into the

tendencies of all creation. It is the white knowledge

243

of expansion. The eight-circuit model is the division

of the singularity. One becomes two halves that

become fourths and then eighths. Acknowledging

this pattern of divisibility brings equally great

insight into the tendencies of destruction and

transformation. It is the dark knowledge of

reduction. When these two ideologies are balanced,

a clear knowledge arises. The twelve circuits of

expansion in addition to the one divisible

singularity make thirteen circuits. The thirteenth is

the Christ circuit of superconsciousness—self-

sacrifice for a higher purpose. This is ultimate

freedom.

“Josiah,” Renée said, quieting my

contemplation. “I want you to know that you have

already made quite the impact on me. I feel better in

your presence, more complete than I could have

ever imagined.”

“I feel the same way about you, Renée. The

love between us will overcome any obstacle.”

“It already has. With a loving perspective,

everything is perfect—just the way it should be. All

things change naturally. In love, struggle becomes

yet another path to freedom.”

244

245

246

Afterword: Reflections on BLOOM

“Faith is not a conclusion; it is the question that never stops breathing.”

This book was written as a meditation, not a manual.

The journey of Father Josiah Guillaume is not meant to be analyzed like a map, but walked again in spirit — through the reader’s own conscience, longing, and love.

The following reflections are offered not as answers, but as openings — doors through which your own experience may step quietly toward understanding.

1. On Calling and Purpose

Josiah leaves the comfort of his parish to rediscover the fire of his vocation.

What compels you to move when comfort becomes captivity?

Where have you mistaken duty for devotion, or obligation for love?

2. On Faith and Doubt

Faith in Bloom is not a steady flame but a flickering candle in wind.

When have you mistaken doubt for failure?

Could doubt itself be the pulse of belief — the proof that the heart still seeks?

3. On Grace and Guilt

Josiah’s path is shadowed by guilt — yet grace enters quietly, not through triumph, but through surrender.

How does forgiveness arrive in your life: as a feeling, an act, or a moment of letting go?

Who have you forgiven that allowed you to forgive yourself?

4. On Loneliness and Communion

The novel’s solitude hums with a strange companionship — between memory, spirit, and the unseen presence of God.

When silence enters your life, do you flee it or follow it?

What does solitude reveal that community conceals?

5. On Love and the Sacred

In love, Josiah glimpses both temptation and transcendence.

Can passion and purity coexist?

Where in your own life has love refined rather than ruined you?

6. On Renewal and Return

Every act of leaving in Bloom becomes a return — to grace, to humility, to the self beneath the roles we play.

What have you had to lose in order to rediscover who you are?

If God calls again, would you recognize the voice?

7. On the Mystery

Bloom ends not with resolution, but with a quiet widening — as if heaven were something glimpsed, not grasped.

What truth in your life remains unfinished, yet still beautiful?

Can mystery itself be the form of faith?

A Reader’s Guide to Bloom

I. The Ontological Situation of the Closed Vessel

The narrative of Bloom commences within a structure of radical self-enclosure. The protagonist—henceforth designated as the subject—inhabits a psychic and relational configuration that may be termed the closed vessel. This is not merely a metaphorical designation but a precise ontological description: the subject constitutes itself as a bounded totality, a self-referential system whose internal coherence is maintained through the systematic exclusion of alterity. The vessel is closed not by external constraint but by the subject’s own act of self-constitution. In this sense, the opening pages of Bloom (pp. 1–165) present a phenomenology of solipsistic sovereignty.

The closed vessel is characterized by three interdependent operations:

The erection of the skull as fortress (p. 16).
The externalization of conflict.
The repression of desire into fear.

Each of these operations is philosophically significant, for they reveal the logical structure of the ego prior to its encounter with love.

1.1 The Skull as Fortress

The image of the skull is not incidental. It functions as the architectural principle of the closed vessel. The skull is the seat of cognition, volition, and identity—yet in Bloom, it is presented as a prison. The subject experiences thought not as openness to the world but as a defensive perimeter. Every perception is filtered through the question: Does this threaten my sovereignty?

This is the Cartesian moment inverted. Where Descartes discovers certainty in the cogito, the subject of Bloom discovers anxiety in the cogito. The very act of thinking becomes a performance of self-preservation. The skull, then, is not the organ of reason but the citadel of the false self.

1.2 The Externalization of Conflict

Within the closed vessel, conflict cannot be admitted as internal. To do so would be to acknowledge the fragility of the fortress. Thus, all tension is projected outward: onto circumstances, onto others, onto the beloved. The beloved is not yet a thou but a threat—a potential invader of the sovereign domain.

This externalization is not mere psychological defense; it is a logical necessity of the closed system. If the vessel is to remain intact, contradiction must be located outside. The subject says, in effect: “The problem is not me; the problem is the world.”

1.3 The Repression of Desire into Fear

Desire, in the closed vessel, cannot be permitted in its raw form. Desire is the vector of alterity—it points beyond the self, toward the other. To allow desire is to allow the possibility of loss of control. Therefore, desire is transmuted into fear.

“I feared my own emotions…” (p. 168, anticipatory)

This fear is not of the beloved but of the dissolution of the self. The subject does not fear rejection; the subject fears absorption. The closed vessel experiences love as a solvent.

II. The Logic of Occlusion

The closed vessel is not a static state but a dynamic equilibrium. It requires constant maintenance. This maintenance takes the form of occlusion—the systematic obscuring of the very desire that threatens the system. Occlusion operates through three mechanisms:

Narrative control — The subject constructs a story in which it is the sole author.
Affective suppression — Emotions are permitted only insofar as they reinforce the fortress.
Relational distancing — The beloved is kept at a safe distance, neither too close nor too far.

These mechanisms are not chosen consciously; they are the grammar of the closed vessel. The subject does not decide to occlude; the subject is occlusion.

2.1 Narrative Control

The subject tells itself a story: “I am complete. I need nothing. Love is a risk I cannot afford.” This story is not false in the empirical sense; it is performative. It creates the reality it describes. The skull becomes the author of its own isolation.

2.2 Affective Suppression

Joy is permitted only as self-congratulation. Grief is permitted only as self-pity. Desire is permitted only as fantasy. All other affects are anesthetized. The closed vessel is a pharmacy of the soul, dispensing numbness in measured doses.

2.3 Relational Distancing

The beloved is held in a liminal zone—close enough to stimulate desire, far enough to prevent dissolution. This is the erotics of the fortress. The subject flirts with love but never surrenders to it.

III. The Crack in the Vessel

The closed vessel is not eternal. It is brittle. The first crack appears not as a dramatic rupture but as a question:

What if the fortress is the prison?

This question is not intellectual. It is existential. It arises not from argument but from encounter. The beloved, in a moment of unguarded presence, becomes a mirror. The subject sees, for the first time, the skull not as protection but as entombment.

The crack is the beginning of the antithesis. The vessel does not yet open, but it is no longer sealed.

IV. The Phenomenology of Rupture

The closed vessel does not endure indefinitely. Its collapse is not a contingent event but a structural inevitability. The crack identified at the conclusion of Part I is not a flaw in the architecture; it is the truth of the architecture. The vessel is closed only by virtue of a continuous act of self-occlusion, and every such act carries within it the seed of its own negation. The rupture, therefore, is not an interruption of the system but its logical consummation.

In Bloom, the rupture occurs across pages 166–190. It is not a single moment but a process of dissolution in which the three operations of the closed vessel—fortress, externalization, repression—are successively inverted. The subject does not choose dissolution; dissolution chooses the subject.

4.1 The Inversion of the Fortress

The skull, once the citadel of sovereignty, becomes the site of invasion. The waves of energy (p. 166) are not external forces but the return of the repressed. What was excluded—desire, vulnerability, the beloved—now surges inward. The fortress does not fall from without; it implodes from within.

This inversion marks the transition from defense to exposure. The subject is no longer the author of its narrative but the object of a narrative it did not write. The skull, once the organ of control, becomes the organ of surrender.

4.2 The Internalization of Conflict

Where conflict was once projected outward, it is now relocated to the interior. The beloved is no longer the enemy; the enemy is the false self. The fight is no longer against the other but within the self. This is the moment of radical responsibility: the subject recognizes that the war it waged on the world was a war on its own possibility of love.

The internalization of conflict is not a moral insight but a logical one. The closed vessel cannot sustain contradiction indefinitely. When the beloved refuses to remain a projection, the system must either expand or shatter. In Bloom, it shatters.

4.3 The Transmutation of Fear into Desire

Fear, once the guardian of the vessel, becomes its undoing. The solvent quality of love is no longer resisted but embraced. The subject does not overcome fear; fear overcomes the subject.

“I feared my own emotions… until they became the soil.” (p. 168)

This is the pivotal inversion. Fear is not eliminated; it is converted. What was a barrier becomes a medium. The emotions that threatened dissolution now effect dissolution. The subject does not master desire; desire masters the subject.

V. The Logic of Dissolution

Dissolution is not chaos. It is a structured negation. The three mechanisms of occlusion—narrative control, affective suppression, relational distancing—are not destroyed but reversed.

5.1 The Collapse of Narrative Control

The subject’s story—“I am complete, I need nothing”—is exposed as fiction. The waves of energy are not events within the story; they are the dissolution of the story itself. The subject is no longer the author but the character in a narrative written by love.

This collapse is not a loss of meaning but a gain of truth. The false narrative was a lie of sufficiency; the dissolution reveals the truth of dependence.

5.2 The Liberation of Affect

Affective suppression gives way to affective inundation. The pharmacy of the soul is flooded. Joy, grief, desire—previously dosed in safe quantities—now surge unchecked. The subject is not overwhelmed by emotion; the subject is emotion.

This inundation is not pathology. It is ontology. The closed vessel was a denial of being; the rupture is the affirmation of being. The subject does not feel more; the subject is more.

5.3 The Collapse of Relational Distancing

The liminal zone collapses. The beloved is no longer held at arm’s length but drawn into the wound. Distance is not eliminated; it is transfigured. What was separation becomes intimacy. The subject does not approach the beloved; the subject becomes porous to the beloved.

This porosity is the death of the fortress. The skull is no longer a boundary but a threshold.

VI. The Threshold of the Bloom

The rupture does not end in annihilation. It ends in transition. The dissolved vessel is not a ruin but a womb. The soil (p. 168) is not the grave of the ego but the matrix of the Bloom.

The subject stands at the threshold. The fortress is gone. The war is over. The solvent has done its work.

What remains is not emptiness but possibility. The rupture has cleared the ground. The Bloom is not yet present, but the conditions for its presence have been met.

VII. The Ontological Status of the Bloom

The Bloom is not an event added to the subject after dissolution; it is the truth of dissolution itself. Where the closed vessel was a system of occlusion, and the rupture a process of negation, the Bloom (pp. 191–237) is the affirmation of what was always latent. It is not a new entity but the emergence of relation—the subject no longer in itself but for the other.

The Bloom is therefore not a psychological state, nor a mystical vision, but an ontological reconfiguration. The subject does not achieve the Bloom; the Bloom achieves the subject.

7.1 The Soil as Matrix

The soil (p. 168) is not a residue of destruction but the condition of possibility for emergence. What was fear, conflict, and repression is now humus—the fertile ground in which love takes root.

This is not a metaphor of growth but a logic of inversion: the very elements that sustained the fortress now nourish its transcendence. The soil is the dialectical negation of negation—the wound that becomes womb.

7.2 The Dove as Threshold

The winged dove (p. 16) is not a symbol of peace but the ontological marker of transition. It does not arrive from elsewhere; it emerges from the crack. The dove is the between—the space where self and other are no longer opposed but interpenetrated.

The dove is the death of distance. Where the closed vessel required separation, the Bloom requires proximity without possession. The beloved is no longer object but co-constituent of the subject’s being.

7.3 The Meal as Consummation

The meal (p. 58) is not a social act but the ontological event of presence. Hunger is not lack of food but lack of relation; satisfaction is not ingestion but communion.

“The meal that satisfied my hunger.”

This satisfaction is not temporary. It is eschatological—the foretaste of a relation in which need is not abolished but fulfilled in mutuality. The meal is the end of scarcity in the realm of love.

VIII. The Logic of Emergence

Emergence is not synthesis in the Hegelian sense—a higher unity of opposites—but transcendence through immanence. The opposites are not reconciled; they are revealed as always-already intertwined.

8.1 The Transcendence of Narrative

The subject’s old story is not replaced by a new one. Narrative itself is transcended. The Bloom is not a chapter in the subject’s life; it is the end of autobiography. The subject no longer tells its story; the story is the relation with the beloved.

8.2 The Transcendence of Affect

Affect is no longer suppressed or inundated. It is integrated into presence. Joy and grief are not felt by the subject; they are shared with the beloved. The subject does not have emotions; the relation is emotion.

8.3 The Transcendence of Relation

The beloved is no longer other in the Sartrean sense—hell or salvation—but co-constitutive. The subject does not love the beloved; the subject is love with the beloved. This is not fusion but mutual indwelling.

IX. The Return and the Open Vessel

The Bloom is not static. It returns (p. 238).

“I returned to love them better.”

The return is not a regression to the closed vessel but the establishment of the open vessel. The open vessel is not boundless; it is bounded by the beloved. The subject is no longer sovereign but responsible—answerable to the other in every act.

The open vessel is the ethical consummation of the ontological Bloom. Love is no longer a feeling, a conflict, or a romance—it is being-for-the-other.

X. The Universal Structure

The movement from closed vessel to rupture to Bloom is not unique to Bloom. It is the structure of all authentic love.

Romeo and Juliet: Fortress (feud), rupture (secret marriage), Bloom (transcendent union in death).
Pride and Prejudice: Fortress (pride/prejudice), rupture (Darcy’s letter), Bloom (mutual humility).
Your life: Identify the fortress. Name the crack. Await the Bloom.

The map is not prescriptive. It is diagnostic. Every romance fails where it arrests at the fortress or the rupture. Every romance succeeds where it returns as open vessel.